The next few weeks at St. Mungo's were a blurry wheel that spun in a never-ending cycle of wake up, drink potions, go back to sleep.
Again and again and again and again.
Every fourth or fifth cycle Ginny added "complain about the potions" to the routine. Finding inventive ways to whinge about being spoon-fed the most foul-tasting potions ever to be brewed took her mind off how mangled her body was.
She hurt. She hurt so terribly, awfully, in ways Ginny could never have imagined.
The first time she woke after Bill's initial visit, the pain potion had worn off. Ginny's own screams tore her out of sleep as her broken body shook with the remembered sensation of falling. Something hit the floor with Ginny's first cry, and she managed to set her recovery back by a week as her arm jerked and something popped in her shoulder. Pain shot up one arm and down to the opposite wrist before her stomach pitched and rolled as her peripheral vision blackened. Shivering and gagging, she couldn't see who jumped up to the bedside to tuck the bedpan under her chin.
The potions came on a tighter schedule, after that.
She had no idea how many times that blurry wheel of routine spun round and round before her waking times finally lengthened. Not that she could do much, during her awake times.
When she wasn't tossing up her insides into kidney-shaped pans or being subject to bone removal spells followed by endless nights of skele-gro treatments, Ginny was put on display for a seemingly never-ending parade of healers. Lead healers blah-blah-blahed to apprentice healers who were quite interested in the little girl who managed to break half her bones.
If Ginny had the slightest interest in healing (which she didn't, because boring) maybe the layers of weaved spells and potions (also boring) being administered in a certain order at a certain time of day (boring boring boring) to ensure a certain bone was growing back in a certain place would have been an educational experience.
It wasn't. However, the crack on the ceiling was sort-of shaped like a teakettle. So, there was that.
Most of the time, her Mum was next to her, wooden needles clacking as she muttered her lectures. Ginny was fine with the muttering. She knew the lectures would eventually be fully voiced. In fact, Ginny would bet her Mum snuck out in the wee hours of the night to practice all sorts of vocal exercises to ensure she would be ready to fully express her disapproval with dramatic oratory skill, once Ginny had all her bones back.
But right now, Ginny was simply too hurt or fell asleep too quickly for any potential lecture to land with the proper amount of gravity. So, silver lining, Ginny supposed, as another bone cracked into place.
Every now and then Ginny would wake up in the middle of the night and her Mum would still be there, or Dad, or Bill. Always at least one, sometimes all three, and Ginny would find herself grateful for company. At least, until the pain potion wore off and one of them would be holding a pan under her chin again.
Days came and went. Still stuck in the bed, she had to resume her home primary studies with her Mum (sooooooo boring boring boring when she couldn't amble outside and explore between subjects). The bright spot was Bill arranged to stay and work on smaller projects at Gringotts in London while Ginny was in hospital. This way, he could give her parents a bit of a bedside break now and then.
Though the decision probably had more to do with whatever-he-was-doing with Ginny's healer. Ewww.
Upon occasion, she would get some outside news, and Ginny looked forward to those days. As happens in large red-headed families where tempers flared and flickered away just as fast, the howlers were soon forgotten as Percy sent them detailed accounts of life at Hogwarts. Fred and George sent a few cards. The cards were the same each time. Like they copied one card four times and spaced them out thinking Ginny wouldn't notice.
Ron, being a complete git of a brother, never wrote. Once, as a post-script in one of their cards Fred and George added "Ron says 'hello.' No, wait, he said 'yellow.' No, wait again, he said 'Jello.' I don't think any of this has to do with you, never mind."
Bill had taken over Ginny's basic arithmetic study, which was fine with her because he peppered most of it with how it would apply to Arithmancy in her Hogwarts studies. In between lessons he said she needed to cut Ron some slack, because the first year of Hogwarts was always busy with new studies and new friends. Ron would remember her.
Eventually.
She rolled her eyes, which was the one part of her body she could move without issue and tried to focus on her maths.
But focusing on any one thing was difficult, because growing bones in a certain order was complicated, as well as painful. The healers had made a mistake in one of her hands, and they had to begin all over again there.
Literally nauseating.
And if the pain wasn't bad enough, the worry about the addictive effects of pain potions became a higher priority than Ginny's comfort. As she was weaned off of them over the weeks, Ginny found even Percy's letters couldn't lift her spirits as she spent day after day stuck in the blasted bed, shivering from the aches, which ranged from a dull throbbing to sharp stabbing pains.
Then, as if the universe wanted to prove things can always get worse, came The Awful Wednesday.
On The Awful Wednesday, Step Two of Ginny Weasley's Awesome Life Plan flew forever out of her reach. On The Awful Wednesday, even the sparse news Percy shared about Harry Potter became less a reason for celebration, and more one for despair.
Harry Potter was put on the house Quidditch team. Youngest player recruited in a century, brilliant flyer, despite never having flown a broom before.
Lying in bed, staring up at the teakettle-shaped crack, Ginny felt smothered by pervasive jealousy.
It wasn't her finest moment.
As much as Ginny fancied Harry Potter (because he was the greatest most wonderful boy ever to be born, ever) her eyes started to fill, and a clenching ache formed in her stomach. She only allowed herself a small sniffle or two, though. If she had to lose the "youngest in a century" honor before she even had a chance to get to Hogwarts, at least it was to Harry Potter. It wasn't like she had lost to Ron, who could barely fly without hitting a tree, even with a hex-free broom.
That's what she told herself, anyway, as she tried to ignore the grinding, popping sensation of yet another growing bone.
And, she consoled herself, Harry Potter deserved everything good and wonderful, because he was good and wonderful and brave and was raised by Muggles who hadn't even taught him how to get through the wall to the train platform. Of course, Harry Potter would be put on the house team after his very first time on a broom. He was that perfect.
And maybe? Well, at least she still had a shot at the fourth part of Ginny Weasley's Ultimate Awesome Life Plan when she got to Hogwarts and they became best friends.
But as the weeks of staring at the ceiling went on and on, Ginny realized that of all people to disrupt her life plan, it was Ron who completely foiled it.
On The Even More Awful Thursday, Ginny found out her brother, who she spent the entirety of last year allowing to beat her over and over at Wizard chess (that was her story and she was sticking to it), had completely stabbed her in the back.
He had stolen in and became best friends with Harry Potter before she even had a chance to show the Boy-Who-Lived how much more fun she was than Ron.
No wonder Ron never wrote, Ginny thought bitterly, as her Mum finished reading out loud a letter from Fred and George. He was too busy having adventures with Harry Potter.
"Must be one of Fred and George's clankers," muttered Molly, smoothing out the parchment. "Ten points between the two of them for defeating a mountain troll in the girl's loo? What in blazes were they doing in the girl's loo?"
"Battling trolls," Ginny mumbled. How much did she ache to battle a troll with Harry Potter? How much fun was she missing, being only ten and stuck in bed? "Hogwarts sounds so much more wonderful than St. Mungo's. There are no trolls at St. Mungo's."
Bill's really, really fit healer breezed in with another potion.
"Alright, maybe one," Ginny added under her breath.
"Hogwarts will still be there next year, Ginny," her Mum tutted. She handed the letter to Ginny, who after several weeks finally had the use of her arms. Ginny held it between brightly colored fingernails, as her Mum stepped back from the bed so the healer could dump more foul-tasting potion down Ginny's throat.
"I'm just missing so much," Ginny gagged, as the healer left and her Mum settled back down. Her needles immediately picked right up, clacking again with a steady rhythm. Her Mum, in an obvious and amateur attempt at distraction, changed the subject. "How about a new color?" her Mum asked, nodding toward Ginny's nails.
Ginny shrugged. Her Mum had cast colovaria on Ginny's nails every day since the bandages had come off. Being wrapped up like a mummy had kept Ginny's nails from being bitten down or covered in dirt. Mum, she figured, liked to remember every now and then that one of her children was a girl. So, Ginny held out her arms stiffly. "Any color but pink."
With a knowing smirk, her Mum waved her wand, muttered the phrase, and five of Ginny's nails were no longer bright blue (it had taken quite a bit of charm to convince her Mum to do that color). Ginny spared the peachy-coral a glance and silently vowed the next time she could swipe a wand she'd cast the charm herself to make her nails Harpies green. "Mum… how soon do we get to leave the hospital?"
"No whining," her Mum clucked.
"I'm not whining," Ginny whined.
When her Mum finished the other hand, Ginny scanned the troll letter again and pretended that her legs didn't feel like they had swords growing inside them. Like, sharp blades trying to pierce her skin from the inside out.
In an attempt to distract herself, Ginny flourished the letter. "Reading between the lines, it's obvious that Harry Potter did all the hard work."
"Mmm-hmm."
"I bet he's the one who saved that girl from the troll. Pretty sure Ron was just… there. In fact, I expect Ron was screaming in terror. Maybe trying to hide in a toilet. The professors probably felt sorry for him, doused in all that poopy water. That's why he got five points."
Molly, quite used to sibling rivalry, picked up her knitting again. "The instructors don't give points that way."
"Fred and George don't say anything about the troll breaking Ron's fingers. If his fingers aren't broken, he could write himself," Ginny grumbled. "It would be nice to hear firsthand what battling a mountain troll is like."
"I expect he is busy."
"Yes. Battlingmountaintrolls," Ginny muttered, unable to completely hide how envious she was. How much she, too, wanted to live in the magic castle with the magic adventures.
()()()
()()()
By the end of November, Ginny was positively certain of one thing:
It took forever for bones to heal.
If there was something slower than healing bones, she never wanted to be stuck in a queue behind it. While the St. Mungo's healers were certain that due to her age and health she would make a full recovery with no permanent effects or loss of mobility, they kept changing their tune about how long that recovery would take.
Way too long. That's how long the recovery would take, Ginny thought.
The good news was, by the end of November, Ginny was walking again.
Ginny sighed, staring out her window as the rain battered the last stubborn leaves on the orchard branches. Her body didn't fold itself into the window seat as easily as it had three months ago. The healers had sent home potion recipes, but despite all the foul-tasting concoctions she quaffed every day, Ginny still ached in her stiff joints.
On the positive side, her Mum let her help make the potions. Ginny found potion making more fun than growing bones, at least. Her Mum knew a lot about why this certain ingredient had to go first, or what the difference between a clockwise vs counterclockwise stir invoked.
Also, Ron had finally sent a letter to "the family" with some sparse details of his classes:
Charms were okay.
They hadn't learned any spells in DADA yet.
Transfiguration made his head swim.
"That's it? That's all he has to say?" Ginny decided right then she was going to excel at Transfiguration, just so she could brag to Ron how easy it was.
Ginny realized (grudgingly) she was abnormally anti-Ron at the moment. At first, she thought she was upset because Ron couldn't be bothered to take a few moments to send her a personal letter.
But, she realized, she was also feeling a bit of envy. Ron had been her best friend, confidant and playmate for as long as she could remember. Now, he had new friends.
He and Harry Potter had befriended the girl they saved from the troll. He didn't write the girl's name, because he was an idiot who probably figured "girl-they-saved-from-the-troll" would be how the Weasley family would refer to her into perpetuity. But obviously… he had friends. Friends Ginny didn't know, or share.
It was so awful, Ginny thought as she watched two raindrops race down the window. It was awful to be left behind. She would never ignore her old friends, even if she got new ones.
Except, she didn't have any friends. Just brothers and minions.
Watching the rain, Ginny toyed briefly with the idea of making another try with the Lovegood girl, but she dismissed that rather quickly. Even if she thought her bones could manage the walk all the way to the tower house, that girl had been weird about things like dirigible plums and plimpy pus. Ginny's friendly "maybe we can play together sometime," overture had been shut down with a very unspecific, "No, thank you."
Ginny shifted in her seat again, her forehead pressed against the cold glass, staring out over the drizzled field. She could spy the lonely broom shed if she leaned into the corner of the windowpane, but the sight of it didn't fill her with excitement and purpose the way it used to.
That's because you haven't had a chance to get back on a broom yet, she told herself.
She would, though. The moment her Mum wasn't watching Ginny's every move, every wince, every stiff motion.
It would take some planning, Ginny thought. She might have to do something about the clock. After patching it back on the wall, her Dad removed the "Not A Squib" setting Ginny had accidentally added. But then, he couldn't help but continue tinkering with it. At first Ginny was afraid he was trying to add a "on a hexed broom" setting, but upon further examination, Ginny suspected that he was just trying to get the chime, long broken, to work again for "mortal peril."
She'd have to figure out how to disable that if she ever wanted to do anything remotely fun ever again.
"Ginny! Time for knitting!"
Ginny groaned, as she slowly unfolded her body from her window seat. Slow, not just because of the body aches, but because of knitting. She limped down the stairs, taking her time.
Knitting was the worst. Her Mum was quite good at it, because she did it with magic. Ginny had to do it with her stupid hands and fingers. Her Mum referred to it as "exercise."
"Stupid healers," Ginny muttered, making her way past the mirror above the first landing. "Finger-wrist dexterity rehabilitation blah-blah-blah."
With a wistful glance at the window outdoors, Ginny plonked herself down on the sofa. Her mum was holding a basket and frowning at an emerald green ball of yarn. Besides her on a table, was a letter. "Percy sent an owl this morning asking to stay at Hogwarts over the holidays," Molly said.
A lonely part of Ginny sank further into a pit of despair at the thought of less people during the holidays.
Still, Ginny understood her role as little sister. She had duties as such; she needed to rally. "He's probably got a girlfriend, Mum," Ginny tossed that thought towards her Mum's ear as she started moving the sofa cushions in search of the needles she had tucked behind them yesterday. "You should absolutely send him a howler for slacking off."
"Ginny." Molly gave her daughter a look that was part disparaging, part amused-and-trying-to-hide-it.
"You know he's probably snogging in the halls instead of studying for his OWLs." Ginny added helpfully, eyes wide and as innocent as she could manage. "You know how important the OWLs are. Howler important."
Percy hadn't really done anything to warrant Ginny throwing him under the Knight Bus like that, but the enactment of the Code of Silence for the hexed broom meant all brothers were fair game.
Besides, he never sent her any letters that were written specially for her either, so he kind of deserved it.
Molly frowned at the ball of yarn in her hand for a moment, considering the idea, before dismissing it. "Percy? Unlikely. He's growing into the kind of man witches want to marry, not snog in castle corridors."
Ginny mimed gagging, several times, until her Mum glanced up from the letter and flashed Ginny the infamous Stop-That-Right-Now-Or-Else Face. No one really knew what the "Or Else" was, but everyone agreed it would probably be loud.
Her Mum picked up the letter and frowned. "He says Harry Potter isn't going home for the holidays, either."
Ginny, half her body perched over the arm of the couch while she flung another pillow to the floor, froze. Her gaze snapped up to her Mum. "Harry Potter isn't going home for the holidays?"
"That's what Percy says, here," Molly tsked, pursing her lips.
Ginny sprang up, all the aches and pulls and pops in her bones forgotten. "Invite him here! Mum! Mum! Invite Harry Potter to have Christmas with us here at the Burrow! He and Ron are friends, it would be completely-"
"Ginny," Molly huffed, her eyes floating from the letter to the basket of knitting yarn, to the emerald green ball in her other hand. "I have a better idea."
"A better idea? There isn't a better idea," Ginny shook her head emphatically, eyes wide. "None. In all of wizarding history there has never been a better idea than inviting Harry Potter to have Christmas with us. Please, Mum."
Molly continued to stare at the letter for a moment. She seemed to come to a decision before she folded it closed with a brisk snap. Then, she fished her wand out of her apron pocket, and whisked the letter away. The needles Ginny had been searching for bolted out from underneath the middle cushion and dove at the ball of green yarn.
Sitting down in her rocker, as the needles began the clack-clack sound of productivity, Molly began to rock. "You know, Charlie can't come home for Christmas this year. One of the dragons on the reserve is supposed to be hatching her eggs around that time, and Charlie couldn't get away. Bill was going to take a few days off and meet in Romania for Christmas, and I think we should go too."
Ginny's eyes bugged. "With Harry Potter?"
Molly rolled her eyes at Ginny, gathering another ball of yarn from the basket and untangling it. "No, of course not. But this way, you'll have a bit of an adventure, and the boys can stay up at Hogwarts with Harry Potter."
"But I don't want a bit of an adventure. I'd rather have Harry Potter."
Molly paused to peer at Ginny beneath her lowered brows. "Ginny, he's a little boy, not a fairy tale hero."
"Well," Ginny shifted, plunking down on the sofa and crossing her arms, which creaked in protest. "He's sort of both," she grumbled.
A soft ball of yarn flew across the room and hit her smack in the face. Before Ginny could protest, a second set of knitting needles started tapping on her head.
With a grimace, Ginny reached up and snatched them out of the air, then frowned at the ball of maroon yarn.
Then, remembering who the maroon was for, Ginny shifted her bum on the couch a few times, settling in. She would make the sleeves too short, on purpose. Perfect. Still, she didn't want her Mum to think she had a diabolical plan to ensure Ron would have cold wrists for the next year, so she sighed heavily. "It's not fair. They all get to be at Hogwarts and I have to knit. No one else ever has to knit."
"Bill knits," Molly replied cheerfully, flicking her wand at yet another set of needles.
"He does not," Ginny denied. "He probably confunded you to think he knits, while he goes off and does something blonde."
Her Mum's mouth quirked; Ginny saw it. However, Molly pretended not to hear that last part. "Bill knit your baby blanket before you were born. He picked Puddlemere blue and was absolutely crushed because you turned out to be a girl. Said it was the wrong color, and Charlie agreed. Charlie said that dark blue made you look like a baby vampire."
"Charlie would have preferred a baby vampire," Ginny grumbled.
"Nonsense," her Mum chided. But she was wearing her I'm-Lying-To-Spare-Your-Feelings Face.
Ginny had to bite her tongue to not beg for a baby vampire blue sweater this year, instead of her usual pink. The only consolation about getting a pink sweater every year, was Ron's maroon one was way worse. Ginny eyed the beautiful green yarn. "Who is the green for?"
"I thought, since he wasn't going home for the holidays, I'd whip up a sweater for Harry Potter. I remember Hogwarts is terribly drafty once you take most of the people out of it."
The color matched his eyes, Ginny noticed.
Her Mum had noticed, too, the color of Harry Potter's eyes. Had to be why she chose that shade. Even though Ginny knew it was probably a bad idea, she couldn't help but want to talk a little bit… just the tiniest bit… about…
…. feelings feelings feelings?
No. Bad idea.
Not with Mum. Not outright, at least.
Better to keep it to concrete details, remaining unsuspicious. "He had very nice manners," Ginny said carefully.
"That he did," Molly replied, her eyes still on the knitting.
"I bet he'll like having something new to wear. Did…did you notice? He was wearing hand-me-downs, at the train station."
Molly pursed her lips. "There's no shame in being frugal. Your brothers wear hand-me-downs. You wear hand-me-downs."
"I know, Mum," Ginny said carefully, not quite sure how to make her point. "But…we wear ones that fit," Ginny muttered.
"For all we know that's the Muggle fashion and who are we to say?" Molly paused for a moment and muttered under her breath, "but honestly, what do the Muggles eat anyway? Someone should feed that boy some potatoes."
Ginny perked up. "Like us? We could stay here and cook him potatoes. Because Romania probably smells like stinky dragons and we could still invite-"
"Ginevra Weasley."
Ginny sank back into the sofa, knowing she was momentarily thwarted. Full names brought conversation to a full stop.
Unless she wanted to just come right out and tell her Mum about the Ultimate Life Plan. How Ron was ruining it all. How inviting Harry Potter for Christmas might be the only way to salvage it.
Resigned, Ginny wrestled with the maroon yarn and hoped dragons smelled better than brothers.
()()()
()()()
Author's Note: Thanks again to ginnyweasley777 and Curse-04 for beta reading and providing feedback on this one! I'd also like to thank LadyKitai, scrappy8, James Birdsong, Mr. Doom, and guests for taking the time to review. Means the world to me!