AN - Thank you for all the encouraging reviews! I love hearing from you all:)
Please note that while this chapter picks up precisely where the last one left off, there are some elements that reference from Book 1, Chapter 6: A Long and Winding Staircase, as well as from Book 2, Chapter 1: Reality Is What We Make Of It & Book 2, Chapter 6: A Smoky Kind of Dusk. If you would like to review those chapters before or after reading, they may help to make sense of some of the plot points (RE: Admirals, & Botley Road), as well as references to Authem. Cheers!
Book II
Small Gods
Chapter 9
Shattered Pines
"III"
"Authem means nothing if you are not in control. You must always be in control, Ginevra."
"III"
April 14, 2008
Ginny swallows nervously, and turns to face Bill, who stares at her intently.
"Who… or what… did we bury?"
She stares at him. That… that wasn't a question she expected…
"A squirrel."
He looks at her hard as if trying to see if she's lying. "How?"
Ginny glances at Harry, "well… through some spells and some runes…"
Bill looks curious and opens his mouth to ask more but Fred interrupts him. "Where have you been?"
Ginny's head begins to ache. She turns to look at Fred, "when?"
He rolls his eyes. "All this time! For the past… almost seven years!"
"I mean… here and there, really. I've been all over."
"Anywhere you want to tell us about?" George asks.
"I…" she glances at Harry again, but he looks impassive, if not a bit stressed. "I have a place. In Scotland. It's… it's nice."
This was hard. Harder than it should be. Her heart is pounding in her chest and her palms prickle with sweat.
It's only her family… but she feels so bare and raw.
"I…" she can't take this anymore, "I have to go."
She stands abruptly and rushes out of the backdoor. She can hear shouts and a chair falling behind her but she's already tapping her chest and Talia flows around her like a comforting shroud and she cracks away and now she's safe and it's quiet and no one can follow her here and…
The cool breeze from her highland lake washes around her.
The soft sound of the waves against the pebbled shore soothes her frayed nerves and she collapses on her knees, skidding to a halt by the water, panting.
Goddamnit!
She shouts in frustration, yelling loud and hoarse. The tall grass lining the shore stretch their way towards her and gently wrap themselves around her wrist, around her arm, as if to comfort her.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
She presses her palms against her eyes until fuschia spots burst behind her eyelids.
Godamnit. She can do this. She can do this.
"III"
She comes back to bedlam. Everyone is shouting at each other.
They don't notice her at first, they're all yelling and pointing and blaming each other for her departure. Until Harry shouts, "OY!" and they all turn to look at her in the doorway.
"Hi…" she says, tentative and hesitant. "Sorry…"
The tension bleeds out of the room and everyone rushes around her in an awkward hover, unsure and uncertain, and she moves to sit down again.
"Sorry," she says again, "I just got… overwhelmed."
She hates this. She isn't this person. She doesn't get overwhelmed… or apologise.
But her family looks at her, and they smile at her. Her mum, watery-eyed but smiling; her dad, calm and steady; Bill, upset and glaring; Charlie, stoic; Percy, blank and ramrod straight; the twins both look frustrated; and Ron looks the calmest, at ease and steady, reminding her of her father. And Harry, he nods at her and gives her a small smile. She can keep this side of herself, she reasons, as long as they all come with it. Because no matter how hard she tries to ignore it or pretend it isn't so, she misses her family so goddamn much. And it churns and bubbles against each little moment of intense loneliness at the lakeside cottage or in the wide white expanse of her loft.
There is a certain comfort that her family exudes. Hers.
They're her family and they want her here.
"I…" she doesn't know how to start, how to explain what happened and why she had to leave. She sits there hesitant and unsure. It's the worst feeling, not knowing what to do. She's always so sure of herself, always able to respond and know exactly what to do in a situation. But here, back among her family she doesn't know how to make this right. To fix what she broke.
She glances back at Harry, and he must sense that because he begins to talk instead and all of her family's eyes shift off of her to Harry and she can relax a bit and it doesn't feel so hard and breathing isn't quite so difficult.
He starts slowly, glancing at her quickly as he begins to talk and she gives him a small nod, assuring him yes, he can go ahead. And he tells them about Voldemort.
It makes sense, it's how Harry and her reconnected, to him Voldemort, Tom, is the beginning and the end of it all. She can't help but feel as if Tom is but a footnote in her reasons… but better to start somewhere…
He tells them about Voldemort in his scar, in Ginny's head, and how she fled from their backyard stream to protect her family from what Voldemort might do if he was able to control Ginny.
Molly gasps.
Arthur grips the back of his chair, his knuckles whitening.
Ginny shuffles in her seat.
Harry explains until he gets to their meeting in the cave, when Moody and he ripped the last vestiges of Voldemort from her mind and then Harry falters… glancing down at her.
"And… that's where we met. It was—" he laughs, "I'm sure you can understand what a shock it was for both Moody and I to find Ginny there, quite randomly. We thought she was dead as well and all of sudden…" he trails off and her family all shuffle in their seats, all too aware of what it feels like to find the dead rising.
"Oh Ginny, my dear girl." Molly sits with her hands clamped to her mouth, tears running down her face. "Everything you've had to go through, I only wish we had been there to support you." She tentatively reaches out to clasp Ginny's hand squeezing it, as if afraid Ginny will disappear once again.
Ginny smiles weakly.
Squeezing her shoulder, Arthur looks down at her fondly, "we are so glad you are here Ginny. Thank you for coming back."
And she stands in a rush and envelopes her father in a hug. He feels smaller than she remembers, thinner, frailer. But she holds him tight and mumbles into his shoulder, "I've missed you all… so much." And that seems to be a sign for the rest of her family, her absurdly large, wonderful family, who all come rushing up around her and pat her on the back and hug her and whisper their joy at her return and she isn't ashamed to say there are more than a few tears shed.
"III"
"Your Authem is the engine for your connection to magic. The more refined your will the more magic, dark energy, you can stream through your consciousness.
"Let's not get confused here, dear girl. Your Authem has no similarity with the Pureblood Party's propaganda of magical cores. Their incorrect propositions theorise that certain families have a genetic disposition towards greater magical power. However, in reality if you can strengthen your will, if you can create an Authem that does not get confused or muddled about with daily tasks and the intricacies of human emotion, you will be able to work difficult magics, complex magics, that may be out of reach if you have not honed your will."
"Professor?"
"Yes, Ginevra?"
"Are… are you saying emotions make you a weaker wizard? I don't— I can't not feel things! That— That sounds a bit dark… if I can be forward, sir."
He smiles down at her, "you are wonderfully perceptive, Ginevra, I find you to be quite the breath of fresh air."
She colours at his praise and ducks her head.
"But no, I am not recommending foregoing emotions. However, managing them, controlling them and keeping them from controlling you, is the key to accessing magics you've only ever dreamed of.
"I hope you don't mind a bit of candour here, Ginevra, but that was my initial draw to teaching you privately. And I believe through our lessons and experiments you have proven yourself to have exquisite control over your own emotions and Authem. Do you recall our brief moment we spent on Occlumency last year?"
She nods.
"Well, your natural inclinations towards the mind arts shows me that you are well beyond an advanced student's typical grasp of Authem. If you were a traditional student we would have started your lessons on Authem with an intensive on Occlumency.
"But you, Ginevra, are rather unique."
"III"
April 16, 2008
The lake is beautiful at this time of day, right as the sun crests the hill, and the light breaks orange and warm across the water. Steam clouds the window over the range as the teapot reaches a boil and the morning sun paints the room gold. Ginny smiles as she pours a cup of coffee and settles at the small table in the kitchen facing the sun pouring in the window.
She relishes in her own peace.
She has control here.
It was wonderful, seeing her family again. She avoided any major intrusions upon her life, Harry, luckily, helped with their questions…
But she allowed herself to be distracted. She can't get distracted.
She has a murder to plan.
"III"
Botley Road is empty. But to be fair, it's usually empty. Only the scent of the polished leather chairs and smoky firewhiskey linger. Most members don't stay longer than necessary. Besides Gareth. Gareth seems to take a particular joy hanging around the empty halls, with only the company of the ancient portraits and the wizened old elf. She can usually find him lurking between the shelves in the filing room, reading old files.
Only yesterday, she finally hears the right name.
Gareth, as always, ends up an invaluable connection for her. His resourcefulness is the only thing that keeps her from getting rid of him. He knows too much. He's too connected to her. But she can't help but rely on him for sensitive questions like this. He's just too damn good at his job. He's become an integral part of Botely Road, no matter how much she wishes he hasn't.
He sends a little squirmy rat of a man to meet her,
The Admirals are a stepping stone, a front for the higher ups. Well, the Admirals and the General: Admiral Attwood, Admiral Fields, and General Clayton. Taking care of them seems too easy to Ginny. It shouldn't be so easy.
The little quivering man whispers a name: Jeb Paterson.
And Ginny grins.
"III"
Jeb Paterson is a good man.
He floos his mother once a week. He sends his elf to get groceries for his elderly neighbour. He donates his money to charities to help displaced orphans and small local schools. His community looks up to him as a pillar of resounding virtue.
Life is about balances, and the way he sees it, his balance is so far towards the name of righteousness that any bit of red he may have, has long been washed away.
Jeb Paterson is a good man.
Which is why he can't understand why this is happening to him.
It starts at night, right as he's locking up. He walks around his home double checking the warding on the windows and doors, triple checking the one on the basement, and then heads up to his rooms to retire for the evening.
It first happens after he extinguishes the lights for the evening, relaxing into his plush feather bed. A creaking, a whine of floorboards, echoes up to his first floor bedroom.
He jolts upright, pulled from his light slumber. Grumbling, he heads downstairs, rubbing his eyes. No one can get past his wards, so he's not worried, but he's nothing if not cautious.
The creaking comes again, much louder now on the stairs.
He freezes, his heartbeat ticking up.
Footsteps. Clear footsteps sound, moving in the dining room, from the sound of it.
He grips his wand tightly and calls for his elf in a whisper, "Verity!"
She doesn't appear, the stairs remain dark and empty next to him.
"Verity!" he hisses again.
Nothing.
What is going on? Where the hell is she!?
A bead of sweat drips down between his shoulder blades and he shudders in the cool stairway.
His wards! He has a ward set to expel anyone intent on harming him. If he can get to the study he can trigger it!
With trembling hands he creeps as quietly as he can down the stairs to his study and winces as the desk drawer creaks loudly in the silent house.
He pauses, the drawer partly open, his wand pointing, shaking at the door, waiting for whomever's in his home to come bursting through the door. But there's no sound. No one bursts in through the partially closed office door.
He relaxes slightly and fumbles around the drawer for the runestone trigger. He sighs in relief as he finally grasps it. He pulls it out and taps it.
Then taps it again.
Nothing happens.
His hands tremble again.
The office door creaks open.
Jeb Paterson flees his home. His heart pounds and sweat pricks across his body.
Something flickers behind him in the black amongst the trees. A ghostly white flash between the dark pines, shattering the pitch black night. A sob escapes from his raw throat as his feet stumble over a fallen tree and he scrapes his hands and knees across the rocky ground. He ignores the sharp pain and pushes off to run away, faster. Faster.
He has to go faster!
There's a cracking, buzzing, hum chasing him, white noise, white flashes, a woman in white, ghostly, frightful, avenging.
He sprints between the tall pines, his bare feet bloody and torn from the rough ground.
A mad, moaning laugh comes from the trees behind him. Like clicking bugs. Like a falling tree.
He sobs in fear as he trips onto the hard ground, spilling face first into the pungent pine needles that carpet the forest floor.
He stumbles, trying to push himself off the ground, sliding across the uneven ground. Helpless sobs rip out of his chest as the mad, wild laughter draws closer and closer. He falls in a stuttering stumbling crawl, desperately pulling himself across the ground as fast as he can.
Something strikes the back of his head, hard, and he bloodies his nose as he faceplants hard against the stoney ground.
He turns around and shuffles back away from her. She's there. Now. Behind him.
The air fractures like lighting in a storm. She moves out from between the shadowed trees into a glow of moonlight. The trees seem to pull towards her as she passes by, like they're drawn to her. The whole world appears to pull towards her, as if she is bleeding the light and gravitas out of reality.
He shudders, his mind a blank slate of terror.
Hot blood drips down his chin spilling across his silk nightclothes.
And she walks ever closer.
He draws up short against rough bark. White hot fear stabs through his gut. Why is this happening to him!
"What do you want from me!?" he shrieks. His voice breaking in panic.
She grins at him. Terrible and horrifying. The dark spines of the pines bend and crack towards her like blackened skeletal fingers. They wither and rupture, bark and branches cutting across his face, bloodying his arms and chest.
He screams, loud and high, sobbing in desperate wracks. He wraps his arms around himself curling into a tight ball at the foot of the stumped pine behind him.
She bends down, and her breath is hot against his face as she whispers, "I see your crimes, Jeb Paterson, and I sentence you."
He breaks then, his mind snapping in terror.
And he collapses into a weeping, whimpering mess.
"III"
April 19, 2008
"When Harry told us he was bringing someone to Sunday dinner we were not expecting you, dear! We all assumed he was bringing a new girlfriend."
"A new girlfriend!" Ron scoffs, "not that the poor bastard has had any girlfriends."
Harry kicks him under the table. Molly looks at them fondly then sterns her expression. "Boys, don't fight now."
Arthur chuckles and continues on where Molly left off. "I think only because it was Harry bringing you home we didn't think to question it at all. Though perhaps we should've started with some personal verification. I hope you don't think we were too lax in trusting Harry." Arthur's eyes twinkle and Harry rolls his eyes.
"Thanks for the outstanding vote of confidence, Arthur."
Bill walks in from the kitchen and whacks Harry on the back of the head, "Oy, don't back talk you lout."
"Takes one to know one!" Harry quips, flipping him off.
Ginny's heart warms watching the way Harry fits in here among her family, but there is also a pull in her chest. He's slotted right in. He's been there for all of the birthdays, weddings, births, big moments that she sacrificed for her family's safety. But how much of it was really for their safety? How much of her leaving was just a habit at that point, a juvenile fleeing of the nest?
She doesn't live with regret. And she won't do it now. But she can't help the twinges of jealousy, or more like longing, that prick in her chest.
It's another Sunday and she's here again, at the Burrow. She doesn't pretend to herself that everything has been worked out with her family, or that they're done asking questions. She knows there will be more. Bill still looks at her askance when they sit out on the porch after dinner with some tea. Her mum still is way too soft and tentative around her.
But Ginny settles into the ease of her family, of their easy love for one another, and grins across the darkening backyard as Fred and George set off some fireworks to the joy of all of her nieces and nephews.