Unfamiliar words chanted before a stiff-bristled brush formed in her hand.
Bristles above wood, held in childlike fingers, swirled in the pail.
A thrill at the metallic scent. The stretch of her arm, the stroke of the brush, the letters on the wall.
Easy enough to cast a spell to do it. But why favor one tool over another?
Ginevra was such a pliable tool….
()()()
()()()
Clutching her throat, Ginny lurched upright in bed, ripped from sleep by the sound of her own screams.
Gasping, her gaze flew to her bedroom door, shaking on its hinges.
It wasn't her. Not accidental magic, not… not her.
Just the shaking of the door from the rumble of people barreling up the steps of the Burrow.
To her relief, the patter of steps slowed, and then halted. Her door remained closed.
Ginny imagined her family on the other side, holding their own breaths, waiting to decide whether the nightmare was bad enough to enter this time. Exchanging glances and signals. Deciding who would be the one designated to ask, "Are you alright, Ginny?"
Saving them the effort, Ginny pushed the sweaty hair off her forehead, "I'm fine," she breathed, hoping they could hear her. "I'm fine."
Nobody moved on the other side of her door. Ginny didn't know how many of them stood there this time, it had sounded like an awful lot of feet.
"Do you need water, Ginny?" Her Mum's voice floated through the door, tense, agitated. "I can always reset the charm."
With a twitchy glance, Ginny took in the small glass that had been knocked over sideways on her battered nightstand. Water dripped from the glass to join the puddle on the floor. Ginny swallowed. "I have some here, Mum," she lied. "Leave the charm. I'm-I'm going back to sleep."
She held her breath until she once again heard footsteps, this time moving away from her door. Ginny heard her Mum's frustrated huff, but finally, even her Mum's heavier steps moved away.
She had been home less than a week. After the third straight nightmare, every single family member had offered to move a camp bed into their room for Ginny. Even Ron, though it wouldn't put him out at all; Ron could sleep through anything.
They didn't understand.
Sometimes, Ginny thought she could hear him in her head.
Silly Little Girl.
Without Madame Pomfrey's Dreamless Sleep Potion, Ginny saw flashes of things she didn't remember in her waking hours.
Accio Blood Bucket
The locked bedroom door rattled on its hinges.
Stop it! That's
Accidental magic? Or…
You can't hide, Ginevra
Her shaking hands flew to her ears, as if to block out the sound of her own thoughts. But were they her own thoughts?
Was he really gone?
Who would she hurt, if he weren't really gone?
She couldn't risk what she might do if she lost time again. If Tom weren't really gone. After the second nightmare, Ginny insisted her Dad set up a charm on the door, one that could only be lifted from the outside. Once she went to bed each night, she couldn't get out, until someone on the other side uncharmed her door in the morning.
They had fought her on that. Her Dad's sad eyes telling her without words that her family saw no reason for Ginny to insist being locked in her room at night.
But she had begged.
The third night she insisted that motion detection charms be placed outside her door, and beneath her window. On the chance that she might open the door anyway.
It would give them some warning, at least. Some time to escape.
She had demanded a silencing charm as well, so she wouldn't wake anyone with her nightmares, but her Mum put her foot down on that one. Ginny could be locked in her room until someone let her out in the morning, but her Mum wouldn't hear of Ginny not being able to cry out for help.
It wasn't their fault they didn't understand.
They didn't know. They couldn't know. Couldn't know the terror of waking up and not knowing where she was, how she got there, what she'd done.
Or whose blood was staining her sleeves.
A charmed door: locks, motion detection, bells and alarms. It was protection for everyone, if Tom wasn't really gone. If he were only waiting for her to become complacent. Waiting for the moment when she finally felt safe, only to steer her body again for his own purposes.
A charmed door was a small price for mental peace. A charmed door could stop her, could save those she loved no matter who was controlling her body.
If Tom wasn't really gone.
()()()
()()()
After the second week, Ginny realized Tom Riddle had ruined more than Hogwarts.
He ruined her home.
Every memory, every conversation, every Christmas, every laugh, every hug had happened to some other Ginny.
She was trying. She said, "good morning," and spoke to her family during the day.
They pretended everything was normal. She pretended everything was normal.
She had conversations.
Ginny learned to initiate conversation when she was in the middle of doing something. Chores, or meals or tidying.
If she were doing something she wouldn't have to look at anyone while they were talking. She wouldn't have to see the unfamiliar mixture of pain and shame and pity and worry and forced smiles and disappointment on those familiar faces.
Yet, the forced smiles and disappointment were preferable to the hushed whispers she sometimes overheard as she moved silently from room to room.
She tried to ignore it. Voices faded in and out of earshot: a conversation in the kitchen that quieted when she came too close, an argument between some such brother or another, a murmur and a hush right before she would cross a threshold.
"Why didn't she tell anyone?" was a frequent theme. But the worst was her Mum's anguished, "she doesn't seem like herself anymore."
She wasn't. Tom Riddle had ruined that, too.
As Ginny had pressed her small body into the shadow of the door, she spied through the gap her father holding her mum, his own anguished, "I shouldn't have chided her about where it kept its brain-"
Ginny turned away, not wanting to hear anymore.
()()()
()()()
Sometimes Ginny tried to avoid sleep altogether. Her Dad would cast the charm, but instead going to bed she would pace the floor. Six steps to the closet. Two steps in a loop. Six steps to the bed. Glance at her pile of unopened textbooks. Tap the nightstand. Start over.
Other nights she'd bounce Gobstones off the closet door. Closet door, bounce to the bed post, ricochet off the still-unopened textbooks, back to Ginny's hand. Repeat in the opposite direction. Backwards. On one foot. One eye closed.
But some nights, her hand itched for a quill.
()()()
()()()
- Hagrid
- Hermione Granger
- Colin Creevey
- Nearly Headless Nick
- Justin Finch-Fletchley
- Penelope Clearwater
- Headmaster Dumbledore
- Mrs. Norris
- A Whole Bunch of Roosters
- Harry Potter(?)
Tracking down the parchment, Ginny's eyes fell on the next name that hadn't been crossed off.
Right. The next one was a bit harder than the previous ones. Ginny reached under her pillow to draw out the small woolen ball she had been working on the last two weeks.
Eyeing it, she realized it was rather lumpy, for a ball. Sometimes the scrap yarn lengths she had "borrowed" from her mum's knitting basket were short. The knots she tied from one length to another were so close together they didn't lay flat.
Still, she hoped Mrs. Norris would like it. Gearing herself up for her next amends letter, Ginny set the lumpy ball of yarn on the top of the parchment and began to write.
Dear Mr. Filch,
That was always the easiest part. Stalling, Ginny dipped her quill in the ink again.
I am very sorry I petrified your cat, Mrs. Norris.
It was all my fault, and I'm so sorry. Even though I don't have a cat myself (or any pet, really) I do understand they are very good companions. Other than my brother's pet Scabbers, I've noticed Hogwarts doesn't have a significant rodent infestation. I expect that's because Mrs. Norris is an exceptionally good cat, and I am sorry my actions robbed you time with her.
Ginny frowned at what she'd written. It seemed so inadequate.
With a frustrated huff, she dipped her quill again.
I'm including in this letter a present for Mrs. Norris, to say I'm sorry to her as well. My mum likes to knit. There are always little scraps of wool that are too small to use in a sweater, so I tied them all together and wound them up for a yarn ball. I hear cats enjoy yarn balls.
Ginny frowned at the yarn, which was most definitely not sphere-shaped.
I realize that it's a bit lumpy, but I hope Mrs. Norris won't mind.
Your friend,
Ginny Weasley
Reading it over quickly for spelling mistakes, Ginny folded up the letter and addressed the front. She then dug through her trunk again to find a small box that her Mum had used to send Ginny extra mittens last October. It was only bashed in slightly on one corner from where it crashed into the breakfast table after Errol had dropped it. Hopefully Mr. Filch wouldn't hold that against her.
Ginny raised her head to see the sky had moved from the pitch black of night to the velvety indigo of two or three in the morning. She'd give the package to Errol in the morning, after she was released from her room.
In the meantime, Ginny eyed her wrinkled list and drew a careful line through the name of the cat.
Ginny's eyes flittered over the next point on the list, because she didn't quite know yet how she was going to make amends to a bunch of dead roosters. Instead, she considered the final name on the list, with dread.
She owed Harry an apology. She owed him her life; he had saved it after all.
Of course, the last time she had written Harry, a singing dwarf tackled him and yelled her ridiculous poem in his face. The only person more humiliated than Harry had been Ginny.
Ginny tapped the name in thought, an anxious feeling filling her chest. Would Harry seriously want to hear from her, anyway?
A letter from Ginny, at this point, would likely make him uncomfortable. Like a Valentine with multiple Engorgement charms. Amends, she thought with a dejected sigh, were supposed to make the other person feel better, not worse.
Ginny rubbed her eyes, trying to get rid of the frustrated aches. Whatever she did or said felt so inadequate. All of these stupid apology letters weren't actually going to make anything better. She didn't even know why she was bothering.
She didn't know whether she was writing them for the people she had hurt, or whether she was writing them for herself.
As if a bit of ink on parchment was enough to deserve forgiveness for something so awful.
Pitching the quill in her trunk, she slammed it shut. Wadding up her list of names, she chucked that into the small waste bin and curled up on her bed.
Ginny glanced at the moon, its feeble light filtering through the window. About four more hours until the house woke.
It occurred to her; she should probably have Dad charm the bushes below the window. She was on the second floor of the Burrow; Tom hadn't taken much notice or care with bumps, bruises or breaks.
After all, it wasn't really his body.
Yes, she would ask Dad, beg him if needed, to charm below the window.
Just in case Tom wasn't really gone.
()()()
()()()
"It's not Boxing Day," Ginny grumbled, pushing a pea around her plate. "It's not Easter. Furthermore, the last time we were summoned for 'Prewett Tea', she told me my knees were knobby and I had to sit at the child's table," she reminded everyone. "By myself."
Her Mum and Dad exchanged the sort of glance Ginny had become accustomed to over the summer. Ginny liked to think of it as the What-Are-We-Supposed-To-Do-With-Her look.
Her brothers should have been laughing that Ginny got stuck having to go to Aunt Muriel's. There should have been ribbing and jokes at her expense. Instead, they all looked guilty.
"I could," Percy cleared his throat. "I could help Ginny study for those exams she needs to take, instead. She- "
"Or-" Fred chimed in, "she could help us with the chores."
"Right," George added. "Chicken coop day. It's- "
"I'd rather visit the old bat," Ginny sneered, angry they'd put her with chickens. Though she knew it wasn't their fault. They didn't know about pecked wrists and dead roosters, but Ginny couldn't help but feel resentful that they didn't just know.
"Ginny could stay and play a round of chess with me?" Ron offered. "That would more- "
Ginny slammed her hands onto the table. "No, I don't want to study classes I already should know or get stuck scooping chicken poop while Fred and George goof off." Then, she whipped around to Ron. "And no. No, I don't want to play chess. In case you haven't noticed, I don't like chess. Nobody likes chess. The only reason anybody plays chess with you is they feel bad that it's the only thing you're good at."
"Ginny." Her Dad said nothing but her name, but the disappointment in his tone was unmistakable.
"Sorry." She wasn't, but an apology was expected.
"At least I'm good at something," Ron muttered.
"Ron." Her Dad snapped, a second time.
"Sorry,' Ron mumbled, equally sincere.
And that's how Ginny found herself staring up the long walkway toward the imposing manor house that her Dad always grumbled was "too grand for just one person." The gravel crunched under Ginny's feet as she and her Mum made their approach.
Like a march toward detention, Ginny thought, dragging her feet. Literally.
"Ginny, it's only an hour and she wanted to see you specifically." her Mum said, voice firm under the fake enthusiasm. The fake enthusiasm was a bit of a clue that her Mum wasn't too excited about teatime with Aunt Muriel either, and thought Ginny wouldn't notice.
Her Mum just pattered on. "It'll be just fine, Ginny. Lovely even. It's been ages since we've had a real ladies tea."
"You hate formal tea," Ginny said, tired of being treated as if she had no brain.
"I do not."
"Right. Because we have formal tea at the Burrow every second Thursday," Ginny said sarcastically. The only times they had anything remotely like formal tea at the Burrow were in situations that required teacups as calming props. Tea at the Burrow? Administered in tandem with lectures or advice or as something to do with one's hands when recovering from whatever Fred and George did to fray nerves on any particular day.
Yet her Mum had a fake smile pasted on her face to portray fake excitement about stupid tea.
No one was real anymore. Ginny wasn't real, her family wasn't real, they just adopted that same faked enthusiasm for almost every conversation these days.
But, as if to prove Ginny's mental monologue wrong in an expert display of Mum-Can-Legilimens-Without-Even-Pulling-Out-Her-Wand, her Mum got real. ""You've barely left your room in weeks. There's nothing wrong with a change of scenery."
Ginny bit her tongue to keep from snapping that that was categorically untrue. The Chamber of Secrets qualified as a "change of scenery" and there was definitely something wrong there.
Being dumped in a rubbish bin qualified as a change of scenery. Nothing right about that, she thought crossly.
Swamp full of kappas. Definitely a change of scenery. Totally pleasant for a day trip, if one felt like being strangled, and then drained of all blood.
With more and more frequency, Ginny found herself mentally screaming at all the rubbish her family kept saying to her: "You'll feel better after some time has passed." "Sunshine lightens up any mood." "You don't need a charm on the window."
They didn't know that, Ginny rebelled. Why did they keep saying things to her that were just… wrong? Wrong wrong wrong. Sometimes she felt like she would just explode with the nonsense of it all.
Which made her feel like a monster or some sort of changeling.
And, in yet another maternal display of I-Know-What-You're-Thinking, her Mum's hand reached out to Ginny's in comfort.
Ginny's hand flinched. She tried to cover up the harshness of the reflex by pretending to smooth the wrinkles out of the front of her sundress.
"Oh, let me charm that straight for you- "
"I'm fine, Mum," she said. Ginny was a little proud she said it in a calm tone even though she wanted to scream that wrinkles on a sundress weren't the worst thing that could happen to a person.
Her Mum performed the charm anyway.
Ginny held her arms out while her Mum did both sides. "It'll just get wrinkled again when she banishes me off to the child's table. That table is sized for house elves," Ginny grumbled. Because grumbling, at least, was "normal" and unleashing her inner monster was not. "Last time my 'knobby knees' kept bumping into it. I almost knocked it over."
"Ginny- "
"Twice," Ginny couldn't resist adding.
They traversed the rest of the walk in strained silence, shadowed by perfectly manicured topiaries on either side of the path.
As they reached the door, Ginny allowed herself to suffer through her Mum's fussing. "I don't know how much longer this one will hold out," her Mum muttered, flicking her wand at Ginny's collar. It was her best dress, usually worn for holidays and Aunt Muriel visits. The hem had been transfigured for length so many times it was getting ragged at the bottom.
"All the better for her to be able to criticize my knobby knees," Ginny muttered.
"You're eleven. Your knees are supposed to be knobby."
"Tell that to Aunt Muriel."
Molly closed her eyes and Ginny could see her mentally counting. "Ginny. We have been invited- "
"-to your Auntie's house for tea," Ginny droned. "Auntie Muriel lives alone and she's lonely and being lonely can make even the nicest person grumpy."
"Right," Molly said firmly, and knocked on the door which caused the whole house to start chiming.
"And Auntie Muriel didn't start out as the nicest person, so her grumpy is even grumpier than most," Ginny muttered under her breath, forgetting her Mum was capable of hearing a cricket hiccup beneath a silencing charm with her Overpowered Mum Ears.
"Remember your manners," Molly hissed, and stood up straighter as she waited for the door to open.
"Auntie Muriel never remembers her manners," Ginny hissed back. "She's- "
Still fidgeting with her skirt, Ginny was caught mid-sentence when Tildy waved open the door. "Mistress Muriel asks Tildy to welcome Mistress Molly Prewett and Miss Ginevra kindly to Prewett Afternoon Tea. Mistress Muriel also asks Tildy to reminds you to wipe your feets so you do not track in nasty mud full of poultry droppings on the carpets."
Ginny shot a told-you-so look at her Mum, who rolled her eyes and made a show of wiping her mud-free feet before following Tildy to the parlour.
Ginny purposefully shuffled her feet behind her Mum.
She really wished Auntie Muriel's house was as horrid as Auntie Muriel. In contrast to the grumpy old bat who lived there, the house was a lovely place with lots of rich carpets and warm light. The grand staircase smelled of lemon polish and Ginny remembered how much trouble she and Ron once got in for sliding down it while Fred and George timed them.
Funny but not funny, in retrospect. Getting in trouble for sliding down a banister when the real danger was diaries.
Tildy herded Ginny and her Mum through a set of double paneled doors to Auntie Muriel's windowed parlour, which was already set for tea.
Ginny nudged her Mum to draw her attention to the child's table off in the corner, with a tight-lipped "told you so."
Mum and Auntie Muriel exchanging pleasantries. Ginny ignored them, instead shoving her hand in her pocket to finger the Gobstone there. She found it helped to worry the thing when she couldn't sleep.
"-indeed, Ginevra? Ginevra!"
Ginny jerked to attention. "Hello Auntie Muriel," she said. "Thank you for inviting us to tea," she added as a concession to manners.
Auntie Muriel ignored Ginny's manners. Instead, Ginny's stately Aunt rose, leaning on her cane.
She didn't need it, Ginny knew. She just liked it for affect.
Also, Ginny suspected she enjoyed banging it on the floor to get the attention of various family members or unsuspecting shop keepers. There were worse reasons to carry around a cane, Ginny supposed. Too bad a person had to be a thousand years old to pull it off.
Aunt Muriel made her way to Ginny (not putting weight on that cane, Ginny noticed) and narrowed her beady wrinkled eyes at her great-niece's child. "Ginevra. You look peaky."
"Sorry Auntie Muriel," Ginny said, because her Mum was standing there and expected it.
"Prewetts don't get peaky. Prewetts are sturdy."
"I'm a Weasley," said Ginny. For the millionth time in her short life.
"Nonsense, girl." Auntie Muriel waved her hand dismissively. "Weasleys are boys. Everyone knows that. And gingers."
"Oh sweet Merlin, Auntie," Molly grumbled.
"They are," Auntie Muriel insisted. "Ginevra isn't a ginger, she's a redhead. Gingers have that awful pinky skin. Ginevra is pasty. Not pinky. Redhead."
While Aunt Muriel rolled the 'r', Ginny made eye contact with her Mum, hoping for some cue as to whether or not she was required to say, "thank you."
"Although," Auntie Muriel continued as she waved her wand. An ancient looking pair of spectacles appeared on her nose. "Prewetts are sturdier. I see you haven't done anything about those knees."
Ginny made a point to look down at them. "I asked them to be less knobby. They've been unresponsive."
"Oh, Ginny," her Mum muttered, and plopped down wearily in one of the seats next to the tea tray.
"Hmmm, sass." Auntie Muriel narrowed her eyes even more. "Sass is Prewett. But careful girl. It's also Black. Blacks. Dark wizards, sass, small bones."
"Arthur's mother wasn't dark," Molly objected, "She ran an orphanage for stray kneazles!"
"She had small bones though. There is absolutely no denying that."
Ginny made mental note that when weighing sass, a penchant for evil, and small bones, it was small bones that were the greatest of the three sins.
"A strong breeze could have whisked Cedrella away, even when weighed down by all that horrible kneazle hair. Didn't Ginevra have some sort of broom kafuffle? Hmmm. Small bones. Susceptible to breezes." She stared down her nose at Ginny again, trying to appear as if she weren't trying to look inside Ginny's ear. "Is Ginevra still possessed, Molly?"
Struck speechless, Ginny's jaw dropped.
Ginny could tell her Mum was equally ruffled, because Molly began to fuss with the spoons on the tea table. "Of course she's not possessed!" Molly gestured wildly. "Ginny is perfectly fine, we've put the whole thing behind us, and-and everybody's fine! Fine!"
"You are an atrocious liar, Molly Prewett," Aunt Muriel sighed. "Ginevra? You have my permission to draw upon your dark Black heritage in situations where a lie is crucial to survival. Alas, Prewetts lack the skill."
Ginny opened her mouth to object, but Auntie Muriel rolled right ahead.
"Truly! If we Prewetts were better liars, there might be more of us among the living. Ginevra? If you are seeking to add something useful to the family line, I recommend you cultivate the Black ability to tell a convincing falsehood."
Ginny was tempted to tell Auntie Muriel where she could stuff her cane. However, out the corner of her eye she caught a glance of her Mum's Be-The-Bigger-Person-Don't-Be-Rude-Or-There'll-Be-No-Pudding look.
Resigned, Ginny managed a meek, "Yes, Auntie Muriel."
"I trust you will remember in the future, Prewetts do not get possessed."
Molly had enough. "Oh, for heaven's sake, Auntie!" she grumbled as Tildy popped in to serve the tea.
Ginny shot her Mum an I-Told-You-We-Should-Have-Waited-Until-Boxing-Day look, but her Mum did not seem to understand the subtleties of body language.
Instead Molly put her foot down. "I don't believe we need to discuss possession in front of Ginny. At tea, of all things."
Aunt Muriel wasn't finished, though. "Don't coddle the girl, Molly Prewett, I trust you understand, Ginevra? Have you been paying attention at all?"
"Yes," Ginny snapped. "Less sass, bigger bones, don't get possessed."
"Exactly. Possession is distasteful, Ginevra. It's simply not done."
"Right."
"A second cousin on my mother's side once got possessed. Spent almost a whole year speaking gibberish to citrus trees she had imported from Genoa."
"Noted." Ginny was approaching furious. "Less sass, bigger bones, don't get possessed, avoid citrus."
"Excellent." Auntie Muriel plopped down in the chair opposite Molly. "Aside from a bit of lemon for tea, citrus is overrated."
Ginny glared at her.
"It's the pulp," Auntie Muriel added. "Distasteful."
"Which is more distasteful?" Ginny pretended to wonder. "Pulp or possession? Is there a rubric?"
"That was sass, don't think I didn't notice." Aunt Muriel sniffed. "Tildy? Ginevra has made adequate conversation with the adults, and now needs an escort to her age-appropriate table."
Ginny tried to make eye contact with her Mum again, but her Mum was feigning interest in the china pattern.
"Also!" Aunt Muriel banged her cane on the floor. "Please ensure the appropriate amount of lemon slices are set for her tea. The shape of Ginevra's mouth is acceptable. We can't have her ruining it by excess-citrus-induced puckering."
Her Mum shut her eyes, as if she were forming a Muriel-sized headache.
Good. Her Mum deserved it for dragging them both out to Prewett Tea instead of pretending the entire family was under quarantine due to Dragon Pox exposure.
Of course, her Mum was a Prewett and therefore a terrible liar. She wouldn't have been able to manage the ruse.
"Tildy?" Aunt Muriel shouted, even though Tildy was only a few steps away. "Ginevra looks peaky. Please move her table out to the patio. The fresh air will do her good."
Ginny caught her mum's eye and mouthed, aghast, "outside?"
Her Mum had the decency to look embarrassed.
"But the shady side of the patio, Tildy! Ginevra hardly needs more freckles." Aunt Muriel shooed her hands toward her elf, including Ginny in the gesture. "Off you go."
Suppressing a scream of exasperation, Ginny spun and stomped her way across the room, through the doors, and onto the side terrace. Tildy was floating the small table to a stop, settling it close to the tall open window.
Ginny noticed that the exceedingly short table, with it's single-serving tea service, was delicately painted with pink roses.
Absurdly, the window was wide open. Banishing Ginny to the courtyard did nothing to keep her from hearing grown-up conversation.
"…and then I told that..."
Ginny tried to tune her out, though. She considered stuffing her fingers in her ears.
Blah-blah. Chatter-chatter. Blah.
With an annoyed huff, Ginny plunked herself down in the short chair with the stubby legs. Instead of trying to fit her knees beneath the child's table, Ginny shoved her ankles out in front of her.
"… and after that, Molly, well, I just couldn't hear…"
Ginny wished she couldn't hear. She snatched up the tiny teapot and splashed some tea into her cup. Then, she eyed the small dish of appropriately sized lemon slices.
Lemon slices. Full of distasteful pulp. A dangerous hazard to perfectly unpuckered Prewett mouths.
In a fit of pique, Ginny snatched two. She layered them on top of the other. With a spiteful chomp, she bit down.
She immediately regretted it.
"Oh!" Ginny's whole damned freckled face puckered around the sour fruit. "Buggerbuggerbuggerbuggerbugger!"
Her Aunt's voice soared through the window. "What was that Ginevra?"
With a yellow rind grimace, Ginny glared at the window, immensely grateful for the draperies. "Nothing Auntie Muriel." Ginny called out, smacking her lips as they formed a second-round pucker. "Um, there's a… bug? A bug out here. It's gone now."
"Excellent work, Ginevra," her Aunt's approval saturated those draperies. "Prewetts are resourceful! Unless you stomped it to death, that would be the Black influence."
Spitting out the lemon rind, Ginny downed her tea in the rudest gulp she could manage. Then she abandoned the stupid child table and ducked low beneath the windowsill. She flipped over onto her bum and lay on the ground, her legs propped up on the wall.
If they were going to talk loud enough that she couldn't help but listen, she might as well be comfortable.
"- it's hardly common knowledge, but the- "
Ginny drew the Gobstone out her pocket and aimed it at her foot. With a flick, it flew toward her right foot beneath the sill, hit it with a smack, and ricocheted back to her hand.
She did it again with her left foot.
"- he and the Minister were discussing- "
Ginny had met Minister Fudge once. Wore stupid hats.
Right foot.
Flick.
Smack.
Catch.
Left foot.
Flick.
"- well, you know the Malfoys- "
Smack.
Oh yes. Ginny knew the Malfoys, she thought. Much better than her Mum did. The son was a total git and the father-
"-oh stop it, Molly. There's peaky, and there's peaky- "
And then, Ginny thought at Level Maximum Sarcasm, there's "peaky with knobby knees and freckles."
Inside of left foot. Ricochet to right foot. Bounce to Non-Dominant Hand.
"- the Malfoy's are spewing rubbish about rogue house-elves with dark artifacts. Still, their charm offensive has been effective in some circles. Those circles talk and Ginevra, unfortunately is infamous. She needs a fresh start."
Wait a moment.
It took just a breath for Ginny to realize they were talking about her.
The Gobstone fell from Ginny's fingers and clattered on the patio stone as it rolled away from her.
"Swallow your pride, Molly Prewett. I will pay for it. A fresh start at Beauxbatons would be far more beneficial to the girl than hustling her back off to Scotland- "
Beauxbatons?
France?
"Now, Auntie! Hogwarts is the best- "
"-poppycock. The only thing wrong with Beauxbatons is it happens to be full of French people."
"Because it's in France!"
"Ginevra will adjust."
"Her brothers- "
"-her brothers failed to notice she spent half of last year prancing about possessed!"
Beauxbatons?
Her Aunt wanted her Mum to yank Ginny out of Hogwarts, and ship her off to France?
"-batons she could have a fresh start. Do her first year all over again with none the wiser."
No.
Her Mum wouldn't even consider it.
"-need to discuss it with Arthur- "
Wait…
What?
France?
A couple summer birds trilled in one of the nearby shrubs. Ginny focused on that sound so she wouldn't have to hear her Mum discussing outright banishment.
Rolling over, Ginny crawled away to the edge of the courtyard in order to avoid even the slightest chance of being seen. When the window was out of sight, Ginny stumbled to her feet.
Her eyes devoured the landscape before her. Lush, manicured grounds rolled away from the manor, stretching off into the tree-lined distance.
As if sleepwalking, Ginny stepped out onto the grounds, her only coherent thought being, "fly away."
Away from the tea. Away from the barbs. Fly away from the adults talking about her, not to her.
Heart pounding, Ginny started to run.
Fly away from the brothers who couldn't be bothered to notice her when she was drowning.
Away from the textbooks she hadn't opened and the lemon slices that puckered her face.
With every beat of her feet on the damp ground, Ginny pushed faster, and faster. Her flat shoes flew off her feet as her legs pumped and Ginny didn't care. Because maybe, maybe if she could just run fast enough, the wind would blow through her hair. If she could run fast enough, she could close her eyes and maybe, just maybe, it would feel like flying.
If she could fly, she could escape. She could escape all of it. She'd be free and she could breathe again. Just like she used to, above the world, bobbing in the air, the clean fresh release of freedom.
She yearned to fly again, the helpless ache one might feel for an amputated limb.
Instead, she pumped her legs faster, her lungs beginning to burn, her feet slapping on the grass.
She leaped over rocks. Bunnies scampered out of her way. Birds screeched from the woods beyond, and Ginny's legs only slowed when Ginny could no longer breathe enough air to keep going.
She had no idea how far she'd gone. Hunched over, with her hands on her knees, Ginny gasped for breath. Her armpits felt sticky, and she gulped air as she twisted to peer down the rise. A small dirt road, little more than a path, led from the main house in the distance, to the nearby outbuildings on the lower property.
A small, fenced paddock lay on the other side of the rise, nestled up against a well-kept, but quite old looking, stone stable of sorts. Likely something for animals, similar to structures Charlie showed them in Romania where they would house sick or baby dragons to shelter them.
Ginny stared into the paddock, unoccupied save for a single horse that ambled round and round in a circle that went nowhere.
They don't want you, Ginny. You're not their Ginny anymore.
Agitated, Ginny glared at the horse. Without deciding to, Ginny feet drew her closer to the small area.
Silly Little Girl.
What was the point of being a horse if all you were going to do was wander in circles behind a fence?
Ginny hadn't ever been around horses, the burrow only had chickens.
Blood, covering her hands…
She squeezed her eyes shut against the memory, but a blazing sense of ire knocked the breath out of her.
That stupid, stupid horse!
Why? Why just around and around and around in a fucking circle? Why be irrationally, stupidly domesticated within a fence someone stuck it in?
Without warning, Ginny's hand thrust into her pocket, searching for her Gobstone, only to realize she left it up on the patio with the tea and the table and the people who wanted to fence her in France.
With a cry of despair, she lurched down and snatched up a small rock off the dirt path, hurling it at the nearest post. She threw it as if it were a Quaffle, pitching it with all her might.
Then she bent down and found another rock. And another and another.
As the flurries of rocks sailed at the fence she yelled. "Why don't you just leap over the damned fence?"
She ran out of rocks. "No one's here to tell you to go to this school or that school or…or… you're stupid!"
Ginny kicked the fence.
The ache in her toe made her feel alive for a moment, so she kicked it again.
And again.
And again and again and again.
Ginny was yelling and didn't rightly care the horse had stopped circling and was watching her with increasing restlessness.
Ginny kicked the cursed fence again. Her arms felt an electric tingle that zinged and zapped. She yelled and cursed and hissed at the paddock gate.
With a rusty clank, the gate flew wide, smacking with such force against the fence that it knocked one of the hinges off.
Ginny froze, mouth open and then a bitter laugh rasped up her throat. Rattling more doors and gates with her stupid accidental magic. She'd broken it. The gate now hung at a rather drunken angle, the bottom corner digging into the damp ground.
Accidental, uncontrollable magic. Like a toddler.
Another reason to feel humiliated.
Another reason to ship her off to a land of strangers.
With that defeated thought, Ginny's fury, a fury that was keeping her upright, abandoned her. She sank to the muddy ground, empty and hollow.
Beauxbatons.
Wearily, Ginny lifted a hand and grasped the wood post next to her. How, she thought with a rueful sort of misery, how was she was going to explain the broken gate to her Aunt?
A soft chuff startled her, Ginny's gaze flying to the horse.
That horse was no longer staring at Ginny, though. It had not resumed its circling, after Ginny's tantrum.
No, it stood quite still. As the broken gate creaked in the breeze, the horse's muscles grew tense.
Alert.
Ginny stilled, afraid to move, as the horse shifted its gaze back toward the stable.
Somewhat furtively.
Like it was contemplating stealing its brother's broom.
Ginny's breath caught.
One breath. Two…
Like an arrow, the horse shot through the gate. It didn't spare a glance for the path, instead galloping across the meadow, up the rise towards the horizon.
It flew, devouring the terrain beneath its unencumbered legs. Ginny would have sworn it went as fast as a broom, though she knew it wasn't, not truly. Its legs blurred and Ginny ached.
The horse flew to its freedom.
But Ginny remained huddled on the ground.
()()()
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Bare feet below a faded nightgown
The soft slap as they pat through the shallow puddles of water
Finally….
Eyes landing on the third faucet
Open….
Hssssss athaaaaaa thssssssssss
The door slid open, the darkness beyond beckoning
Ginny shot out of bed, gasping. She tripped over her unopened books, crashing into her door. With a panicked yank on the knob, she stumbled across the hall into the bathroom.
Lurching for the sink-
Snake on the third faucet
-Ginny yanked the tap-
The Burrow's old pipes sputtered and hissed
-splashing water on her face, desperate to awaken from her nightmare.
Face wet, she lifted her chin and caught the reflection of her ashen face.
Just a dream. It was just a dream.
But, trembling, she opened her throat to speak the words.
"Hssssss athaaaaaa thssssssssss"
Her hands slapped over her mouth; her shocked eyes reflected back at her in the mirror.
"Ginny?"
Ginny became aware of the thundering of feet on the stairs, from below and above.
"Ginny? Ginny are you alright?" Her Mum's voice sounded far, far away.
She had hissed at the paddock gate, and it had opened.
"Accidental magic," Ginny whispered, the reflection of her brown eyes growing more and more panicked.
Was it Accidental magic?
Or was it something else?
"Ginny?"
Her name echoed in the silent bathroom.
Silence.
Thrusting the fear aside for a moment, Ginny registered the silence.
She had opened her bedroom door. She hadn't even needed to unlock it.
Why hadn't it been locked?
Where were the motion sensors? Where were the alarms?
Why didn't they understand it was for them?
It wasn't safe for them.
"Ginny? We heard you, another nightmare?" Her Mum's voice, tentative in the hall.
With weary resignation, Ginny opened the bathroom door. Her Mum, Dad, Percy, the twins, even Ron stood there.
Their faces were laced with concern. Guilt. Helplessness.
And Ginny knew they'd never understand. They would refuse to believe she could be touched by evil. They'd refuse to see it up until the moment she hurt them.
They lied to her about the alarms. About the lock. They pretended so she'd feel better. Patronized her. As if it were her feelings that were the issue and not the fact that she couldn't trust her own hands not to strangle them all in their beds.
"Tell Aunt Muriel I'll go to Beauxbatons," she growled. Growls should be fierce. It was pathetic hers sounded so defeated. "I'll go."
If they refused to help her protect them, she'd have to bloody leave.
Because Tom Riddle wasn't really gone.
Tom Riddle would never be gone.
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A/N: The three chapters before this have been sooooooo depressing I haven't been adding notes at the end with a maniacally cheerful "Thanks Amazing Betas!" So please consider this a 4x thanks: I want to shout-out to my sister, who doesn't have an account name but is twice the writer I could ever aspire to be. She has spent countless hours brainstorming early drafts with me about Hinny, which is generous because it's not her fandom, not her ship. The amazing ginnyweasley777 and Curse-04 have been instrumental in giving me feedback as to whether any of those brainstormed ideas are actually coming to fruition in the text. Thank you all, so much. I do reply to comments, but ffn doesn't let us reply to comments from non-accounts so I just wanted to say: your reviews have meant the world to me, I appreciate you taking the time to comment and for your emotional investment in this version of Ginny.
No new chapter next week, but I'll be back in 2 weeks to start an arc I'm excited about sharing. Thank you all for reading!