Quidditch Is For Losers

by SloeGinFizz

Ginny Weasley's Ultimate Awesome Life Plan - 1: Go To Hogwarts and Be Better Than Ron at Everything. 2: Become Youngest House Player In A Century. 3: Be Best Friends with Harry Potter. Order of accomplishment may vary because: Pfft. Details. But sometimes, life decides to bollocks up Ginny's plans. Slow burn Hinny.

17. New Plan

"Now, don't be nervous, Ginny."

"I'm not nervous, Dad." Ginny squinted up at the sliver of gray sky she could spy between the overhanging buildings of Diagon Alley, getting a spray of London drizzle in her face for her effort. "I'm not fragile. Everything's fine, life is fine - post-Egypt floo-jag notwithstanding - I have a plan, plan begins with breakfast scones." Ginny grinned. "See? Nothing at all to be nervous about."

"Right. About that…."

A flock of owls launched from the Daily Prophet office across the street, blackening the alley as they flew in all directions, the morning edition on the way to the porches of sleeping wizards across the country.

Ginny's grin faded as she glanced at him with suspicion. "You lured me out of the nice warm Leaky with the promise of fresh scones. I worked those scones into my plan. I never wrote Harry Potter an apology letter. So, Ginny Weasley's 'Start as You Mean to Go' Plan begins with an in-person, blush-free apology accompanied by 'so sorry I almost killed you' scones."

"Blush-free?"

"If we ply him with delicious scones before he's entirely awake, maybe he'll drool or dribble. I'll be so grossed out it will even the playing field."

After several international floo delays the Weasleys had arrived back at the Burrow just in time to clear out their trunks, repack them for the Hogwarts Express, and floo over to the Leaky where they got a complimentary night paid by the ministry because Harry had blown up his aunt.

Why these two things were related, Ginny had no bloody idea because no one ever told her anything.

"They're all likely to have a lie-in, the train doesn't leave until eleven." Her Dad muttered, as he paused in front of a discreet door. "Here we are."

"Now I'm nervous," Ginny blinked. The door was the kind Ginny would never have noticed, squished between two darkened windows, each with an untended flower box full of dead leaves. "Not a bakery. Where's the glass window featuring rows and rows of delicious breakfast breads?"

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you- "

Ginny backed away from the door, taking in her Dad's guilty expression. "Dad, I had a plan. Ginny Weasley's 'Get Through the Year Without Unpredictable Surprises' Plan. Let's not deviate from the plan, it starts with clotted cream and jam."

"This is a good surprise!" Her Dad exclaimed with the kind of faux enthusiasm that parents used when trying to convince their children that mucking out the chicken coop or sorting a bin of orphaned socks was fun-times-for-all.

Ginny knew better. At least her Dad had the decency to look sheepish as he knocked on the door with businesslike determination. "Professor Dumbledore and I thought you'd like to get it over with before catching the train at eleven. This way you won't have to worry about it."

"Worry about what?" Ginny was already adjusting to the bleak lack of blue sky and cheerful birds. She was supposed to be basking in birdsong and popcorn clouds this morning, according to The Plan. "Get what over with?"

But he didn't have time to answer. The nondescript door swung open to reveal a small house-elf with a clipboard and spectacles. "Welcome to the Hogwarts Liaison Office."

Her Dad respectfully took off his cap and said, "Arthur Weasley and Miss Ginevra Weasley are here to see Albus Dumbledore."

Ginny's head spun toward her Dad. "What the f- "

Accompanied by the Weasley Warning Eyebrow, her Dad's hand positioned itself in front of her mouth. Right. Bad habit, she knew. "What the f-f-f- fffffffffffriendliest looking elf ever," Ginny amended. "That's what I was going to say," she lied.

"And I can't prove otherwise," her Dad said, pretending to believe her. The eyebrow softened and his eyes lit with that crinkly, twinkling thing she hadn't seen from him in ages. She hadn't realized how much she had missed it, though his next words banished her moment of nostalgia. "Professor Dumbledore is going to personally administer your exams."

"Wait! That's not the plan! I was going to take the exams this evening during the feast and sorting," she reminded him. "That was a perfect plan because I wouldn't have to attend the feast and sorting! And- and, oh! Fred and George and Ron were going to review with me on the train and - "

"The twins and Ron said you are more than prepared. This way you get it over with, hop on the train with no worries, start fresh." His eyes dimmed. "Dumbledore is going to make sure you start the year off just right, exactly like your plan."

The house-elf cleared his throat. "I's been expecting you. Please enter, Mister Arthur Weasley, and Miss Ginevra Weasley."

They stepped into the office, only a single room with a couple benches and a desk where several quills scribbled on memo-sized pieces of parchment. On one wall was a person-sized landscape of one of those old religious retreats where wizards would contemplate their existence while practicing their non-verbal spellcasting on unsuspecting goats. Above the large fireplace with the requisite row of floo powder jars on the mantle, hung a colorful Hogwarts crest.

"Miss Ginevra Weasley will wait here," the house-elf said.

"I can't believe you tricked me with a pre-dawn scone hunt." Ginny muttered with disgruntled resignation. "Exams. Right now. With Professor Dumbledore, of all people, no pressure. Doesn't he have anything better to do?"

Her Dad was very sweet and all, but Ginny didn't believe for a moment this was Professor Dumbledore's idea. This was the kind of idea a Not-Best Brother would suggest and Dumbledore would nod absently and say "yes, yes, of course" and then forget because the latest episode of 'Whither the Withered Wizard Wanders' was on the wireless.

And Ginny knew her assessment was quite correct when the house-elf interrupted. "Professor Dumbledore sends his regrets. An exam proctor will be arriving any moment."

"An exam proctor?" Her Dad looked surprised before he schooled his features into an interested expression. "Professor Dumbledore said- "

"Professor Dumbledore is quite important."

Ginny snorted.

"Professor Dumbledore had every intention of administering the young lady's exams- "

Ginny bit her lip.

"But Headmaster Dumbledore was unexpectedly detained."

"By what?" Ginny asked.

"By the needs to hire a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor before the term starts."

Ginny gave her Dad the side-eye and muttered out the corner of her mouth, "Told you. Fifty foot snake. Wide corridors. Literally drooled poison. Neeeeeeeeeeeeeever noticed."

Her Dad choked on a laugh. Probably felt guilty for that, so he reminded her "Dumbledore is the greatest wizard of our time."

"He'd need to be the greatest wizard, to conjure a DADA professor out of the ether a few hours before term starts." She mentally demoted Dumbledore to third string Beater on Ron's fantasy Quidditch team.

While her Dad meant well, Ginny couldn't help but feel she was being thrown into a Quidditch match without taking a warm-up lap, or having a uniform, or remembering what a Quaffle was supposed to look like. Like she was living one of those quaint nightmares she used to have before she had graduated to real ones.

Lucky her.

Ginny tried to shake the thought from her head. "Are, uh - will you be staying here the whole time, Dad?"

"No, Miss Weasley," the house-elf interjected. "Your exam will be monitored by the proctor, no other help is allowed."

Her Dad cleared his throat. "Then, I will return to pick up Ginny in- "

"Four hours and sixteen minutes was the allotted time, sir. That gives Miss Weasley forty-four minutes to get to King's Cross for the Hogwarts Express."

As Dad fluttered and fussed like Mum checking scarves and galoshes in winter, Ginny wondered if forty-four minutes was enough time to catch a train, apologize to Harry Potter in the manner he deserved and still grab a snack.

The tiny bell above the door gave an anemic ding with her father's exit. Ginny sighed and sat down on a small bench facing the elf. "Should I do anything- "

Before Ginny could get the rest of her sentence out, the fireplace flashed with green flame. With a lurch and stumble, a pile of scrolls fluttered into the room, promptly snatched back by elbows because the hands were already clutching three quills in one hand and a bottle of… something in the other. Frizzy hair rose with audible static above the scrolls as they surrendered to gravity. They tumbled to the ground as the person below the frizzy hair extended her elbows to pat her robes in search of a wand. Finding it behind an ear, she waved the wand with a floppy-wristed flourish. In response, the scrolls shot to the ceiling with a flapping smack before they drunkenly piled themselves onto the desk.

"Open your inner eye," the frizzy-haired witch sang toward the dusty ceiling lamp, "and perceive the answers before you."

She then lowered her gaze, blinking at Ginny from behind glasses so thick her eyes appeared the size of goose eggs.

Then she took a swig from her bottle.

"I am Professor Trelawney," the witch continued, in a dreamy-yet-dramatic tone. "And I have been entrusted by Headmaster Dumbledore to proctor your exams for the subjects you failed so disastrously which includes…" she pulled out a small list from her sleeve, holding it close to her face before tossing it over her shoulder, "… the entirety of the first year curriculum."

The woman made a tsk-tsk sound with her tongue.

Ginny fervently, desperately wished her Dad hadn't left the room. "You're the divination Professor."

Professor Trelawney gasped. "Yes… you… do you believe you have," her voice lowered to a dramatic contralto, "the gift?"

The drama, however, was ruined by her subsequent hiccup.

Laugh, scream or cry, Ginny had no idea how she was supposed to react. Flattened by the realization she and her brothers had taken this whole exam thing far more seriously than Dumbledore, Ginny was almost knocked over by the exam proctor's fumes. There was no way that bottle contained a socially acceptable breakfast beverage.

"So," Ginny said, carefully. "Am I supposed to- "

The house-elf snapped his fingers and a student-sized desk appeared in front of Ginny's bench. Several quills and an ink pot followed, along with an astronomy chart on the wall, and a portable potions table in the corner. "If there is anything else needed, do not hesitate to call for Blintz."

"I do not foresee needing anything other than… oh… wait. I see… I see… something circular… a bit crunchy…. yet not unpleasantly so… something buttery? No, perhaps sweet…" Trelawney smacked her lips together several times, her head bobbing in the air as if she were trying to hear a voice from beyond.

"Biscuits?" Ginny said, deadpan. "Are you foreseeing biscuits?"

"No… no…. I see…" Trelawney's eyes popped open, two humongous marbles behind glass. "Oh. Yes. Biscuits."

The elf snapped his fingers and a small plate of biscuits appeared with a side table next to the floo. With a bow and a final snap, the elf left the room.

"At last!" The Professor cried, pulling a scroll from her stack. "Miss Wees… wees… um…"

"Weasalini. If you say it three times fast, sometimes a circular crunchy pizza appears."

The Professor ignored Ginny and raised her hands in the air. "Your exams shall begin…" she trailed off, her head tilted slightly to the side swaying in the non-existent wind. "Not yet… not yet… not… yes. Now. Your exams begin now."

The scroll in her hand flew to Ginny's desk, the words "History of Magic" scribbled on the top.

"When you are finished, you will have a five - no six - a seven-and-a-half minute break. I SHALL grade each exam as you are striving, reaching, streeeeeeeetching for the answers to the subsequent exam- you are going to get the third question on the fourth exam wrong, by the way- until all exams are finished."

Ginny picked up a quill. "Can I start now?"

Instead of a response, the Professor waved her arms again, muttering, "weasaliniweasliniweasalini" three times fast, squinting at a crack in the ceiling as if it were to drop something circular and crunchy.

Blinking away the absurd, Ginny focused on the first question which was straight off of Eargit the Ugly's chocolate frog card. Without too terribly much trouble, she plowed through several subsequent goblin questions, though she began to second guess her answers when the Professor squeezed behind Ginny's bench and peeked over her shoulder.

The Professor sighed heavily and drifted to the center of the room.

Ginny, trying to ignore the cloying scent of incense, turned back to her exam.

Two questions later, the Professor conjured a clock, blinked at it several times before vanishing it again.

Shaking off the distraction, Ginny dipped her quill back in the ink and scribbled "First Goblin War."

The Professor sighed again.

Or was it the Second Goblin War?

The Professor munched into a biscuit.

Or maybe she could just combine the two into a Gigantic Goblin War with a tiny two-hundred-year intermission.

"Stop!" The Professor fluttered her hands beside her face. Ginny paused, her quill poised above the exam scroll. "I see… I see…" Professor Trelawney gasped, her eyes wide as she clutched her throat. "I see danger! You are in danger!"

"Of failing my exam?" Ginny muttered.

With a flick of her wand, the Professor conjured a footstool next to Ginny. She swooped towards it, with a dramatic half-faint. Grasping at Ginny's hand, she yanked it forward with such force Ginny's arm threatened to pop out of her socket. "We must see! What does your fate have in store?"

"Empty exams, obviously," Ginny snapped.

"Shhhhh!" The Professor's head wobbled as she peered at Ginny's palm. "Danger will surround you, but… oh!" She yanked Ginny's arm again, bending her wrist toward the window, which couldn't possibly highlight any lines given it was still gray and drizzly outside. The Professor gasped. "Can it be? What is this?"

"My hand?" Ginny raised an eyebrow.

Dumbledore's substitute (who Ginny mentally assigned to Ron's fantasy Quidditch team next to Dumbledore, she could play Keeper) stuck her nose right into Ginny's palm. "This line indicates you are surrounded by danger… but it also says you pass your exams."

The woman's head popped up and she gifted Ginny a dotty smile.

Ginny blinked. "Uh… good to know, I guess."

The Professor stared at Ginny like that wasn't the response she expected.

Ginny tried again, "Thanks? Takes the pressure off?"

The Professor adopted an expression of pointed disappointment. She tapped Ginny's palm without glancing at it this time. "The second potion you create is slightly saturated, but still within the required parameters to pass."

"My potions do run on the thick side." Ginny said, voice flat.

"So! Given we know the results," the Professor clapped her hands together, as Ginny's palm dropped back to her lap. "All the rest seems redundant, doesn't it?"

Ooooooooooh.

Ginny was ashamed of herself. It didn't usually take her this long to catch on.

Ginny's Best Self began to jump up and down, waving her arms, mouthing the words "no no no." Then it morphed into her mother, jammed its fists on hips and huffed a "don't you dare."

Dumbledore probably hadn't intended Ginny to divine past her exams on a technicality provided by palmistry.

Then again, if Dumbledore gave a shite, he would have come himself.

On the other hand, she was prepared for this. What did Professor Barkers Box say? Become Ginevra, less impulsive, more smart. Exams were a chance to prove she was smart.

Then again, she knew she was smart. Why did she have to prove it?

Also, her Less-Than-Best-Self reminded her (as she casually shoved Ginny's Best Self off an imaginary cliff) Ginny's diary tried to suck out her soul. Maybe the universe owed her one.

Because the smart thing to do when life finally decides to hand a girl a break is fucking take it.

Ginny mentally re-branded. She was now operating within the boundaries of Ginny Weasley's "Sometimes It's Best To Just Shrug and Go With It" Plan.

"Let me see." Ginny's palm slowly rose to her face. She adopted her most studious look as she pretended to examine it. "Does this line right here say I ace DADA? I've been practicing impedimenta for ages now, and it would be good to know if I completely ace the exam beyond all reasonable expectations given that there's no DADA teacher to confirm and my brothers would be so very impressed and also jealous."

The Professor peered at Ginny's hand again before her gaze shifted to the clock. "Hmmm… indeed. I've never seen a score so high. Excellent work," she finished her statement with another hiccup.

"Can I go then?"

"I believe, since it is your destiny, we are finished here! Congratulations Miss Weasalini, I shall encounter you next at Hogwarts. You!" She pointed a finger in Ginny's direction as the exam equipment began whooshing away in a cloud of purple, including Ginny's desk and bench. "You will be surprised and not surprised and delighted but also upset about the unexpected!"

"Hormononees," Ginny said, stumbling as she backed out of the door, unsure how she managed to pull this off and half-afraid someone was going to put a stop to it before she could escape. "Guess I'll, uh, be off, then."

And as the door slammed shut behind her, Ginny's Less-Than-Best-Self scanned a scroll entitled "Useless Idioms for All Occasions" before jabbing the phrase "And that was that."

Ginny imagined her Best Self clinging to the side of that imaginary cliff and mentally offered it a hand, but only before her Less-Than-Best-Self negotiated no-subsequent-lecturing terms.

She knew it wasn't wise to return to the Leaky right away. Having to explain to her Dad and her brothers they had wasted their entire vacation prepping her for an exam that didn't happen was not something she was keen to confess.

Her Best Self reminded Ginny she still needed to hike up those Not Fragile pants, look Harry Potter in the eye and apologize for almost getting him killed. That was the most essential part of her evolving plan, after all.

But it was still early. Both his eyes might not even be open yet. No point in looking someone in the eye if his eyes were closed. Apologizing to Harry's eyelids would be an unforgivable shirking of honor that would violate the sanctity of verbal atonement.

Besides, Diagon trips for the Weasleys had always been about errands and checklists. Ginny's feet longed to meander the cobblestone road, slick with morning damp, so different from the sands in Egypt. She could rationalize it as exercise before being forcibly stuffed onto a train for the rest of the day.

With that heartening new plan, Ginny took off. Weak beams of sunlight failed to cut the cloud cover between Diagon Alley's buildings, but the damp drizzle did nothing to deter merchants as they began to unpack vendor carts along the street.

Ginny lost all sense of time, dodging first an occasional shopper or two, then hurried wizards and witches in search of breakfast on-the-go. Eventually, Ginny had to bob and weave her way through frazzled families as they spilled onto streets pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with Hogwarts-aged students grabbing last minute supplies.

She had her nose pressed up to the glass at Magical Menagerie, hoping to spy cruppies wallowing in adorableness, when the blow came. The cheerful ding-ding of bells that rang over storefronts could not cover the horrified gasp that sucked the wind out of Ginny's lungs.

"Oh Merlin, that's her!" a voice hissed, so loud Ginny could hear it above the flaps and hoots of a pair of owls swooping their way towards Gringotts. "That's the Heir of Slytherin girl! The one who opened the Chamber of Secrets!"

Those owls had swooped low enough to ruffle Ginny's hair, and for a moment she thought the verbal blow was physical, and she didn't understand why she felt the soft tickle of hair settling back around her cheekbone and not the whomping pain of a Beater's bat.

Ginny wrenched her gaze from the crups towards two teenage girls. Already in yellow-tied uniform for the train, they stood beside their mother, a kind-faced woman who nonetheless gasped and-

Did she just cover her children's eyes so they couldn't see Ginny?

The Malfoy's charm offensive has been effective in their circles.

Aunt Muriel's distant echo had warned Ginny's reputation was in tatters. Ginny lurched backwards as if she could retreat into the warmth of cruppies and kneazles. But the glass pane only served as a barrier, pressing the morning chill back into Ginny's body, freezing her beneath its etched words. The family gawked at Ginny, as if she were also a creature in a more dangerous menagerie.

Ginevra, unfortunately is infamous.

No wonder she hadn't received responses to her apology letters. All those letters she sent, all the amends, all the regret and hopes and overtures. Who would believe the Heir of Slytherin's remorse was real? Who would believe a convenient story of possession, when the influential Malfoy family had gracefully weaved a provocative tale threaded with enough truth to cover up their own role in the whole debacle?

Another family paused, puzzled faces assaulted by yellow-tied whispers melting into shocked recognition.

As the crowd grew, crawling shame and guilt skittered across Ginny's skin, like an aimless rampaging filthy cockroach dropping cockroach crap all over her delusional existence. In the spirit of roaches she scurried off, chased away by the hiss of gossip.

The chew marks on her taffy soul formed the phrase Heir of Slytherin as Tom Riddle's silent laughter scarred the inside of her head, even though she knew it was only her.

But it might as well be branded on the outside. Merlin, everyone knew. Everyone.

Heart pounding, Ginny darted across the street. "Notfragilenotfragilenotfragile" she chanted under her breath to the thump of her pulse beat. Dodging street carts, the shouts of hawkers peddling trinkets morphed in Ginny's mind into heckling. Or maybe it wasn't the hawkers, it was the mocking memory of Tom Riddle. Desperate for distance, Ginny bolted all the way to the upper end of the alley before skidding to a stop.

An unhinged hysteria threatened to bubble over as a beam of sunlight shoved through the cloud cover to illuminate the last thing she wanted to see, waiting like a strapped Bludger poised for release.

School robes, slicked platinum hair and a sneering expression as he stared at his pocket watch with impatience, Draco Malfoy paced with an agitated gait beneath the cracked columns looming over the steps of Gringotts as if he resented being late for a train that wouldn't depart for another hour.

Draco snapped to attention when Lucius Malfoy emerged from Gringotts, cascading platinum hair shining against impeccably tailored black robes.

An imperious gaze trapped his son's and he snapped his fingers, summoning Draco in a manner Ginny couldn't imagine from her own Dad. Draco opened his black leather book satchel, Lucius dropping in a lumpy sack Ginny assumed was stuffed with enough galleons to buy half of Honeydukes, followed by a leather book he drew from his robes.

The sight of that man, slipping a book in a bag headed for Hogwarts, made Ginny's stomach tumble and she feared she would retch right there, as if she had been on a broom.

Before she could be seen by the duo, Ginny darted into the nearest shop, gasping panicky breaths as she propped herself against the door.

One moment. One book. One sleight of hand into one second-hand cauldron. One moment was all it took.

"One buggering moment," her whisper a slithering hiss.

One moment and all the make-up exams and the apology letters couldn't erase-

"-elp you?"

"Not acceptable," she pivoted, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried to coach herself back to equilibrium, tried to remember she had a plan. Crashing into the first obstacle was absolutely not the bloody plan. "I'm not fragile. They're all wankers and I am not frag-"

"May I help you?"

Ginny's eyes sprang open, focusing on nothing except the sign before her with words handwritten in aged gold letters Wand: 7 Galleons. "No," she said, in an almost hysterical tone, realizing where she was, realizing she was making a spectacle of herself. "Uh, too pricey for my budget. Gotta go."

She flung herself back out the door and sprinted all the way to the Leaky. Shoving her way through the breakfast crowd before her family could spot her, she found a secluded nook below the stair post. Against the wall she panted, gasping for breath, chiding herself for her panic, her cowardice, her total failure in the face of adversity that wasn't even really adversity, it was just gossip and a glimpse of the… the… stupidarsewankers who….

Ginny growled in frustration, half wanting to kick herself in the bum, while the other half wanted to melt into the floorboards. Witnessing her latest anxiety-fest was the ragged, insane man silently screaming from the wanted poster stuck to the wall opposite.

"Yeah," Ginny snapped at the poster. "I get how you feel."

Plan. The Plan. Go back to the plan, what was the plan? "Ginny Weasley's Tepidly Mediocre Let's Get One Thing Right Today Plan," she whispered through clenched teeth.

Nobody paid any attention to Ginny as she peeked around the staircase toward the large table her family had gathered round. No one was sitting, so Ginny's eyes slid toward Harry.

Harry, she thought, pulse thumping again. Plan. She could still apologize to Harry.

Harry, standing between Ron and Hermione Granger, looking older since she had last seen him. Leaner, perhaps, but taller too. Something had changed in the set of his jaw, maybe? The emerging Adam's apple was definitely new, though the eyes were the same.

"Not fragile," Ginny reminded herself. It had been a rubbish morning. Still, she could salvage this. She could, she absolutely could, even without scones.

She wrestled her breathing back under control. She would walk up to Harry and tell him - like a real sane person who could form real sane words - that she regretted putting him in danger. "Just march up to them, say hello, say I'm sorry," she coached herself, eavesdropping as best she could while Ron bragged about out-spitting Tuftertina.

"Who's Tuftertina?" Ginny overheard Harry asking, his changing voice cracking in the way thirteen-year-old boys did.

"Unless the ancient Egyptians preserved salivary glands in the mummification processes," Hermione Granger stated, projecting with skill over the clink and scrape of spoons and porridge bowls. "I suspect a camel."

"Graceful name, for a spitting camel," Harry quipped. "Sounds like a ballet dancer or something."

At his words, Ginny's heart skipped a beat as she ducked out of sight again, plastering her to body to the wall and squeezing her eyes shut. "Bugger bugger bugger bugger bugger."

When she finally managed to force her panicky eyes open, her gaze caught on the screaming man on the poster again. "Stop that! I know!" she hissed at the poster. "I'm trying! Social outcast, silently screaming every time I get near Harry, trying not to, don't want to end up a crazy-arse person who sneaks out of Azkaban. So. Just, shh, now."

She poked her head out again - for reconnaissance - her Dad had pulled Harry aside, the aged wood beam above them shadowing their faces as her Dad spoke in hushed tones Ginny couldn't decipher.

Back to the poster, keeping the image in her head of the fate that would befall her if she failed here - "I can do this." In response, the screaming man opened his mouth so wide she could spy that dangly thing in the back of his throat.

"Alright, wish me luck," she mumbled, before remembering she was talking to a wanted poster. "Never mind."

One more peek, her Dad patting Harry on the shoulder, as if their conversation were finishing up.

Go, go, go. If she could do this one thing, maybe it wouldn't matter that she was an afterthought to Dumbledore and a social pariah and was morally corrupt enough to cheat on her exams and sometimes had one-sided conversations with criminally insane wanted posters.

But her heart raced faster with a sort of broom-flight angst.

Bouncing on her toes, Ginny took one last breath and strode across the room, fully infused with the supreme confidence of someone who devoted years to mastering the art of walking.

Ron and Hermione had replaced her Dad, two stalwart sentinels on either side of Harry. But Ginny would not be deterred. Now, or never. Ginny gave a tremulous smile as Harry's eyes flickered in her direction.

Trying for casual nonchalance, Ginny sidled next to Ron. With the last little internal pep talk (Look him in the eye, say hello, he's not a fucking basilisk, they're just green for fuck's sake it's like the most common color ever with all the fucking rain and grass and trees and shite) Ginny twisted to greet Harry and caught the last bit of his muttered sentence "-talk to you in private."

Not even a breath later.

"Go away, Ginny," said Ron.

Not even the Tom Riddle voice in her head laughed. It didn't need to. It practically purred the words in her head, just in case she missed them.

Go Away, Ginny

At least Hermione had the decency to look horrified. Not that she said, "Ginny should stay," but at least her face twisted into a judge-y sort of embarrassment.

Ron was oblivious.

Harry's non-reaction, though, caused the queasy rumbles in Ginny's stomach to solidify into pointed, petrified gallstones. Sharp-edged, they staked her where she stood: exposed and unable to move, unable to deliver the necessary face-saving quip, unable to huff away with dignity.

Whatever Harry saw on her face caused him to pale. "I didn't- "

"It's fine," Ginny wrenched away, almost crashing into a stormy-faced Percy.

Somehow, Percy witnessing the interaction made it all the worse. Given Percy's adherence to pecking order, Ron would receive a howler from Bill before the feast ended tonight, which would put the cherry on top of Ginny's humiliation sundae. She managed to mutter "Code of Silence" as she pushed past him toward the long pub table.

Ginny was vaguely aware that Hermione's cat chased Scabbers down the center, as she felt the heat rise to her face. Fred yanked back his breakfast plate, George lifted the tea tray, Ron caught the rat mid- flying leap off the end, and then?

The Leaky's floo whooshed with such fierce green flames, the burst of air practically knocked the people closest to the hearth right out of their seats.

A flash of tartan plaid, pinched lips, an expression of fierce annoyance shot out of the flames, stepping into the Leaky with the brisk clip-clop of heeled boots.

With a quick three-metered clap, Professor McGonagall wiped the speck of remaining floo dust that dared to mar her crisp pleats. Once collected, her vexed gaze flitted across one redhead, two redheads, three until it fixed upon Ginny, a two-ton weight of pedagogical disapproval.

Ginny closed her eyes in resignation, but burned on the back her eyelids was an image of herself screaming on a wanted poster.

Go away, Ginny.

Azkaban was away. She wondered if there were different levels in Azkaban: Death Eaters on the top floor, Tax Evaders mid-level, corner cells reserved for students who cheated on their exams.

Surrounded by witches and wizards sipping breakfast tea, a server juggling plates of eggy bread, Hermione Granger staring in wonder as if she had never seen a teacher in the wild before, Professor McGonagall spoke with no indication that she was irritated. "Good morning, Molly, Arthur…" her gaze flitted with professional courtesy over the rest of the Weasleys before she returned a pointed gaze on Ginny, "…scholars. How has your collective summer been, thus far?"

Hermione Granger's hand shot up in the air.

"Miss Granger," the Professor sniffed, bending down to stroke the orange-haired cat shedding ginger dander at her ankles, "the term does not begin until this evening. You do not have to raise your hand to answer a question."

Ginny spied Hermione's pinkening face as Ron grabbed her elbow and tried to lower it with a degree of subtlety. Harry pressed his lips together as he nudged her in the other arm. When she glared, he smirked with an apologetic shrug and a familiar ease of friendship.

Go away Ginny.

"Molly? Arthur?" The Professor smiled professionally, though Ginny had seen fake smiles before so she knew what she was looking at. "I am glad I caught you before you left for the station. While the proctor for Ginny's exams was quite pleased with her performance, I wanted to extend an invitation to her, and suggest she return to Hogwarts with me this morning, rather than taking the train. Give her a chance to acclimate without an audience."

It was a feeble excuse and Ginny had no idea why McGonagall wasn't ratting her out to her parents, but her Less-Than-Best Self didn't care and was dramatically miming a frantic dash towards the exit.

"THAT SOUNDS GREAT!" Ginny blurted, so loud the whole pub turned to look. "Gotta go, ease in, I'll write you soon, and Bill, and Charlie, and I'm going to Go Away Ginny with the nice Professor now."

Not missing a beat, the Professor placed a hand on Ginny's shoulder, directing her to the floo before objections could be raised. "Will one of you students be so kind as to ensure Miss Weasley's trunk and other belongings make it to the train?"

Hermione Granger's hand shot in the air again.

Percy however, stepped in, "Hermione, I will take care of it. I am Head Boy, after all."

Hermione blushed and stammered. This time, it was an amused Harry who poked her in ribs and nudged her arm back down again.

"Damned lucky the butter dish is on the other side of the room," Ginny muttered uncharitably.

"Miss Weasley?" The box with the floo powder zoomed into McGonagall's outstretched palm. Her pinched expression was a warning, Ginny was not allowed to object. "Transfiguration Office. Be sure to enunciate."

Subtext: don't you dare try to floo away to Holyhead.

()()()

"One question will determine what happens next." The floo flame was still whooshing as Professor McGonagall stepped over the hearth into her small, tidy office and shed all restraint. "Did you or did you not confund Professor Trelawney?"

Ginny wondered whether she was supposed to sit down on the "guest" side of the desk. "Not. Of course not! Really not."

The Professor sighed heavily. "Thank Merlin for that at least."

"She's barmy enough without needing confunding," Ginny muttered.

"Miss Weasley."

"Just pointing out confundo would be redundant."

A small clock tick-tocked on a shelf, next to a bare space the exact size of a Quidditch cup. Shelves were filled with books, a couple armchairs were scattered about, as if she wanted visitors to feel comfortable. A small tea table sat in the corner, with a tea set brewing, steam curling out of the spout and the sugar lid hopping with impatience.

"Explain to me how you passed your exams, when Professor Trelawney was unable to provide said exams for review?" the Professor sighed.

"Explain?" Ginny muttered. Then, listening to the tick-tock fill the uncomfortable silence, Ginny realized this day couldn't get worse. Her plan was in shreds and she just didn't have any fucks left to give. She lifted her chin and asked: "Has the term started yet?"

McGonagall's jaw tightened. "Why do you ask?"

Ginny exhaled and flopped into the nearest chair, her feet sticking out in front of her. "I can give you one of two explanations," she huffed, truthfully. "I can give you the 'I don't want to lose points for Gryffindor' explanation, which has a degree of deference with a splash of sucking up, or I can give you the straight explanation."

For the slightest moment, so brief Ginny almost missed it, the Professor's professional facade dropped, and her face perked in interest.

However, a fraction of a beat later, her cheeks were once again the polished marble of a veritable public building. Dignified, intimidating, void of expression.

"Very well. Let's assume the term starts this evening," the Professor's tone was crisp, inviting no nonsense. "So, you will explain to me how you passed your exams in a fraction of the time it would take to complete them."

Ginny paused. There was honest and then there was honest.

There was also, deflection.

"Those exams were rubbish. Professor Dumbledore doesn't care whether or not I pass an exam. If he gave a flying fig, he wouldn't have sent a batty divination professor I've never met to proctor them."

"That's not-"

"I imagine the whole 'jumping through Quidditch hoops' of the exams was some sort of brush off to begin with. 'What are we going to do about Ginny Weasley?'" Ginny mimicked with McGonagall's crisp brogue." 'Who?'" Ginny answered, in aged Dumbledore's wobbly tones.

Ginny folded her hands on the desk with prim precision, before slipping back into McGonagall's brogue. "'Ginny Weasley, you know the girl who almost got Harry Potter killed?'"

"Are you quite finished?" McGonagall asked.

"Not even a little." Ginny pretended to stroke her beard. "'Oh, Harry Potter. Harry Potter summoned a phoenix, drew the lost sword of Gryffindor from an old hat and killed an ancient snake nobody noticed was roaming the halls. You know, I think I should give him eighty-seven house points for that.'"

McGonagall's lip twitched, so Ginny swapped back to the brogue. "'So what are we going to do with Ginny?'"

Ginny adjusted an imaginary pair of half-moon glasses. "'Who?'"

Then, she slapped her hands on the desk. "And this was probably where he waved his hand dismissively 'Oh, we'll just… have her go away and study for exams or something. Go away, Ginny. Go away and be busy somewhere else while the important people talk about important things. Now, where did I leave my important phoenix it's time for his important snack?"

As her grand finish, she crossed her arms, waiting for the Professor's public building demeanor to explode beneath Ginny Weasley's devastating cluster of truth bombs.

However, it was built to last. After all that, she just sat behind her desk and redirected the conversation. "That's not technically an explanation."

Note to self: Professor McGonagall had some sort of super-immunity to deflection.

In for a knut in for a galleon, Ginny supposed. Biting the inside of her cheek, Ginny gave up and slid her hand across the desk. "It was my destiny. It happened right there," she pointed at her palm. "This line says I passed my exams."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," the Professor huffed, her professional demeanor finally slipping with outrage. "Does it also say you're in danger and need to beware of-"

"-dark haired men," Ginny quipped, "brooms, brothers, butterscotch, east-facing stairwells, full moons, new moons, and two-thirds waxed moons, and I think, oh… yes, right here. Potatoes."

"Potatoes."

"Or maybe it's turnips. Some sort of tuber, I think."

"Amusing," the Professor said not sounding amused at all. She flicked her wand and the tea service floated over to her desk, pouring what Ginny assumed was a perfectly perfect cuppa in front of each of them.

Ginny shrugged, her finger reaching out to trace the saucer's plaid rim. "If it's any consolation, I think I'll be skipping Divination next year."

"Pity. You seem to have a gift for it," the Professor said, deadpan. "What are the ingredients in a wide-eye potion?"

"You're a professor don't you know?"

"Of course, I know. I'd like to know if you know. Wide-eye potion, please."

Blinking in confusion, Ginny rattled off the ingredients before she could think of a reason not to.

And that began a tea-sipping process that took ages. Over the next few hours - sandwiches needed to be brought in for Merlin's sake - Ginny was subjected to the most grueling oral exam in the history of mid-level education. Professor McGonagall didn't even try to stay on subject. She hopped from Charms to Potions to History, skipping like a stone on a pond from one random question to another.

Ginny scrambled to keep up. She answered passably well for Herbology and History facts, her Charms and DADA were solid- though her wand was slow and sticky again on a few spells. Absolutely killed it in Astronomy. Blasted those stars right out of the sky, though she sang her constellation songs louder than she had intended, as she filled in the charts.

In fact, hours after they had started, the Professor was still gazing at Ginny's chart as one of the house elves brought in another set of snacks. The Professor crunched into a carrot stick, which was the most casual thing Ginny had ever seen her do, as she tapped her desk.

"Your brothers, I take it, assisted you with your studies this summer?"

"They all took a subject. Astronomy was Percy's, he took it very seriously."

"Yes. I'm sure it was he who spent hours composing your ditties." Professor McGonagall eyes seemed to glitter sarcasm behind her half-spectacles. "You realize these Astronomy charts are nearly close to what you need in your OWL year?"

"Figures," Ginny snorted, munching on her own carrot stick. "Most useless subject at Hogwarts. Divination is useless too, but at least Divination gets to be funny, with all the dangerous things that can drop on you from the beyond."

"Miss Weasley," the Professor exhaled a put-upon sigh.

"Also? Tea drinking. Any class with its own food and beverages is better than a class that interrupts a good night's sleep, that's all I'm saying."

"Oh, good lord," she breathed. "Alright, Transfiguration." She waved her wand, and a mouse appeared in front of Ginny. "Mouse to snuffbox, please."

"Fine, break over," Ginny huffed, stuffing the rest of the carrot in her mouth a borderline belligerent crunch.

Mice weren't quite as gross as rats, so Ginny shut her eyes, exhaled and focused on the idea of a snuffbox McGonagall would like enough for them to be finished already. That was the trick to transfiguration, after all. Visualize. No need to get fancy. Nothing ornate. Plain, tidy snuffbox, painted the same color as the Gryffindor banners.

With image painted in her mind, she opened her eyes, spoke the incantation clearly and executed the wand movements.

Her wand stuck. "Sorry."

"How many times is that now?"

"More than it happened in Egypt," Ginny shrugged. "Maybe my wand is tired and needs another break."

"You may have another break after you perform an acceptable mouse to snuffbox. Try again, Miss Weasley."

It took three more tries before her wand finally cooperated and Ginny couldn't help but remember how pricey seven galleons for a new one was. Still, despite the fact she felt like she was wrestling with a damned stick, her final transfiguration was quick and smooth- rather flawless- if Ginny said so herself.

However, the snuffbox lid was grim.

Professor McGonagall peered over her spectacles at the box, then lifted her eyes in question. "Am I seeing a skeletal hand reaching for, what is that? A garden spade wrapped in the coils of a snake?"

"I did the spell correctly," she muttered. "That's an adequate snuffbox."

"Rather macabre, though, wouldn't you say?"

"Depends on what you put in it, I suppose. Hair ties. Buttons. Ashes of dead people."

Shredded screaming mandrake bits.

"Does this particular image mean anything to you?"

Thick clouds smothering feeble moonlight. A thud, a scrape, blisters forming aside the handle of the stolen spade. Fingernails caked with filth as her hands scooped soil littered with tiny bones, adding the dead root to her graveyard of roosters.

"It means I earned my break. It means I cast the spell correctly and I don't like Herbology."

"Hmm." Something shone in McGonagall's eye, and this time Ginny knew it didn't have anything to do with carrots or vitamin A. "What do you like? What is your favorite subject, may I ask?"

Ginny had been in this office with McGonagall for ages at this point, yet the cozy room suddenly felt ominous. Too small. Ancient Egyptian tombs with narrow halls and walls that could tumble down and bury a person alive didn't feel as ominous as the Professor's office had become.

She knew there was once a time she would have smirked, and said "Quidditch." That time was before diaries and basilisks and broom accident and taffy souls, so Ginny just shrugged hoping that would be the end of the questions.

"Well," McGonagall said, giving up after the silence became so awkward each tick of her clock seemed to boom with a seismic rumble. "I'm satisfied with your exam performance. You will join the rest of the second-years and as we discussed at the end of last term, you and I will meet privately once a month. Informally, for tea."

Shades of Aunt Muriel, bloody hell, kill her now. "No offense, but that does not sound like a reward for passing exams."

"It's not supposed to be. I've also decided you will serve detention this year, for the mistakes of last."

"What?" Ginny leaped to her feet, indignant, rattling both her used teacup and the ink pot on the desk. "I'm already paying for the mistakes of last year." Unanswered letters, whispers, Go Away Ginnys. "The daily humiliation of my own existence isn't enough punishment?"

McGonagall waved her wand and her desk drawer swished open on well-oiled hinges. With another delicate flick, a piece of parchment drifted up and out of the drawer and nudged an unused quill away with a few snaps before settling right in front of Ginny.

Words melted onto the page and Ginny flinched at the sight.

It's nice to meet you, Ginny. My name is Tom.

However, on second glance, Ginny understood the letters didn't spell that at all. It appeared to be a list. "What is this?

"All the extracurricular activities Hogwarts offers after school hours and on weekends." McGonagall replied. "You will partake in all of them this year. That will serve as your detention."

"ALL of them?" Ginny squeaked, snatching up the parchment and realizing the list was not short. "You're kidding."

"No, I'm not."

"These are clubs. School clubs. After school clubs are for- " people who didn't play Quidditch "- complete gits! Even Percy doesn't partake in after school clubbing."

"For a moment, let us forget you are related to Percy. Or Bill or Charlie."

"You can't be serious!" Ginny scanned each item on the list, each activity more awful than the previous. "Charms Club? Gobstone society?"

"And for Heaven's sake, neither Fred nor George are particularly stellar role models. In fact, this year, let's just pretend you're an only child."

"I've tried, many times," Ginny snapped, her eyes drawn back in horror at the list. "Frog choir? Frog choir? I can't do all of these!"

"Yes, you can," McGonagall replied, calmly. "This will be the year you figure out what you enjoy. You may find you're the Weasley who enjoys racing rats or dueling, or painting or singing-"

"Have you HEARD me sing?"

"Your constellation ditties?"

"Those don't count for- for - uh, reasons!"

"Be that as it may, you'll join the Frog choir, and perhaps learn something. Even if what you learn, it that you, ahem, do not care for the Frog Choir. The point," McGonagall peered at her over her spectacles. "Is to expand your horizons."

"This is my detention for petrifying a bunch of my peers? Knitting club?" She slapped the page in outrage. "I can tell you already, I hate knitting. And what-," she poked her finger at the list "actual activities are in 'physical activities club' anyway? "

"I don't know. Oliver Wood has been leading the club for three years, and he enjoys mixing it up. I'm sure it will be strenuous. Oh, Miss Weasley, think of all the frontiers you will ford. But importantly, you'll be busy. Far too busy to miss your time writing in a diary."

"Ouch." Rather a low blow for a faculty member.

But Ginny's eyes darted to the snuffbox and she didn't need to be the brightest witch of her age to know a snuffbox with a skeletal hand and snakes and graves was problematic.

Sweet Merlin, she had issues. She had issues on top of issues even though her banana-shaped soul was theoretically fine and only a little gnawed upon.

But going to clubs - go off and find yourself Ginny, despite the fact you don't want to - smacked of dismissal. Out of sight, out of mind.

Go Away Ginny.

Dirt beneath her nails, hands that weren't always her own -

"- Reparifarge," Ginny snapped. This time her wand didn't stick. That stupid box turned back into a stupid mouse. Obviously delighted to be a rodent again, it leaped into her empty teacup and curled up as if it could nap away the trauma of being a creepy box for a whole fifteen minutes.

Lucky bugger.

She was jealous of a damned mouse. And now that she thought about it, did a fuzzier tail really keep it from being gross?

"Is there anything else?" Ginny meant her tone to be aggressive and assertive. She hated that she only sounded tired and resigned. As if her voice knew before her brain and that she was defeated before she even started.

McGonagall stood, gesturing to the door. "Your spell work is sound, Miss Weasley. I'm quite pleased with your performance. Congratulations. I will see you for tea in my office, the first Sunday of every month. Four o'clock."

"So you can check up on me," Ginny muttered.

McGonagall must have read something on her face, because she ignored Ginny's words, tone and attitude. "I could impart a great deal of advice and regale you with words of inspiration, but I hardly think that's necessary with you, in particular."

"Why not?"

"Words are simply words right now. We'll have more of them further down the line. In the meantime, put in the time and the work, Miss Weasley. The rest, you'll find, will sort itself out."

It was as much of a dismissal as "Go Away Ginny."

"Ginny Weasley's Go-Away-Until-It-Sorts-Itself-Out Plan," Ginny sighed as the door closed behind her.

()()()

Without anything else to do until the train arrived, Ginny wandered aimlessly through the deserted corridors, idly counting the paintings.

Most were empty. She found a vineyard landscape with a bunch of nuns throwing a party for three unicorns, a matador, two ducks and a handful of monks along with the Fat Lady's friend Violet. The matador had lost his pants in the rows of shriveled grapevines, the ducks were swimming in vats of wine and Ginny was able to kill one more hour tracing a flying lute player through painting after painting until he finally looped back to the cannon some neoclassic Prussian had shot him from on the third floor.

Bored out of her mind, Ginny killed another "acclimate without an audience" hour of witnessing oil paint perform acts she shouldn't even know about. At least, she figured, her "why didn't the portraits notice the fifty-foot snake" question was answered. Those portraits were busy when they were off-duty and someone should remind them every now and then that this was a school, for fuck's sake.

Other than seeing things that couldn't be unseen, it turned out having a whole magic castle to explore wasn't the thrill it should have been. As Ginny eyed the moving staircases, a few ghosts soared right through her on their way to do whatever-it-was ghosts did. For a moment she imagined the thrill of sliding down the banisters before she dismissed it as not worth the potential broken bones.

It was only after three more ghosts floated through her, as Ginny traversed a second-floor hallway with suits of armor polishing themselves, that Ginny wondered if they were doing it on purpose. She didn't recognize the ghosts who drifted through the far wall but that didn't stop them from sneering at her, anyway. "Oh. The basilisk girl. The one who sent the letter."

"Oi!" she opened her mouth to object to the moniker ("basilisk girl" only a slight upgrade from "Heir of Slytherin") but before Ginny could form words of outrage, the fright of ghosts shifted their path, zooming through Ginny as if she were a doorway.

Not only was it completely disorienting, but it also left her with a squicky feeling in her skin and a vague aftertaste of decayed fish.

"Rude. No wonder you fear an afterlife," Ginny grumbled, so in need of mouthrinse her feet began striding toward the bathroom before her brain realized it was that bathroom.

Bristles above a wood handle, held in childlike fingers, swirled in the pail

With the taste of cold dead fish still in her mouth, Ginny stared at the bathroom door.

The stretch of her arm, the stroke of the brush, the letters on the wall.

Ginny flinched.

"Hear bad voice in head? Voice is Ginny. Hurt Ginny. Ginny Weasley should heal. Become Ginevra."

No dripping sound. Dry floor, but her eyes slid down the hall, up the wall, her hand remembering the weight of the brush, even if her mind didn't remember the exact moment she held it.

With a grunt, Ginny shoved the bathroom door open, marched over to the fucking sink with the fucking snake on the handle, yanked on the tap before she remembered it didn't work and turned the one beside it extra hard, just for spite.

Swishing water in her mouth, Ginny leaned upside down to peek under the door stalls, grateful to find at least Moaning Myrtle was nowhere to be seen. She didn't relish the idea of that particular ghost drifting through her.

Dead fish with a side dish of toilet water.

She righted herself, spit out the water, her eyes catching on the snake faucet again.

In the mirror the wall that hid the chamber of secrets loomed behind her.

A parseltongue hiss was on the tip of her tongue.

"Go away, Ginny," she muttered instead, the words seeming to bounce off the mirror's reflective surface.

After testing all the bars in the restricted section for weak spots (none), finally tickling the pear to access the kitchen (elves busy, kicked out in first fifteen seconds, snagged a basket of apples to tide herself over until the feast) and an hour trying to solve the riddle to bust into the Ravenclaw common room (the letter 'p' the answer was obviously the letter 'p' why won't the damned door open?), it was finally dusk.

Ginny decided she'd had enough of this bloody castle.

()()()

Despite the overcast London morning, it was a clear evening at Hogwarts, unnaturally warm for this time of year. No one would go so far as to call it balmy - it was the Scottish Highlands - but Ginny only felt a slight chill in the air as she pulled out McGonagall's club list and perused it again.

"Bright side," Ginny muttered, heading out on the grounds towards the forest, "always wanted my own pet."

It was too pathetic to brand into a life plan. "Frog" didn't even make her top ten choices of first pet, but she'd need one for frog choir and it was dusk. She could hear frogs frolicking and doing frog things by some pond in the distance.

Balancing the basket of apples in front of her - a basket handle would have been helpful - Ginny gave Hagrid's hut and the unmarked rooster graveyard beyond a wide berth as she headed toward the shallow bog where the forest met the lake, following her ears toward the late-summer croaks.

Off in the distance she heard the faint hoot of the train whistle.

If the train was close to Hogsmeade, it still took time for all the students to unload trunks and line up for carriages. The boat ride across the lake sucked up about an hour, enough for the older students to make their way to their dormitories if they needed to before joining the feast.

Maybe her brothers wouldn't notice if she skipped the feast.

Go away, Ginny.

As the ground dipped, Ginny left the path and veered toward a pond with thick water reeds and strange-shaped lily pads. The pond backed up into the forest where the ground began to rise again, a tizzy of fairies flickering as they floated high above Ginny, only to dive towards the pond to snatch whatever-it-was fairies ate.

The light sounds of croaking chorus filled the air, and Ginny steeled herself, realizing she had no idea how to catch a frog and this was likely to be damp and awful. Still, blowing a bit of hair out of her face, Ginny tiptoed forward toward the edge of the pond.

As quietly as she could manage, she lowered her basket of apples to the ground. Crouched over, she squinted, inching forward as stealthily as she could manage, trying not to look like a dangerous amphibian hunter.

Though, she winced as her foot sank in the mud. It wasn't as if she were a stranger to mud, growing up at the Burrow. It was just the Hogwarts pond mud was bloody cold. She pulled her foot out, the sucking sound of her foot echoing with a squishy squelch, leaving her shoe behind.

She froze, half expecting the croaking chorus to cease as they realized they were being stalked by a potential choir member. Not that she'd blame them. She didn't want to be stuck croaking in the frog choir either.

But the chorus continued and sooooo slowly, Ginny stripped off her other shoe. Muddy shoes was one thing, but she hated soggy shoes and she couldn't guarantee she'd emerge from this venture completely dry.

In any other scenario, Ginny might have admired the way the pond was beginning to sparkle beneath the fairy lights, as the last bits of color in the sky faded from lavender to deep indigo. But this scenario demanded profanity, so she mouthed the word "bugger" because her mum wasn't anywhere nearby.

With a soft sigh and a brief mental rebellion, Ginny settled down in a low squat, ankle deep in the shallow water at the edge of the pond and tried to blend in with the natural habitat.

The soft croaking, which had dimmed since her arrival, steadied.

She waited. And thought. And tried to be patient.

She could do this. Her thighs may have started burning from her crouched position, but she could this. Being patient. She wasn't good for much, she was realizing, but she could capture a stupid croaking frog with Ginny Weasley's Pathetically Damp and Awful Frog Wrangling Plan.

The croaking sounds now seemed to surround her. With a mental congratulations and a hope that her brothers would never, ever hear about her toad stalking, she listened as the invisible frogs all around her grew used to her silent, still presence and relaxed.

Good. Prey that was relaxed was Easy Prey.

A deep croak came from her left.

Her head spun, a dark shape moved and with an unbidden cry of conquest, Ginny pounced.

With a splash, she landed on her stomach in the shallow pond, her hands grasping at the dark shape that bounded first up, then to the left, skipped to the shore, then back to the pond, Ginny scrambling after it, her palms slapping on the water. Uncaring that the whole front of her body was soaked and covered in mud, Ginny twisted to spy several dark shadows bounding and leaping all around her, croaking in protest.

Ginny dove forward with both hands, no longer stealthy, yelling, "Gotcha!" as her hands finally gripped two legs-

Two long legs…

"Oh bloody hell!" Ginny yelled, stealth, patience, and thought abandoned as she scrambled to her feet. Holding the creature upside down by its two twig-like appendages she groaned. "A plimpy?"

She was about to pitch it into the lake, when she heard a twig snap behind her, at the edge of the forest.

Ginny spun, the confused plimpy still hanging upside down. A shadow of a small bear, backlit by stupid frolicking fairies, hunched at the edge of the forest. A fairy dipped into its range, the bear snapped at it, and Ginny realized it wasn't a bear at all, just a large, poorly illuminated dog.

"Nononononono!" Ginny whispered at the thing, desperate to stop the dog from chasing away the fairies. "Shh! If they go away and take their shiny arses with them, I'll have to use my wand, and lumos will scare the frogs off!"

The dog's head snapped toward Ginny. Hackles raised, his glassy eyes seemed to glow, almost demonic in the blinking fairy light.

Still, Ginny figured it was a dog, not a dragon.

Time to establish dominance.

"Sit."

With a feral snarl, a corner of the dog's lip curled, a glint of tooth covered in drool catching the light.

"Alright, you're scary. But you're not going to intimidate me. I do not want to have to come back and frog hunt again tomorrow," Ginny hissed. "So wipe that growly look off your face and be quiet. Like a good dog. Or crup." She squinted, checking the tail and only spying one. "Never mind. Dog." She ducked for a last quick peek. "Boy dog."

The dog's body tensed, the rest of his lip curling on his growl, a menacing bass meant to threaten.

"Good boy. Oh, aren't you lovely?" Ginny said flat, not quite able to make sarcasm sound friendly.

The dog wasn't lovely at all. The uneasy fairies had swarmed in the branches overhanging the pond, their lights flickering with agitation. With their light, Ginny could see that dog hadn't been cared for. Its bones were prominent beneath matted fur. Looked like it had lost a wrestling match with a thicket of thistles.

His head lowered beneath the hulking shoulders, his eyes gleaming in the fairy light as he snarled through bared yellowed teeth.

"I'm. Not. Leaving," Ginny bared her own teeth back. "Stop that right now. I was here first. I am not letting you drive me back to that stupid castle."

Accepting another "Go away, Ginny" was just too fucking much on top of all her ruined plans. Especially from a stray dog who looked like it could use a meal, a bath and some toothpaste (in that order).

Then again, she could also use a meal, a bath and some toothpaste… so they were sort of kindred spirits. Her fucking spirit animal was a mangy feral dog no one wanted and that pretty much tracked with the direction her life was going.

The gleaming eyes narrowed as he shifted his weight to his back legs, kneading the pads of his feet into the bank, ready to pounce or bound away.

Ginny stilled, ready to pull out her wand if needed. Thighs trembling as she continued to stare down the dog, she sank back on her heels to mirror his motion.

However, sitting back on her heels put her bum right in the pond.

"Oh, bugger," she groaned, all thoughts of dominance abandoning her as disgusting pond water soaked her pants. She tried to break her fall, only to realize she was still holding an extremely traumatized plimpy.

Bloody hell. She tossed the plimpy back in the pond and sighed in defeat. "Truce."

The dog didn't stop growling, but perhaps his hackles lowered as he stared at Ginny now sitting in sludgy pond water. He twisted his head just enough that Ginny could see his shadowed ribs along his side.

He hadn't pressed his advantage when she tipped over, he wasn't attacking her.

Ginny tilted her head as she reassessed. He wasn't truly feral. He was probably cared for once, now mangy and neglected.

His brother probably told him to go away at one point. Wasn't awesome enough to hang out with the important dogs. Good enough to hang about when the only other options were camels, Fire Crabs, sand and brothers, but the moment someone better came along, it was "go away, mangy dog sibling."

The flickering fairy lights cast shadows over his visible ribs as the fairies settled down, bouncing from leaf to lily pad back up into the branches. "Are you hungry?" Ginny asked grudgingly.

Her abandoned basket of apples was only an arm's length away on the bank of the pond. "I don't know what dogs really eat," Ginny spoke in what she hoped was an easy, soothing tone, but might have crossed the slightly-surly line. "My brother Charlie is the one who does animals. Not, uh does-does animals - at least I hope not. But, I figure if you're hungry enough, uh, here you go." With a soft underhand grip, Ginny rolled an apple toward the dog.

She stilled, waiting.

The dog froze. Though his glare remained fixed on Ginny, the tension in his body betrayed his awareness of the rolling food.

Then, without warning, he leaped on the apple, snarling as he devoured it in two bites.

"I'm not sure dogs are supposed to eat the core part," Ginny muttered. In her weird froggy squat position, she inched closer, trying not to alarm him.

However, the dog noticed, his head snapping up as he growled again in warning. Still, even beneath the menacing growl, he couldn't mask his hunger. He licked the juice off his muzzle, his glance darting back to the basket.

"Hang on a moment," Ginny didn't want to risk him getting sick. "My Mum used to say you shouldn't eat the seeds because you'd have an apple tree start growing from your belly. Which sounds ridiculous, except it turns out one time, way way back on my Dad's branch of the family, a bunch of inbred Weasleys were out hunting for partridge or some other gamey bird."

Ginny moved out of the pond, trying to put the dog at ease with her voice. She settled several feet away from him. Close enough to hear, but far enough to be unthreatening. With a slow motion, Ginny drew her wand from her sleeve.

The dog's growl ceased, as if it had been snapped off like a knob on the wireless. His tense stare fixed on the length of wood. For a moment his gleaming eyes flashed with something covetous.

"Oh," Ginny breathed, realizing the issue. "This, uh, isn't a fetch stick, sorry. You might want to stand back." Ginny put an apple in front of her. She hadn't ever done this spell but her Mum used it a lot in the kitchen. Ginny squinted at the apple with one eye shut and said, "Diffindo."

Nothing happened on the first try or even the second. Stupid wand, embarrassing her. However, on her third "Diffindo" the slashing spell cut the apple in two - as well as a few reeds by the pond, a lily pad, and carved a diagonal mark in a large rock on the far side.

"Don't say anything critical," Ginny lectured the dog, who began growling again. "It was my first time." Ginny took the two halves of the apple and began to pick the seeds out of the middle before tossing the pieces one by one to the animal, who ceased growling long enough to gobble them up. Encouraged, Ginny resumed her story.

"So one of those Weasley boys hated hunting. Instead of bagging a bird, he transfigured a few pear trees into dead partridges and they all went out for butterbeer instead. At least in the version my Dad told me, which let's face it, was probably edited for content. You just know it wasn't butterbeer. They probably went out for firewhiskey, burlesque dancers and syphilis."

The dog made a choking sound. Ginny paused in concern. "You don't have to wolf it down, you know, there's more. Take your time."

Ginny sliced the rest of the apples as she continued. "Where was I? Oh, yeah. I'm not actually sure what syphilis is, but I picked up that it has something to do with burlesque dancers. I come from a big family where people don't always tell you things, so you have to be on the lookout for context clues."

The dog blinked twice. Ever so slowly, his head tilted to side. He gazed at her as if she were some strange alien with opaque motivations.

"Anyway, six months later the whole family was in St. Mungo's because they ate those transfigured partridges and tiny little trees started growing in their stomachs. They had to be removed by a professional."

Ginny tossed several more apple halves to the dog, who at least devoured them slower this time. She kept a single half for herself and nibbled. "Frankly, I think that part was edited for content as well. How do you know you're growing a tree in your stomach, unless you're pooping twigs? Anyway, the moral of this story is - unless your goal is dimwitted offspring - don't shag your cousins."

A chuff sounded as if it were being ripped from the dog's throat: a raspy, rusty sort of snuffle. Ginny noticed that all the apples save one half was gone, the frog croaking had stopped, and the dog no longer looked menacing. It still looked filthy and emaciated and wore a strange expression. But at least it wasn't growling at her anymore.

Night now, a soft mist rolled from the forest floor, tendrils stretching over the pond in long fingers. Ginny shivered, the air snapping colder, much colder now that the sun had set. Faint echoes of carriage wheels drifted up from the road in the distance.

Ginny's mood shifted, knowing she was going to have to leave. Go back to the feast, the castle, face all the whispers and pointing. "Everyone's arriving," she muttered, disheartened, as if all capacity for joy were being sucked out her bones. "I don't think I'm going to be able to catch a frog for the choir tonight."

The dog didn't react, so this time Ginny cupped the last bit of apple in her hand. She held it out to him instead of tossing it, hoping he was comfortable enough to take it. He stared at her hands with such ferocity Ginny wasn't sure he wouldn't bite them off. "You can have the last piece. Here you go."

He took a lurching step forward, almost as if he were being compelled, unwilling, though his gaze wasn't on the apple. It flicked to her other hand, her wand balanced in her open palm.

The unblinking eyes on her wand as he stalked forward reminded her he had once belonged to someone. His tail wasn't wagging, but Ginny would have sworn he craved that stick - something he wanted, something he remembered, coveted in his neglect.

Someone had loved him, once. Must have, Ginny thought, if a simple fetch stick had once been such a source of happiness he was drawn to it. "It's sad," she whispered, her voice only a little broken. "Sad when people go away. When your people who used to play with you, stop."

Gray eyes in the gray mist darted back to her face.

"You're lost. I get that. At some point you belonged with people."

In such contrast to the unseasonably warm day, a shaft of icy air descended from the overcast night sky.

"It's different for me," Ginny muttered. "I did something awful and..and I don't remember why it became so important I come back here. People are going to whisper and no one will believe I didn't… no one will trust me."

Ginny trailed off, staring at the apple in her hand. "I'm twelve-years old, and I'm always going to be known for the worst thing I've ever done. Can you imagine? People stare at you, and you know-" Ginny's voice hitched "-you know all the way down to your chewed taffy soul, everyone believes the worst of you."

Vibrating with tension, the dog jerked to a stop. Almost unwilling, he tore his gaze from her wand hand to her other, still cupping the seedless half apple, as it sank to rest on her knee.

"And all we can do is try to get by," Ginny's mouth quirked, a flinch failing to be a smile. "You probably get that, being down on your luck, too. Sometimes," Ginny's gazed down at the browning apple in her hand. "Sometimes the only plan you're left with is just… count the days and get by."

The mist fell thicker, the fairy lights dimmed.

Then, the dog began to growl again.

He barked once, agitated, but Ginny couldn't bring herself to care. She felt as though she had lost something so vital, so important, though she didn't know what.

Her soul? No, no, that was fine, she knew her soul was… but she couldn't imagine ever being happy again. As if happiness were so foreign she could barely remember where it resided.

Mandrakes writhing

Go away, Ginny

A distant bark, an ice-coated snarl

Her skeleton will lie in the chamber forever

Go away, Ginny

Harry Potter bleeding

What have you done, Ginevra?

Curling into a ball, Ginny whimpered, "Voice is Ginny. Just sounds like him. Not really him."

Go away, Ginny

Go away, Ginny

She did.

The dog's growls and barks faded beneath the crunch of leaves, the last thing she saw as the fairy lights flickered out were foreboding figures floating through the forest, seeking… searching… something.

()()()

I'd like to thank honeydukesheroine for betareading so many ugly drafts of this piece - thank you for your insight, your kind encouragement and the unabashed Ginny cheerleading that kept me engaged during some bleak writing days.

Comments, questions or discussions? Would love to hear from you either here or on tumblr\Discord fizzyginfizz - I will continue updating Quidditch is for Losers on ffn, but the technical issues with the website, notifications and emails are well known at this point. It's become problematic for many writers. QifL will be the only WIP I'm updating here, my other works (along with this one) are found on Ao3 as GinFizz.