Her wet robes were ruining Dumbledore's settee.
That was the one thought Ginny could manage, staring sightless into green flames that licked the sides of the floo.
Her robes were going to leave a soggy wet patch on his settee.
Spine rigid, she perched upon the richly upholstered chair occupying as small a spot as she could.
Blurred people moved around her. Words and movement. The swish of robes, the murmur of voices. The highs and lows and pauses, the pacing, the pressure of hands. The greater pressure of stares.
She was bloody and bruised.
Her robes clung to her, clammy and cold, from lying in that dank puddle at the foot of Slytherin's statue.
Her secondhand robes.
No one will notice your secondhand robes, Ginevra.
Tom said her spirit and her humour and her heart were important. Not the robes a hair too long that fastened on the wrong side.
…stupid little Ginny…
Ginny stared into the heatless green flames. Her palms lay limp in her lap, fingers still icy.
Useless hands.
Hands that made him with words on paper. Hands that created him with her quill.
…foolish little brat…
The green flames continued a steady flutter against the stones of the hearth. Her parents had shoved through the floo only minutes ago. Pressure of arms around her, hands shoving back her hair to peer into her face.
As if a cursory physical examination would suffice to ascertain her state of 'alright.'
Are you alright?
It wasn't really her quill that created Tom, though, was it? It was her hopes, and her fears, and her loneliness.
Ginny?
It was her soul.
She felt the pressure of the touches, the embraces, the hands on shoulders, but she didn't feel the warmth.
Are you alright?
Was she? How much of her soul remained?
She felt cold all the way to her skeleton.
Her skeleton will lie in the chamber forever.
Voices buzzed about her, Dumbledore, Harry Potter, her parents. Sounded like a swarm of bees and she couldn't pick out any but an occasional word here or there:
…basilisk…
…diary…
…Voldemort…
…over…
Was it over?
Was he gone?
Silly Little Girl.
"Miss Weasley?"
Dumbledore's voice yanked Ginny to the present, eyes peering at her through half-moon spectacles. He stood in front of the portraits lining the wall behind his desk.
Oil and canvas. Staring. Muttering.
Where did they keep their brains?
"… wand?"
She licked her lips and realized the adults in the room were waiting for her to respond. "I'm sorry, Sir?"
"May I please examine your wand, Miss Weasley?"
Ginny pulled her grandmother's wand out of her wand pocket.
Her wand pocket in her damp, secondhand robes that were ruining Dumbledore's upholstery.
Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall performed a priori incantatem.
"Sleep charms, silencing charms, good heavens, Albus, some of these are rather nasty hexes and jinxes," McGonagall muttered.
"Nothing unforgivable," Dumbledore replied, turning toward her Dad.
Fingers stroked the rooster's neck.
A crack, a twist.
"Miss Weasley, do stop looking so shamed," Ginny's Head of House offered the wand back. "This was not you. Some of these spells are beyond the Ordinary Wizarding Levels."
You must be very powerful, Ginevra. The sorting hat couldn't make up its mind? How… special.
Where did the sorting hat keep its brain?
McGonagall's dressing gown sleeve tapered into a point, above the hand cradling Ginny's wand. The tartan print folded and wrinkled into an unrecognizable mishmash of crossed lines and colored blocks. The colors blended together-
"Miss Weasley?" McGonagall sounded annoyed.
"Ginny, dear?" Her Mum sounded concerned.
A word jabbed itself to the forefront of Ginny's mind. "Am I to be expelled?"
Dumbledore cleared his throat before he replied. "I do not believe so. Do you wish to return home with your parents for a short time? You may return to your classes on Monday, after…"
Home?
…Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain.
She should have known better.
Never trust anything…
Her Dad must be so ashamed of her.
No one understands how awful
Home?
Home. A bed with a faded quilt. A window overlooking an orchard.
Home, where a diary was a list of silly things to ask her brother's best friend.
Home, the couch afghan all the way up under her chin.
Home, where the nighttime cricket sounds filtered through the window, lulling her into dreams that were safe and magical.
She wanted to be home.
She wanted to be home and ten years old again, gazing out at the orchard, imagining the amazing things she would do with her life.
How high she'd soar on her broom… the thunderous sound of a cheering stadium as she hurled a Quaffle through the ring.
A green-eyed boy laughing with her, not bloody and bruised and afraid because of her mountain of poor choices.
In a naked whisper, Ginny spoke the only truth she knew. "If I go home now, I don't think I'll ever come back."
McGonagall put her hand under Ginny's chin, lifting it upward to make eye contact. "The infirmary it is then."
()()()
()()()
Ginny spent the remainder of the term in the infirmary.
She figured it was a good thing she didn't have anyone who might have noticed.
The infirmary was eerie, almost, in its silence. Once the petrified students had once again become mobile-
Dozens of mandrake mouths, sewn shut, sap dripping from stitches
Ginny flinched.
Writhing, squealing in agony behind rooted lips
She was glad those students were fine. She was equally glad they were gone.
Ginny would have been hard-pressed to confess which had been more terrifying: the writhing mandrakes or the petrified victims.
Ginny had cast reparo over and over that night, desperate to save the mandrakes. Her voice had been raw, and her palms had been sliced. Shard after shard, piecing back together the scarred pots. All but one of the mandrakes survived.
In the dark of night, she buried the dead one behind Hagrid's hut, with the roosters.
It wasn't enough. Would it ever, ever be enough?
The part of her, that small piece that had still been Ginny, skipped her history essay the next day. Instead, she took the parchment and hid under the table in Hagrid's deserted hut. At first she cut it into tiny little hearts, and snowflakes, and didn't even realize at what point she had changed to cutting teardrops.
When night fell, she drank another wide-eye potion. So, many, over so many days. She crept away, scattering the paper tears on the loose piles of dirt behind the garden.
She tried not to imagine screaming with her lips sewn shut.
A gentle giant in Azkaban; A gargoyle. Ginny's lips shut.
"Miss Weasley!"
Ginny's head shot up off her hospital pillow. Professor McGonagall stood over her infirmary bed, staring at Ginny expectantly.
"Sorry," Ginny muttered, voice hoarse from disuse.
"I've asked you same question, twice now. Where is your head, Miss Weasley?"
Ginny felt a bitter desire to laugh. Her head was attached, obviously. The real question was who was in it? What remained as it fluttered from past to present to past?
Her face flooded with shame. The fact she could still color with shame stabbed her with self-loathing. Blushing was something for broken dishes and buttered elbows. Not the realization that she had no idea what had happened to the man sent to Azkaban for something he didn't do.
Something Ginny did.
So she swallowed her shame and asked. "Has Hagrid been freed? I should have asked. It should have been the first thing I asked."
"It is the first thing you've asked," Professor McGonagall sighed heavily.
It wasn't. The first thing she had asked was whether she was going to be expelled. Self-absorbed, really, when one remembered that it was her fault a man was wrongfully imprisoned in a place haunted by soul-eating terrors.
Ginny didn't say anything, though. She used up her quota of words for the day.
Maybe if Ron had thought to visit, he'd stop feeling the need to say things like "she never shuts up, normally."
With a flick of the Professor's wand, a chair slid across the room to settle next to Ginny's bed. With a sniff and another flick, Professor McGonagall transfigured the uncomfortable-looking hospital chair into a cozy wingback, covered in velvet with gold tassels along the bottom and arms.
McGonagall lowered herself into the chair.
She didn't say anything, though, just stared.
Finally, Ginny couldn't stand the silent examination, and spoke. "Gryffindor," Ginny muttered, nodding toward the colors on the chair.
McGonagall paused. "I suppose it is. Try as I might, though, I've never been able to transfigure a chair as comfortable as the one by the fireplace in the common room. Did you sit in it much, this year?"
Ginny shrugged.
"Hmm." There was little empathy in the Professor's tone. "May I ask you a question, Miss Weasley?"
Ginny knew it was a formality. The professor could and would ask any question she wanted. It was silly she asked, so Ginny didn't dignify it with a reply.
The Professor sat down in the wing chair. "How are you, Miss Weasley?"
Ginny was surprised enough to look up at the Professor. McGonagall's face was unreadable. Ginny wondered if she ever had a laugh, or if she had a hobby other than being efficient and intimidating.
Instead of answering her question, Ginny shrugged again and picked at her index finger. Though it was weeks ago, her nails were still jagged and broken from re-potting the Mandrakes. They had fought her help.
The resulting scratches and gouges on her arms had healed, but the nails were still ragged.
Idly, Ginny remembered another hospital, her Mum tapping Ginny's fingers.
"You know," The Professor tsked. "The end-of-term feast is almost over. If you were to drag yourself out of this bed, you could manage to claim a bit of dessert."
Ginny shrugged again. "Not hungry."
"I see," McGonagall sniffed. "Who are your friends Miss Weasley?"
I'm your friend, Ginevra. We're friends, you can tell me anything.
"We failed you." Professor McGonagall muttered, when Ginny didn't answer. Too ashamed to admit out loud what McGonagall already knew.
"You didn't do anything. I was the one who…"
"I know you believe so. But the fact is, you are eleven years old and I am your Head of House. You don't think I should notice, do you? Which students befriend which other students? How the houses get along? Who eats with whom at meals?"
Ginny didn't even bother to shrug this time.
The Professor leaned back in her chair, studying Ginny. "You don't think I should make note of when a student, who by association alone given the family she was born into, begins to decline? To withdraw? To not turn in rudimentary assignments?"
"I'm not my brothers," Ginny said, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
"Right," Professor McGonagall muttered. "Despite what you may think, no one expects you to be your brothers."
"No one expects me to be anything," Ginny spat, unable to stop herself. "The only person who even knew I was here was- "
Anyone could see you, Ginevra. Anyone who was looking.
"Well," Ginny stopped herself. "He wasn't even really a person Just someone who found a silly little girl to control."
"You're not the first person to be fooled by someone with the right words at the right time. I am sorry, Miss Weasley. Sorry for my part in what happened and do not shrug in a way that would seem to dismiss my sincerity."
Since Ginny was about to do just that, she stilled herself.
"And while I do not relish having to bring this up at this time," Professor McGonagall cleared her throat. "We find ourselves in a difficult place. You have choices to make, Miss Weasley."
"What choices?" Ginny said. "I stayed. I finished the term."
"You did," Professor McGonagall acknowledged. "And I can't imagine how difficult that was for you. Quite an example of courage, current residence aside," the Professor could not seem to resist adding at the end, with a disapproving glance at the infirmary.
Ginny knew what she was going to say. Why else would a teacher come at the end of the term? "I failed my classes," Ginny said, her voice flat.
The Professor sighed. "I wish it were otherwise. What happened was not your fault, but the academic consequences of what happened cannot be avoided, even with exams canceled."
Ginny felt naked, vulnerable underneath McGonagall's knowing stare.
Ashamed.
None of her brothers had ever failed. At anything.
"Miss Weasley," Professor McGonagall repeated, yet softer, looking contrite. "I'm not telling you this to punish you."
"Someone should." Ginny said to her hands. "I suppose f-failing my classes-"
"We failed you, Ginny," the Professor said. At the sound of her first name, Ginny realized that the Professor had shed a bit of her professionalism and looked perhaps as tired as Ginny felt. "We should have seen. You had seven teachers who should have noticed your decline. Who should have noticed you were floundering. Should have noticed that you did not engage with your peers. You have four brothers here who- "
"It's not their fault," Ginny growled, feeling the first spark of anger… or really, anything, since waking up in the Chamber.
Then, the moment she realized she was angry, it consumed her.
She was angry with herself, for being so weak. She was angry at Tom for being so evil.
She was angry with her brothers. They were prats and gits and ignored her for months and months with only an occasional pat on the head or some sort of ill-timed, half-arsed tease.
But they were hers to be angry with. Anger, not blame. Professor McGonagall wasn't allowed to come in here and tell Ginny they had any part to blame.
Ginny was to blame.
"Be that as it may," the Professor backed down from accusing her brothers of anything. She stood. "Let us discuss your options for next year."
"Do we have to do this now?" Ginny asked helplessly. Only a few more hours and she'd be leaving. She'd be going home where it was-
"No time like the present, Miss Weasley. You don't have time to waste."
The unspoken criticism was heavy. No time to waste, she had said.
She may as well have said, "no time to waste hiding here in the sick ward."
"Now," Professor McGonagall continued, the professional click-clack on her heeled boots rhythmic with her pacing. "You may come back in September with a fresh start and retake your first year with the new class."
Shocked, Ginny shook her head. "Retake my first year? No! Absolutely not! I- "
The Professor held up a hand. "I'm sure that sounds unappealing at the moment- "
"It's unappealing at any moment," Ginny protested. "I- I can't. I just- "
It would be her first year, all over again, except she'd be "The Girl Who Had to Repeat Her First Year."
"Emphatically, no."
"Anticipating you might feel that way, Professor Dumbledore has also offered you an exam-based option. The week before the term begins, you may take the first-year class exams- "
"-the ones that were just canceled?"
"Yes," the Professor said. "The headmaster believes a demonstration of your ability to do this year's classwork would be sufficient, under the circumstance, for you to continue on to your second year."
"Oh," Ginny said, shoulders hunching. It was likely the better option, but she had missed so much. She didn't think she was able to master almost a year's worth of knowledge in only a couple months. She wasn't as smart as Hermione Granger, who was likely already caught up on everything she missed while petrified.
Which, Ginny shut her eyes, had been all her fault.
"Those are my only options?" Ginny felt like her shoulders just couldn't take another burden. Guilt, Grief, Shame, and… bloody exams on coursework she didn't know.
She couldn't do it. She just couldn't.
"As Hogwarts is concerned, yes. Those are your two options." The Professor looked down her nose at Ginny. "If you choose the second option, next year you and I, as Head of your House, will meet privately once a week. We will discuss your work, fill in any knowledge gaps if necessary, and- "
"Make sure I'm not possessed or petrifying my dorm mates or anything,' Ginny said, her voice a bitter snap.
"As I said, Miss Weasley," McGonagall frowned, deliberately ignoring the tone that would have had Ginny sent to her room if McGonagall had been her Mum. "Nothing here is a punishment. You were possessed and you did not choose what happened to you this year."
Ginny's gaze went back down to her hands.
Retake her first year or study all summer to try to pass exams she already should have passed.
Weekly interviews to make sure she wasn't bonkers.
Or worse, evil.
"Isn't there a third option?" Ginny said, numb.
"Home school," Professor McGonagall shrugged. "Though I don't recommend it. I do not believe that is what you want."
She wouldn't be stared at, with homeschool. Gossiped about. She wouldn't have to-
A soft tap on the infirmary threshold interrupted Ginny's thought. "Hello Professor," Harry Potter said shyly, stepping into the room. "Hi Ginny."
His green gaze was bright, happy in the face that still sported a fading bruise. Then, the dark brows above those eyes furrowed in sincere concern. "You not feeling well? You weren't at the feast tonight."
Ginny sat straighter in bed, her hand flying to the now-smooth edges of her hair after Madame Pomfrey had trimmed the uneven bits.
"It was a really good feast," Harry added, when Ginny didn't reply. "After dessert the table filled with a whole bunch of candies and such for us to take on the trip home tomorrow."
He paused, as if waiting for her to say something.
And Ginny knew, oh she knew, she should say something. Anything.
She was sorry. She had done so many things all wrong. She had almost got him killed. He never, ever should have gone down there. She was sorry. So desperately sorry. So, so, sorry, and she needed to say it in order to start making it right. She had to make it right.
Ginny tried, but once again, no words would come out.
She bit her lip in despair. How, how could she still, after all that had happened, still be mute around him?
She stared back down at her fingers, picking at the nails, unable to look at him.
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat. "And where are the other two? Your bookends?"
"Oh," Harry cleared his throat, with a sheepish smile. "They're uh, well Hermione was concerned that she wasn't absolutely on top of the Goblin War content she missed, so Ron's helping her with her studies right now."
The Professor raised an eyebrow. "And what does Mr. Weasley know about the Goblin Wars that Ms. Granger doesn't?"
"Nothing. Pretty sure, Hermione had the text memorized before Christmas. Ron says his job is to make stupid comments and let Hermione correct him. Makes her feel better."
The Professor let out a soft snort. "I'm sure it does."
Harry glanced sideways at Ginny. "Ron did, uh, he asked me to bring you one of the chocolate frogs from the table?" Harry held it toward Ginny. "He said you collect the cards."
Ginny looked down at the small package under her nose. "You…." One word. Now another. "You didn't have to come all the way to the infirmary-"
"No bother," Harry shrugged. "I was on my way. Madame Pomfrey is still plying me with potions."
Oh.
Ginny took the offering. The offering that wasn't from Harry, but rather, her brother. Her brother who had been so worried for her he climbed down into the Chamber of Secrets with his best friend to save her.
Then, instead of visiting her in the hospital, he sent the same friend to deliver waxy chocolate to Ginny because he was too busy making stupid comments to Hermione Granger to do it himself.
She felt another flare of anger. For the first time, ever, Ginny wished Harry would leave. She felt mean. Ugly. Better to be invisible.
The Professor must have seen Ginny's face fall. She sighed heavily to draw Harry's attention. "Madame Pomfrey's been threatening to engrave your name on one of the beds, so you have it in reserve," Professor McGonagall said with a wry smile. "I do hope next year you will avoid lengthy visits to the Hospital wing, Mr. Potter."
"Here's hoping. Growing bones isn't something I'd like to repeat." Harry muttered. "Anyway, um. Bye Ginny. Hope you feel better. See you on the train tomorrow?"
Ginny nodded, listening to his footsteps carry him away.
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat, again.
Right. They had been having a conversation. Instead of picking up where they left off, Ginny thrust the chocolate frog box at her professor. "Here. Take it."
"You don't want your candy? It was thoughtful-"
"It's pity candy," Ginny interrupted, her voice sharp. "I can't take pity candy. Even if a Jocunda Sykes was in there."
Professor McGonagall made a sound that Ginny would have characterized as a laugh had it emerged from anyone other than McGonagall. She took the box from Ginny and shook it. "Just so you know," she said, after a moment "If I do find there is a Jocunda Sykes, I will not be graciously presenting it back to you."
Ginny's gaze shot up to her professor's. "I wouldn't expect it. It's Jocunda Sykes."
"Exactly. If there's a Jocunda Sykes in here," Professor McGonagall drawled, "I shall be transfiguring an entire shelf in my office into a display. Any visitor will have to bow or genuflect as proper respect before I allow them to speak."
The Professor's wry tone might have, at one time in her life, amused Ginny. She would have double-downed on McGonagall's shelf by suggesting a staircase leading up to a glass display, with mood lighting and a security troll.
But that was the old Ginny. Now, Ginny just shrugged, and faked a yawn so maybe McGonagall would take the hint and leave her alone.
Professor McGonagall watched Ginny for several moments, as if to consider her words carefully. "I do hope, Miss Weasley, you will consider your choices. I would regret missing the opportunity to know you better."
Ginny didn't wait for the Professor to leave. She shut her eyes, rolled over, and pretended to fall asleep.
()()()
()()()
The last day of term finally arrived, and Ginny was as drawn and exhausted as she had ever been.
Still, she had to be around people, so she pretended. She pretended to be fine at breakfast. She pretended to be healthy on the stairs. She pretended to be rushed as she packed her trunk in her dorm.
But Ginny couldn't maintain her pretend smile for longer than a minute or two and had taken to moving through the spacious halls trying to be as unnoticed as possible.
The whispers, though, came from all directions. Not-so-hushed whispers with a condescending "oh, that poor girl" sigh, but more often with a fearful, "Heir of Slytherin" hiss. Those whispers seemed to spread far and wide: "Heir of Slytherin," followed by a shocked "what, that ginger firstie?"
She pretended not to hear.
Even the ghosts gave her a wide berth, twittering to themselves that Nearly Headless Nick, who had been petrified by "that girl's basilisk" had never done any wrong. "Not a thing but speak to her once, and she went and set a basilisk upon him!"
Most of the ghosts were simple gossips, but others had more malice. They would float closer and closer to Ginny, and she would stumble to avoid them.
When she couldn't avoid them, she pretended not to feel the icy draft of stepping through the spirit, chilling her to the very bone.
Ginny ducked her head a little tighter to her chest, focusing on one step after the other as she pulled her trunk to the carriages that would take them to the train.
"Heir of Slytherin-"
"-petrified-"
"-I heard she murdered three dozen chickens with her bare hands-"
She pretended not to care.
"Hello, Ginny Weasley."
Ginny's trunk collided with the back of her heels as she came to a complete stop in front of that buggy eyed Lovegood girl. The girl was peering at her as if she were some sort of potion sludge on the bottom of a cauldron. "Is it true you spoke to a Basilisk? Did you ask it about its symbiotic relationship with flindlewor-"
Of all the horrible things people were saying behind her back, this girl was the first person to make fun of her to her face.
Ginny pretended to sneeze and pushed past Lovegood to climb into the closest carriage.
The carriage already had three fifth year Hufflepuffs in it, but Ginny pretended not to see them.
She turned her face away, staring out at the forest, hoping the others would forget she was there. The trip to the train felt as if it lasted another two years.
Though Ginny wished it were even longer when she stepped off the carriage and made her way to the platform.
Steam hissed from the vents, the brightly painted express almost seemed to vibrate, poised and ready to go.
One step, then another, then home. She was going home.
People hugging goodbye, clanking up the metal steps to the inner compartments, leaning out for a jaunty wave.
She ignored them all. Instead, she began to jog, then run, her eyes fixed on the threshold.
So close, so close, she chanted to herself with each step, her trunk clunking behind her.
"All aboard! Mind yer step now!"
Ginny stumbled.
"C'mon, yeh'll get yer- "
Only a few steps away from her goal, the train, the escape home. Only a few steps away, she heard him.
His words faded underneath the growing buzz in Ginny's ears. His big hairy face smiled down on a group of Ravenclaw students lifting and toting their bags.
Ginny halted, her trunk bumping into her heels again.
As big as life on that platform, Hagrid towered over the smaller students. Barking orders here and there, she watched as he bent and tossed a trunk into the compartments below the carriages.
Waving at a student here, chuckling at another there.
That chuckle sent a fresh wave a shame through her. How did anyone not crumble, after that place? How did anyone not crumble under the mountains of shame that weighed on her shoulders?
She had sent that man to Azkaban.
She froze, staring at him. His voice was merry, but his face looked more haggard and worn than it had in September.
That's what Azkaban does to a person.
Was that Ginny's Best Self reminding her? Did Ginny even have a Best Self anymore?
Or had Tom taken that, too?
No broom, no illness had ever made her feel this sick to her stomach. She wanted to run. She wanted to run so badly, but he was blocking the way home. For a moment, she thought maybe she could run into the forbidden forest and… and… ask the centaurs to adopt her. She could- well, she could cook, and fish and do their laundry, except she didn't really know what they wore, did Centaurs wear anything? But maybe it didn't matter because she could just go. She could go. She could turn her back on the train and run away and never, ever, have to face Hagrid, or look him in the eye, or speak to him.
Facing Hagrid would be so, so, much worse than facing Harry Potter.
You couldn't apologize to Harry. He deserved it, and you still couldn't manage to say anything.
Hagrid deserves it even more.
Oh, Merlin. It was her Best Self.
Make it right.
She couldn't give him back those weeks.
Make it right.
She was so ashamed.
It doesn't matter what you feel. You can't repay what you owe. But you can apologize.
Somewhere deep inside her, the ragged remains of a Gryffindor pulled itself together.
Her shoulders straightened, and Ginny gulped an unsteady breath. Afraid she'd falter, she kept her eyes fixed on that big, barrel-chested giant of a man that Ron and Harry adored.
She reminded herself that this was the man who gave the boys cherished rock cakes. The boys took them even though they were afraid they'd break their teeth.
Make it right.
This was the man who taught Charlie how to splint bird wings. How to feed baby plimpies with an eyedropper. How to hold the tiniest of eggs in huge hands without crushing them.
This was the man who always had a word of encouragement for the misfits. The man who told Harry Potter he was a wizard and gave him the most beautiful owl in the world.
Make it right.
Her foot, almost of its own volition, lurched her forward. Then it took another step. Her eyes on the goal, she moved.
Able to ignore the whispers around her for the first time since she had exited the chamber of secrets, clinging to a phoenix, Ginny moved until she stood before Hagrid.
Make it right.
She didn't come much higher than his thigh. He didn't even see her, gesturing at another student above her head.
It must be like being on a broom, she thought, oddly. Being able to see so far above everyone.
Make it right.
"H-Hagrid?" Her voice was timid, barely a whisper and his ears were so much further away than most. He didn't hear her, at first, fetching another loose trunk and tossing it in the almost full luggage compartment below.
Undeterred, Ginny reached out with a trembling hand.
She reached for courage, stretching for it, grasping the last vestiges of it, feeling it in the rough fabric as she tugged on Hagrid's trouser leg to draw his attention. "Mr. Hagrid?"
"Whoa now!" She leaped back, because she had startled him with the sudden contact. But her heart lifted as he turned his gentle giant smile down to the tiny student who needed his attention.
Then, as he recognized her face, the light that was in Hagrid's eyes winked out. As if his face were doused in ice water, his expression shifted into a kind of frozen indifference.
The words on Ginny's tongue turned to ash.
You have to make it right!
But it was a sort of ironic justice. As if she were the one facing a basilisk. As if it were her body that inch by inch was turning to stone underneath an unforgiving glance.
With the last bit of her will and courage, she rasped out his name. "Mr. Hagrid." Because he had to know, and he deserved to hear it. Even if it didn't make anything better, she had to. "I'm-"
"On the train with ye now." His voice expressionless, Hagrid tore his gaze from her, staring off into the distance.
Before she could muster another sound, he muttered something about second years and carriages. He pushed his way down the platform, away from her, away from anything she might say.
She couldn't move. She watched the back of the giant moving away from her, down the platform.
And she knew, with a mature understanding that was so much older than her eleven years, that this man would never, ever teach her to mend a bird's wing.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, to no one.
Some things can't be made right.
She didn't know how long she just stood there, staring after the man all of her brothers had spoken of so fondly. Students pushed and shoved, yelling jokes at one another, hefting trunks. They bounded aboard the train.
The whistle blew. Limbs old and creaky, finally, Ginny realized she couldn't just stand there anymore.
Abandoning her trunk into the undercarriage, she ducked her head and stumbled her way aboard. Unlike her last trip, she didn't waste time searching for anyone. Instead, she unlatched the empty compartment in the back. Pulling the blinds on both sets of windows closed, she settled in the middle of the bench, and tucked her feet under her.
Alone.
Her eyes started to burn as the train whistle sounded again.
Alone. Just like the last train ride.
No. That wasn't quite right.
The last trip she had a diary and had made the best friend she had ever had in it.
Her throat closed, and she choked back a sob, glad she was alone. Glad there was no one to hear.
Hagrid hated her. So did the ghosts.
She deserved to be alone.
The sobs began to wrack the underfed body that housed the soul Tom Riddle spent the better part of the year cannibalizing.
She pushed her fist into her mouth to keep the sounds from traveling, which is why she didn't hear the latch on the door rattling until the door flung open.
Ginny's eyes darted to the door-
Pretend. Quick! Preten-
But she looked at their faces, and she couldn't, she just couldn't pretend anymore. Yet another sob shoved its way out of her lungs. She couldn't stop it any more than she could stop Tom Riddle.
Ginny crumbled.
Without a glance at each other, the identical boys stepped into the compartment, pushing the door shut behind them. Then, as one, they sat on either side of her, like two identical bookends.
"You've been avoiding us for days," George whispered.
The other should have said something funny, because that's who they were. But there was nothing funny about Tom Riddle, and basilisks and a broken Ginny.
Without a word, Fred pulled an initialed sweater out of his pack and tucked it gently around her like a blanket. Ginny tried to duck her face in it, but the scent of home overwhelmed the last of her ability to hide.
It didn't matter how many times it was washed, it smelled like brother.
Ginny finally surrendered and stopped trying to hold in the sobs anymore. She tucked her knees under her chin and curled up into a ball while the ugly, horrible sobs she couldn't stop echoed in the compartment. Her head dropped onto Fred's shoulder, crying so hard she had to gasp for breath every few moments.
They didn't say anything. A tentative hand awkwardly patted her hair at one point. But after several minutes - or it may have been hours - Ginny exhausted her tears and fell asleep between her twin brothers.
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