Back to the present. Now that y'all are aware of the dates, I'll stop bugging you about it in the AN, just remember to keep an eye on them.. I'll bounce around a bit in the upcoming chapters. Thanks for reading, and as always, let me know what you think!

I use a lot of references to old myths and legends, let me know if you have spotted any!

Thanks for every one of the reviews!

Cheers,

-upstater-

Chapter 3

The Pub

"III"

June 30, 2001

Ginny sits at the age worn bar nursing a lager and feeling generally sorry for herself. The pub fits her mood perfectly; dark, dingy, and a little bit dangerous. She can feel tension building in her shoulders leaving her wanting to punch something, or someone. She wants to feel the sharp release of breaking something, smashing glass.

The pub sits squat upon the wharf sticking out into the harbor. It is a dull grey that blends in with the worn grey of the dock. It is completely unnoticeable, only a roughly painted red "Taverna" on a small sign hanging by the door condemns it for what it is. Inside, the bar is much of the same; worn grey, rough hewn wooden boards cover the floor, walls, ceiling, and bar. It is the perfect place for her mood.

The door slams open and a group of loud sailors swagger their way into the pub, calling for lager and whiskey. She stares into her beer, ignoring their brash tones, the amber liquid proving much more interesting than their posturing, her mind too occupied with the past week than anything they could possibly offer.

She sits leaning forward in her stool, twisting the ring on her right pinky finger, swirling the beer around in her glass, musing over the past ten days. It wasn't all bad, it's not like she didn't get what she wanted. It's just that she isn't entirely happy with the outcome. She had, afterall, found what she was looking for. The void had led her to where she expected to go, she had received the information she was looking for, but now… now she has to return to England. She has to go back home.

She still thinks of England as home, of the Burrow as home, even though she hasn't lived there for a long time; over three years now. She had left on her journey immediately after her sixth year of school, no longer finding Hogwarts useful for continuing her education.

She had been only sixteen at the time, but breaking the trace was something she had figured out when she was 12. She knows how to cover her tracks. She has plenty of money as well. Setting out on her own wasn't a big step because of the practicalities involved, but because of the implications. And sometimes, late at night when sleep won't come, she'll feel a pit form in her chest, and wonder at those implications, at how she left things — leaving in the middle of the night with no goodbye, no note, no nothing.

Now she has to go back, and see her family, her old friends — all the people she left behind. And she knows she will have to see them. Wizarding Britain is a small community. She can't avoid everyone she knows. And if it gets back to her family that she's in the country without letting them know, that would hurt them even further.

No, no, she'll have to see them. She knows that.

But that is what is fueling her dark mood.

Her sorry thoughts are interrupted by a hard bump against her shoulder that causes her to spill her beer across the bar.

Perfect. She thinks, a shot of adrenaline courses through her, pairing perfectly with her anger.

"Excuse you," she says loudly whirling around, facing the large man standing a bit too close to her.

"Yes," he stumbles, "Excuse you."

His eyes linger on her body with an ugly leer, reeking of dark spirits.

"Jus' what is a piece o' ass like yerself doin' in a place like this, all alone?" He slurs, "Come! Keep me company! I could use some cheerin' up." He reaches out to steady himself, his hand comes to rest on her thigh.

Her eyes narrow, and turn cold.

Finally, she thinks, ready to break the tension she's felt since leaving the void, ready to feel something break under her fist.

In one fluid graceful movement, she stands up and snaps her arm out, her closed fist colliding with the unfortunate man's throat — her bar stool smashing to the ground behind her.

He rears back, gasping and wheezing, his heel catches and the floor shakes as he goes down to his knees, his hands clawing at his neck as if it will help him draw a breath.

"Don't you dare lay your fucking hands on me you worthless. Blithering. Ass." she hisses coldly, staring down at him with all the fury that's been building in her for days.

The bar is silent. The air feels tight and full of a crackling static energy. The group of sailors chairs are pushed back or fallen over in their haste to stand when she dropped their comrade. But not one of them moved any closer, not after each new insult she lays upon the hapless man, she punctuates with a sharp blow leaving him in a heap at her feet.

She is left panting, fury boiling through her, staring down at the pitiful lump, as her haze of anger slowly clears and the tension, that shatter glass feeling, floats away.

Fuck.

She pulls her hair out of her face into a ponytail. Straightens her shirt. Tosses a few coins on the bar. And steps over the man and strides out of the pub into the pale morning light.