Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Time passes.

Memory fades, memory adjusts, memory conforms to what we think we remember.

— Joan Didion, Blue Nights

“Good morning, Miss… Weasley, right?” 

“Yeah. Ginny’s fine.”

“Pleasure. I’m Healer Edgecombe; you can call me Will. We’re in today for your shoulder, correct?”

“Yep.”

“When did it start bothering you?”

“November.”

“Nov— Wow, quite a while, then. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Pretty sure something broke.”

“… I see. Can I have a look?”

“Sure.”

“If you wouldn’t mind pulling this up… Brilliant, thanks… You can leave that on— oh. Huh. Let’s see, does it hurt if I touch right here?”

“Not really.”

“Okay, good. Relax your arm… What about if I do this—”

“Yeah— yep.”

“And how about moving it like—”

“Yeah.”

“This too?”

“Yess…”

“Sorry, sorry… Alright, you can put that back on, thanks. And are you able to lift or carry anything with your right arm?”

“Sure. But I couldn’t really do much until… January or February, probably.”

“…”

“Were you at Hogwarts in November, Ginny?”

“Yeah.”

“Madam Pomfrey is still the matron, yes? Did she ever look at this?”

“Last month, yeah.”

“… I see. Well the good news is there isn’t much residual swelling. Was that your mum I saw out there? If it’s alright, I’d like to talk to you both at once—”

“—erm… no, that’s okay. I’ll just fill her in later…”

Gravel crunched beneath heavy boots. Steel toes, stiff. Slick with each step. Her wandlight flared along pockmarks in the stone, cracked and crumbling. 

It was a lonely place, thrust from the sea like a great iron piton with the current churning and frothing at its base… cold too, with spray reeking of stale tides, wind wailing through vacant windows. 

Up another set of stairs— high above the waves now— and along a corridor stretching farther than light reached. Quieter up here, where the gale battered stone walls with a smothered scream that couldn’t rustle scarlet robes, couldn’t drown out breath or heartbeat or footfalls.

Or voices. 

They seeped through the silence, unraveled from the walls in wispy, syllabic strands. Their owners slunk in shadow, tucked away in chambers where time wilted skin to paper, melted wax features against skulls, ground hair to dust. Her fingers curled around the wand’s handle, knuckles stiff.

“Let me out.”

Whispers inside of her head and out, licking like tongues of flame, rising higher. Brighter. 

“Let me OUT.”

Wide-eyed stares, mouths stretched taught… Half-alive and pressed up against rusted bars while the bars pressed back… Reaching, probing through the dark… 

“LET ME OUT—”

“Mum?”

The house was never this quiet, definitely never enough for words to echo… Kitchen curtains stirring, shafts of afternoon light like the sun had grown brighter. Chimes rustling on the porch.

“Mum. Look, Mummy—”

Gobs of paint, thick and colorful on parchment… Brushes resting upright in murky water; sticky little hands and a plate of uneaten crusts… Mismatched eyes and clumsy smiles on the page… 

“Dad… Mummy… Look…”

“Let me OUT—”

“Ginny, don’t—”

“Ginny, baby, come here… I’m so sorry…”

Corduroy lapels against her cheek. Ringing in her ears, smoke in her lungs.

“I’ll kill him myself.”

“Stop, Perce.”

“Where’s Ron?”

Smoke clogging her throat, spilling through her teeth.

“Mummy, please…”

“NOT MY DAUGHTER—”

“LET ME OUT—”

She awoke on sheets damp with sweat, shoulder throbbing, tasting metal. 

“Let’s go with purple for the icing… She likes purple.”

“Of course, miss!”

“D’you think we should have them put flowers or something on there too? Seems a bit plain on its own.”

Luna looked up from the plait between her fingers, wide-eyed like Ginny had interrupted a deep thought. “When my mum was alive she always put ladybirds on mine. For luck.”

“Erm, okay… Pipley, d’you think you could make flowers and ladybirds?”

“I’ll do my best, miss!”

They sidestepped a levitating tray of pumpkin pasties as the kitchen bustled around them— its low ceiling trapped steam thick with curry spices while house elves squeaked commands, levitated ladles and saucepans, kneaded dough with tiny fists.

“Do not, ” Ginny warned on their way back up the stairs, past the fruit bowl painting, “tell Hermione where we got this. Pretty sure I’m technically still an officer for S.P.E.W.”

They waited until after dinner to bring it out, after they’d squeezed around Hermione at the Gryffindor table while most of the student body had been keen on wishing her well. Ginny unwrapped the plate in her dorm and toted it downstairs to find Hermione in the common room, tugging on her cloak and fixing the new cashmere scarf from her parents around her neck.

She glanced from Ginny to Luna to Dean with wide eyes. “Oh my goodness, you didn’t—”

“I know we’re not allowed to celebrate till next week,” Ginny interrupted, “and you’ve probably got six more hours of swotting planned…” She produced a candlestick nub from her pocket and pressed it into the cake’s middle. “But it’s still your birthday and it’s Saturday night, so—”

“Wait!” Hermione held out a hand as Ginny drew her wand. “I was actually heading over to visit Hagrid. This… it’s really sweet… maybe we could all bring it down there?”

And so they bundled in quick layers and followed her out to the grounds, where the evening was cool and heavy with impending rain. Hermione led them around the greenhouses and Ginny realized they’d never made one of these visits together— this route meandered closer to the lake than her usual path.

But it was like this now, she was noticing. Doing things together. Swotting up and sharing meals, seats saved when Ginny returned from the pitch. Like Hermione had forgotten the habits of trekking solo to and from the library and flipping pages alone by the fire, forgotten to switch on whatever it was that normally chilled between them alongside the weather. Summer bleeding into autumn, like they’d never really left Devon. 

Ginny stepped carefully over the pitted lawn with the plate held out in front of her. “I still can’t believe you put down the books for dinner, never mind a visit. Nineteen must be when you really sort out your priorities, yeah?”

The corner of Hermione’s mouth lifted. “Maybe. I haven’t seen Hagrid since our first week, and he asked me to tea this morning. I think Ron must’ve written him… I don’t think he wanted me revising all weekend either…” She gazed at her feet, hands in pockets as they passed the Whomping Willow with its swaying branches tall and tangled, black against a darkening sky.

Ginny watched her fidget in her periphery. “Sounds like Ron,” she finally lied. “Must’ve called on Hagrid’s baking prowess.” Up ahead, the hut swelled from the forest’s edge with windows like sunken eyes. 

Hagrid was surprised to see all four of them, greeted them with a jubilant roar and tempted Fang back from the door with a powdered rock cake from the table. Ginny stood at the threshold as he fetched three more mugs, and Luna handed Dean back his cloak, and Hermione draped hers over the back of a massive chair… and all of it was like something from a dream. Returning to a place only to realize time had warped her memory of the room, changed the colors of curtains and the height of the scrubbed kitchen table.

“How are yeh, Ginny?” Up close he was different, too, than her memory. Thinner, grayer. Like mornings in early May, a wine-drenched wake in the back garden.

“Yeah, good, thanks.” She arranged a grin and slid the cake onto the table, and then Hagrid was passing around plates and reaching for a bottle of amber liquor (“Hot toddies… seems fit for celebratin’, eh?”) as Dean, Luna, and Hermione hoisted themselves into chairs.

The elves’ gateau was good and the rock cakes dreadful; Ginny forced down bits of the latter between offerings to Fang with sips of spiked tea that burned at the base of her throat. After a while she realized this had become the sort of party she hated— not quite large enough for simultaneous conversations— war heroes and former fugitives gathered round like another Slug Club do she had no business attending. She watched Hermione unwrap a dragon-hide journal tied with a bow of twine, watched them chat round the table about hippogriffs and football and grounds restorations while the fire under the kettle burned low. Hagrid feigned reticence around the Care of Magical Creatures placement exam, but after a few drinks and another question from Luna he hinted that she should bring fireproof gloves and brush up on protocols for banding chitinous pincers.

“And what about yer boys, Hermione?” he asked with a grin that creased his eyes. “Never thought I’d see the day yeh’d be round here without ‘em… Must be odd. How’s trainin’?”

Hermione swallowed a mouthful of icing. Her bottom lip was stained lavender. “It’s going well, I think. The department’s understaffed, especially with all the Azkaban changes, but they’re learning a lot.”

Hagrid’s face clouded over. “Ridiculous, if yeh ask me. Dunno what Kingsley was thinkin’ with that… Aurors doin’ the work of dementors! Harry and Ron takin’ shifts up there yet?”

“I don’t think so…” And her gaze found Ginny’s. “It’s mostly practical training so far, right?”

“Blimey, shoulda asked yeh too, Ginny. They’re yer boys just as well.”

Ginny let the whisky sit on her tongue before swallowing. Across from her, Dean busied himself with refilling Luna’s mug, avoiding her eyes. “Yep, training still. They’re in London now, just moved out of Mum’s.”

“Good for them, good…” She felt Hagrid’s gaze linger, even as she stared into her cup and Dean wondered loudly about the bicorn horn hanging from the ceiling.

“Miss havin’ yeh in my class,” he told her later as she was shrugging into her cloak. “Yeh were always good with the bowtruckles, reminded me of Charlie. And from what I hear, yer Quidditch’s team’s gonna be a right force.” Light from the open front door was spilling over the lawn, casting long strips of shadow behind Dean, Luna, and Hermione as they waited.

She forced another grin through closed lips, looked up at that long, gray face. “Hope so. Guess we’ll count on your support, then.”

“S’too bad yeh couldn’t convince yer Seeker to come back… But sounds like he’s doin’ well, glad to hear it…” He patted her back, and something seemed to crack in the gaze she couldn’t bring herself to hold. “And yer feelin’ alright again too, yeah?”

A drizzle had started up since they’d arrived, cool against her face and pattering on her hood as Ginny followed the others back up toward the castle. She was warm from the tea and whisky, keen on lingering under the moon with trees whispering and creaking nearby. She and Luna slowed, gazing up, while the others pressed ahead.

“Did you get that feeling around him, too?” she asked. “Like the veil?”

Luna came to a full stop and blinked at Ginny from under the hood of Dean’s cloak. In moonlight her eyes were huge, the pink flush bleached from her cheeks. “You mean Hagrid?”

“Yeah.”

She frowned. “No, I don’t think so… But it was good to see him, wasn’t it? I got a letter from him this summer after they let Daddy come home, it was very sweet.” 

“Yeah, that’s nice,” Ginny agreed, but her own voice reached her ears in a muffled hum. The breeze picked up for a moment, flapping hems around their ankles and pitching raindrops sideways against their faces as she found herself staring, transfixed, at the black mass of forest behind them. Glad, for the first time, that she hadn’t convinced any Seeker of anything.

—

“He’s been to Azkaban,” she muttered over the top of her Transfiguration textbook. Her chest was still warm from the drink, and words marched separately and meaninglessly across the page. “You’d think he’d be glad they sacked the dementors.”

They’d been early getting back to the common room for a Saturday night. Hermione had claimed a table in the far corner, inviting Ginny to join with a hopeful look that couldn’t be turned down while it was still the nineteenth.

Hermione stroked her chin with her quill. “Yes, I was surprised too… I guess it’s just a matter of how you think about justice. I can’t say I blame him… I’m sure he’s just thinking about people like Umbridge. Or Greyback. ”

Ginny tucked her knees into her chair. “I dunno, it still just seems weird, for him.”

She returned to her work without looking up. “Well it’s like Kingsley told Harry, right? The Ministry needs restructuring, but it’s hard to separate that from everyone’s desire to see Voldemort’s followers punished.”

The name rolled out so swiftly that Ginny thought she’d misheard it. Her throat felt cold again, like she’d said it herself. She changed the topic before Hermione could add anything else.

“Did Priscus actually assign you homework before exams?”

Hermione glanced up from the essay in her lap and open reference book on the table ( Wands and Writs: Magus in Court ). “This? Oh, no I’m just writing something quick to Harry… I needed to thank him anyway for the stationary, and I forgot to mention this part last time…”

"Oh. Right."

But after finishing the letter she carried the same tome with her up to bed, flipped through the pages with her lamp burning long after the others closed their curtains. Ginny watched Arnold shuffle across the covers with candlelight dancing overhead and sleep tugging at her thoughts.

“What made yeh think to do it?” He’d hung back with her while the other two forged ahead with Fang at their heels, full November moon lighting the path deeper through the trees. “And don’ try tellin’ me it wasn’t yer idea, Weasley.”

She had watched her feet as she shrugged, muddy trainers crunching over a bed of curled leaves. “No one else is doing anything to help them. We’re all just sitting here.”

He had snorted. “Yeh gotta know when to lay low, Ginny. Yer rearin’ to get real hurt, and that’s the worst thing yeh could do fer everyone. C’mon now, use yer head…”

She rolled over when Hermione finally put out the light, realized she’d forgotten to tell him about his dragon. 

—

Question Four: What is the incantation used to transfigure a hedgehog into a pin cushion?

Ginny twirled her quill with ink drying in the tip. The classroom echoed with occasional coughs and chairs scraping the floor, scratching across parchment like whispers. Their first day of exams had howled in with a gale from the northwest, battering and smearing the windows, gray and thunderous over the grounds.

Question Nineteen: Which is the first vital organ to transform during a hominid-to-porcine transfiguration? Describe this rearrangement in as much detail as you can.

She drummed her fingers against the desk. In hindsight it had been a mistake sitting by Hermione, with her quill flying ceaselessly across the page.

Question Twenty-Six: Arrange the following spells in order of increasing complexity, and describe which of the Twelve Principles of Human Transfiguration applies to each of them. 

“I think I messed up the practical portion,” Luna admitted with a mild frown as they broke for lunch. “Do you remember if we were supposed to turn the crow yellow before changing it back from stone, or after? I don’t remember learning reanimation charms.” 

“Not sure, sorry,” Ginny mumbled, pressing a little ahead through the crowd. She could still feel the tingle where McGonagall’s spell had restored her nose to its original shape.

“Listen up, chaps!” Professor Sprout had to shout over the rain hammering the greenhouse roof, leaves and branches squealing against the windows. “You should all have a Snargaluff at your bench… I need two pods from each of you with minimal damage to the vines… Then one by one you’ll head to Greenhouse Five and take clippings of all the components to make a poultice for an acromantula bite. Sound good?”

Dean chewed his thumbnail and gazed between Luna, Ginny, and the dead-looking stump in the pot in front of him. 

“Begin when you’re ready.”

Ten minutes in, Thalia was sent to the hospital wing with a gash from a vine around her forearm. It was enough of a distraction for Ginny and Luna to whisper poultice ingredients across the bench to Dean, voices concealed by the storm.

It carried on through Tuesday, the weather. Hail this time too, peppering the windowsills whenever the skies seemed to think rain wasn’t enough. If the chill last week had been summer’s death rattle, this was a dance on its grave.

“I’m guessing no practice tonight?” Demelza gestured morosely toward a nearly black ceiling during lunch, where Ginny swore she could hear wind over the Great Hall’s din.

“Nah, Jimmy says the pitch is underwater,” she ground out ruefully, stabbing a roast potato. Somehow, sleeping through breakfast and her free exam block had left her more exhausted than she’d been before bed. “Maybe we’ll get out this weekend, if we haven’t atrophied by then.”

They were interrupted by Jack and Grace sliding onto the bench to discuss details for Friday’s party, debating whether wine or liquor was a better value, whether they should enlist Rowan’s friend in Hogsmeade or try their luck with Aberforth. Ginny hadn’t given any of it a second thought in days; now that she did, the weekend sounded impossibly out of reach. 

The bell clanged and she dragged herself onward toward her Defense exam, still craving her bed— sheets with lingering warmth, curtains that shut out everything else. 

—

“First thing’s first: third year education in Defense Against the Dark Arts focuses on Dark creatures.”  

Snape had always been frightening, but he had been something else.

Their new professor had hobbled back and forth in front of the blackboard, fixing them all with a penetrating stare. “Unfortunately, I’ve been ordered to stick to that curriculum, which means none of what you’ll face in this classroom will compare to the foulest, most dangerous creatures that walk among us.”

Colin’s eyes had gone nearly as wide as the bizarre magical one peering back at them. “He means basilisks, right? Or Lethifolds?”

He’d stopped pacing, leaning heavily on the leg Ginny had suspected was real. Scars twisting into a grin. “Basilisks? Nah, we’ll be covering all that. I’m referring to people … Dark wizards… Smarter than anything else I’ll be teaching you. Easily seduced by power and evil. Lethifolds are predictable, but with wizards we must exercise constant vigilance…”

The classroom had taken on a quiet chill, like he’d just identified a killer among the lot. 

But then he’d limped over to an accent table by his desk, banged on the surface with the knob of his cane until the drawer rattled violently, like he’d pissed off whatever was inside. “Can any of you tell me what’s in here?”

—

“Quills down,” Professor Podmore commanded from the center of the room. The skies had steeped his classroom in a dull pallor, gray on walls and skin, stark in the creases around his mouth and eyes. At the front of the room stood an odd collection of fixtures, backlit by dreary windows. 

Ginny glanced up from doodling spirals in the top corner. Most quills were already at rest or fidgeting between fingers; Hermione had hers tucked behind her ear as she reviewed her answers.

“Today’s practical portion will cover a bit of everything,” Podmore explained, and with a wave of his wand their exams soared together and collected in a neat stack on his desk. “But for the sake of time I can’t have you complete every challenge, so you’ll each draw to face one of four tasks. First off—” From atop a wooden pedestal he lifted the lid of a pewter pot. “You’ll need to identify how this object’s been cursed, and perform a successful countercurse. Or maybe—” Nudging a tall, overturned hamper on the floor this time, “you’ll be dealing with the creature I’ve got under here, or identify items in this box to make a werewolf-repelling amulet. Or—” He gestured toward the fourth item, a battered armoire with deep scratches along the side. “You might need to demonstrate how to deal with a Boggart.”

The class stared back silently, craning necks to better glimpse the pot or wooden crate. Hermione’s eyes narrowed as a knob on the armoire trembled. 

“Now…” Podmore brandished his wand again, and a velvet curtain materialized to hang in midair around it all, concealing the front of the room from view. “Who wants to start?”

“A Boggart,” Hermione scoffed under her breath as Zacharias Smith rose from his seat. Ginny watched her scan the class with a deepening scowl. “How could he possibly think that’s a good idea…”

“No talking, please,” Podmore reminded breezily. He’d cast a muffling charm, but beyond the curtain they still heard a loud screech followed by Smith’s garbled spell.

“Erkling,” Ginny whispered, and she guessed Smith had drawn for the hamper. Something in her stomach tightened at the thought of selecting the old wardrobe, watching those doors swing open. 

As a third year, she’d been unable to tear her gaze from the accent table, knowing exactly what it contained. 

“Now, there’s a simple spell to combat a Boggart, but you need to have a plan…”

By now it should’ve been easy, coming up with a plan. But as she thought of the armoire she found herself speculating fruitlessly about what she'd once been so sure, flicking through possibilities of what might crawl out like memories saved in a fucked-up scrapbook. 

She glanced up and locked eyes with Dean a few rows down, and his lip quirked.

Smith emerged from the curtain with a smug look, and Ethan Chambers stood next. Some students took longer than others; Ginny guessed it was the cursed pot that took the most time, minutes of silence between mumbled spells she couldn’t make out. Each time someone else got up she strained to listen for those wardrobe doors opening, for the telltale laughter that would send something wicked slinking back inside.

Hermione was obscured for less than a minute before she emerged again, holding her face in a neutral mask of satisfaction. And then it was Ginny rising to her feet with her wand in hand, and the velvet swung closed behind her as the quiet sucked her in. Despite what she could hear from the other side, the bumps and screeches and spells, all four stations looked untouched. Up close, the scratches on the armoire looked like something had attacked it with long claws.

“Alright, Ginny?” Podmore was grinning broadly from his chair, lines creasing deeper in his cheeks. He held up a moleskin bag. “If you’ll please summon a random stone from here, I’ll tell you which of these to tackle.”

“Accio." The pebble that zoomed into her hand was coated in a layer of chipped paint. “What’s yellow mean?”

He didn’t answer right away, holding out a hand instead to reclaim it. He hesitated long enough for dread to coil in her belly, looking intently at her until he finally pointed toward the overturned hamper.

“I’ll have you flip that over, and use any spells you know to subdue and capture what’s underneath. No Unforgivable Curses. Try for nonverbal if you can.”

Her fingers tightened around her wand, and she levitated the basket a few inches off the floor. For a second nothing happened, and then two sets of brown, spindly fingers curled around the lip and slowly lifted it higher, up and over a crouched, hairless body. She had guessed right— the pointed face leering back at her had mottled skin like it had been roughly shaped from mud.

The Erkling opened its mouth— two rows of razor-sharp teeth— and let out a raspy giggle that at first had something bubbling in her chest too, commanding her feet forward like it was her own idea to take part in the joke. She brandished her wand, prepared to tackle its best source of attack.

Silencio.

The laughter ceased, and it fixed her with a murderous yellow stare.

Immobilus.

Her second spell just missed, sending sparks skittering across the floor as the Erkling coiled to pounce, knobbly spine rippling. Again she raised her wand, same spell at the ready, when the wardrobe door rattled. 

But she froze as she swore she saw the knob turn. The Erkling bounded forward with arms outstretched…

“Incarcerous!”

The ropes were clumsy, in her panic, looping around those thin wrists and ankles with too much slack. She felt something sharp swipe across her ankle before the Erkling fell to the ground in a tangled heap, and after another freezing charm it lay bound and silent on the floor. 

“Good work,” Professor Podmore mumbled with a nod, but she didn’t miss the way he was gripping his wand with white knuckles. “Good remembering that Stunning spells aren’t effective on Fey creatures.”

“Is that all?” she found herself asking with her heart thundering in her throat. The other three stations sat innocently unperturbed— the box to her left full of silver instruments and dried bunches of leaves, and to her right the black pot with its mystery curse radiating warmth against her forearm. All things considered, her assignment had been even easier than the written exam. 

Podmore frowned toward her feet. “Did it get you there? I can take a quick look—”

“Nah. Just missed.”

His brow cleared with a grin. “Oh. Alright then… Yep, that’s all.”

Ginny stowed her wand and returned to her seat with the stinging in her ankle subsiding. As she passed, the knob jiggled again.

Luna stepped up next and took much longer, and she finally emerged wearing a puzzled frown. 

“What’d you get?” Ginny asked without hesitation. Hermione shot them a warning look. 

“The curse,” Luna whispered back. “I thought I figured it out, but after I cast a countercurse it still wouldn’t open… I must have missed something…”

Dean took even longer than Luna, and Ginny rested her cheek on her forearms. When he finally returned his mouth was set with grim triumph, and as Sloper got up last Ginny let her eyes drift closed. She wished they’d been allowed to leave when they were finished.

She never heard it, the click of a doorknob, muffled by the charm. But then there were voices— not just Jack and Podmore— a third with a deeper, gruffer tone like nails digging into the back of her neck, a wheezing laugh that raised the hair on her arms.

And then Jack’s voice, muffled but commanding all the same, uttering the word that would somehow make it funny.

“Bastard,” he spit later that night, sprawled on the common room sofa beside Demelza. He passed a hand through his hair with a rare, humorless scowl, and in the firelight Ginny could just make out the faded scar slashed through his brow. “For fuck’s sake, that’s who I’m scared of?”

She didn’t ask what color stone he’d drawn.

—

Harry,

First off, my brothers could never afford my laundry rates (I don’t care how many Snackboxes George sells). But I might take you up on moving in anyway. London would be fun, and I could try out during the transfer window instead of next summer (haven’t failed anything that I know of, yet. Just preparing). I like the sound of a proper bed, too. Bet that feels decent after all the cots.

Speaking of London, I’d love to come back with you instead of Hogsmeade. Maybe I could see your place or that pub or something, I don’t really care what we do. Shame I missed Ron’s singing, I’ve been meaning to collect more source material for my impression of a cat getting hit by the Knight Bus.

Hope work’s still good. Not sure if she’s told you, but the girls in my dorm convinced Hermione to let us have a party for her this Friday (she made us wait till after exams, obviously). It seems like a lot of people are trying to get to know her more than before, and I’m not sure how she feels about it. Can’t imagine you know what that’s like. So anyway, we might be throwing a rave-up, which is great because I missed the last one Gryffindor had. Can’t remember why, something about a bloke wanting some privacy to ask me out.

Tell Teddy I miss him, okay? I don’t even want to think about how big he’ll be when I get back. Weather’s been awful here… hopefully this reaches you by the end of the month.

I miss you a lot too, by the way. It’s not stupid. 

Love,

Ginny

—

By Wednesday morning the storm had softened to a quieter rain, soaking the damp hills and widening puddles across courtyards. Delayed post owls arrived in droves over breakfast, dropping letters and packages and sopping newspapers with a headline that made Hermione spill her coffee:

Shacklebolt Names Wizengamot Nominees; Death Eater Prosecutors Chomp at the Bit

“Think you could at least summarize while you read?” Ginny reached for a teapot and sugar for something to do, watching Hermione’s eyes scan the page so quickly it should’ve all been a blur. 

“I’m sure it’s a bunch of old codgy blokes with four-inch specks,” Demelza predicted in a bored voice without glancing up from a rain-flecked copy of Quidditch Weekly. “Damn, did you hear the Magpies’ reserve Seeker ended a match last week in twenty-two minutes?”

“Here, Ginny,” Hermione finally dropped the paper and nudged it across the table, lowering her voice. “I’m sure Harry’s thrilled.” Ginny flipped back to the top with Dean reading over her shoulder. 

On Tuesday afternoon, Interim Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt made his official nominations to replace four Wizengamot vacancies: two Warlock Members and two Special Advisors to the court. Qualified candidates were recommended confidentially by a special selection commission of legal experts and advisors from across departments in the Ministry of Magic. Shacklebolt’s nominees are listed below.

Warlock Members:

• Amos Diggory, specialist in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures

• Archibald Helliwell, commissioner of the International Gobstone League and known Order of the Phoenix affiliate

Special Advisors:

• Gawain Robards, Head Auror in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement

• Pamela Dippet, former Unspeakable and renowned scholar on the subject of magical coercion

Since yesterday’s announcement, speculations have been flying about Shacklebolt’s motives. While the details remain unclear, his agenda is almost certainly related to the impending trials of Death Eaters and other supporters of You-Know-Who. His nominations suggest a bold streak of sympathy for the victims: a Dark wizard catcher, a known Order of the Phoenix affiliate, and the father of You-Know-Who’s first victim. Bolder still is the addition of an expert in magical coercion; the Imperius Curse presented a controversial dilemma after the fall of the Dark Lord in 1981. Dippet’s voice on the bench may provide a final say on the topic this time around.

Archibald Helliwell will mark the first non-Ministry employee to sit on the court, but to some, the Gobstone commissioner’s nomination hardly comes as a surprise. This is not the first time Order of the Phoenix allies have been rewarded for their loyalty— Shacklebolt himself was suspected of conspiring with Albus Dumbledore against the Ministry prior to his appointment, and prominent Order member Arthur Weasley was recently promoted to Deputy of the Improper Use of Magic Office. It is also well known that Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom both had parents in the Order, and they (along with Ron Weasley) are enrolled in the Auror training program by Shacklebolt’s personal invitation.

It is now up to the Wizengamot to approve these nominations, and for the candidates to be sworn into their positions. Following the four instatements, court activity can proceed with long-awaited trials for accused Death Eaters in Azkaban. One anonymous source from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement indicated that Ministry prosecution has been gathering evidence and is starting to reach out to victims and witnesses. “This won’t be like last time,” our source told the Daily Prophet on Tuesday evening, “We won’t be letting any of You-Know-Who’s supporters slip through the cracks.”

(See pages 2-3 for a list of accused Death Eaters and Undesirables, and page 4 for profiles of the four nominees.)

“Damn Ginny, they mentioned your family twice,” Dean commented without lifting his eyes from the page. “Congrats, erm, to your dad.”

She ignored him and pushed the paper back. “So Diggory’s in then, yeah?” And her gaze slid over to the High Table. Professors McGonagall and Flitwick had their heads bent in conversation, frowning over a copy of their own, and at one end Professor Podmore was reading with a puzzled look. The rest of the staff and student body was largely unperturbed. 

“As long as the court approves,” Hermione confirmed over the rim of her mug. She chewed her thumbnail, skimming the page again, and Ginny was reminded of their last morning at Grimmauld Place, her wary look to Ron when Harry’d turned his back.

Ginny stirred in a lump of sugar and dropped her spoon on her saucer a little too loudly. “I don’t see how the Order’s relevant to any of it,” she snapped. “Conspiring with Dumbledore against the Ministry… Where do they get off, putting it like that? Who’s this guy anyway, Hell-something…”

“Helliwell,” Hermione corrected faintly. “I don’t know him, there were plenty of people in the Order I never met… But the Prophet’s been making it out to be some kind of massive conspiracy for a while now, haven’t they? I’m sure some people are paranoid that it's still active.”

Demelza and Dean were looking between the two of them; the latter rubbed his jaw with slow, absent strokes.

Hermione was still frowning. “The weird part is Robards though, isn’t it? It would be a conflict of interest if he sat on the court and continued working as an Auror… I wonder if Kingsley’s trying to force him out…”

Ginny blinked back at her. “I thought Ron and Harry liked him.”

“They do.”

“Think he’ll step down?”

Hermione shrugged. She glanced at her bag and then her watch, like she was trying to figure out how quickly she could draft a letter. “No idea.”

It was a little like lessons this term, Ginny realized as Hermione dove for quill and parchment: this feeling that she was joining a conversation that had been taking place without her. She reached for another slice of bacon before the food disappeared, watching with a reluctant sense of relief as Hermione addressed the letter to Ron.

“Ginny.” Dean stood with her as the warning bell sounded, shouldering his bag. He watched Hermione’s retreating back another moment, hedging. “Reaching out to witnesses. What d’you reckon that means?”

—

She skipped lunch after Charms, avoided the post-exam discussion in favor of the window on the fifth floor with the map open at her feet and fresh parchment in her lap. She magicked Harry’s name away three times before making up her mind to leave him be; the Ministry and the Prophet were surely enough of a handful without her adding questions to the mix. She dipped her quill again with the rain pattering her back through the pane. Hermione’d be wondering where she got off to, probably. 

Hey Nev,

Hope everything’s good with you. Things here are different, sort of. It’s hard to explain. I’m wondering what you make of this whole Wizengamot thing… I feel like I’m missing something, honestly. Why would Kingsley nominate your boss? Is that even allowed?

Anyway, it’s weird without you here but I’m glad you’re not. I heard Harry and Ron have been getting you out a bit (or maybe vice versa), so hopefully you’re having some fun. Tell Seamus I said hi.

Luna seems good. Obviously things are different now, but I reckon you’d want to know I’m still looking out for her. Say hello to your gran from me (or maybe don’t, but I hope she’s doing well). 

— Gin

She barely made it back from the owlery for the exam bell, skidding through the dungeon door with her scales and potion kit swinging heavily against her hip. Professor Dagworth had already magicked the workbenches into separate tables where they each set up empty cauldrons, and without anything further she instructed them all to begin.

Ginny was still catching her breath as she flipped to the page in Magical Drafts and Potions she’d dog-eared the night before. The spine cracked open and lay flat against the table, fragile corners of pages chipping and fluttering to the floor. It must’ve been Charlie, she guessed, who’d scrawled the wry note under the Swelling Solution title, or maybe one of the twins: Engorgio works better. Easier to reverse. She scratched it out with her quill and drew her wand to light the burner.

The minutes ticked by with that same tense quiet that usually followed Professor Dagworth’s questions. Even as everyone prepared to brew something different there were sidelong glances cast around the room, timid looks as books fell open and water gushed from wand tips to fill cauldrons. Ginny left her potion simmering to wait in line at the storeroom, measured bat spleens and dried nettles onto her tray like she was performing an overcautious pantomime. All the while Professor Dagworth’s gaze was a searchlight perched atop her desk, watching over them with those silver earrings fluttering and her lips pursed in thought. Half an hour in, she hopped to her feet. 

She started with Tobias Harper and approached them all in random order, murmuring questions so softly she must’ve cast muffling charms like Professor Podmore. She moved on to Marcus Belby, then Rafe Uquhart, and by the time she approached Ginny’s potion was fading from purple to crimson as she stirred.

“What’ve we got here?”

Ginny didn’t lift her eyes from the bubbling surface until she’d finished stirring. “Erm… a Swelling Solution.” She set aside the ladle.

Professor Dagworth grinned and waved a hand dismissively. “No need to stop, I just have a few questions… What made you choose a Swelling Solution?”

Ginny paused with her mortar in hand. She hadn’t given it much thought, really, aside from recalling her first-ever perfect mark in a Potions class, the way the kumquat in Snape’s palm had bulged to the size of a Bludger before he’d swept past with a satisfied grunt. She emptied the rest of the bowl over the surface. “I knew I could do this one well, I guess.” 

At the table to her left, Hermione was crushing a sopophorous bean with the flat of her knife. Maybe Ginny had chosen wrong, picked a second-year potion when this was all about how much they would challenge themselves. 

“Fair enough.” Professor Dagworth was peering into the cauldron now, and they both watched the last of the powder dissolve with a hiss. “And why did you add the nettles first?”

“Erm… They’re pretty stable over heat, I think—” Ginny’s gaze dropped to the yellowing page as she spoke, and her stomach filled with lead.

Add two scoops of dried nettles and three puffer fish eyes to the mortar, and crush into a medium-fine powder…

“Damn… Sorry, I should’ve added them at the same time… Never mind…” She reached for her pestle again, fighting the urge to vanish the lot of it. Maybe there was still time to start over… but she had a feeling the end product was never the point… Another glance at the instructions told her the solution shouldn’t’ve been turning bright pink yet, either. 

“That’s alright… Is there anything you can think of that might reverse the error?” She tucked a bunch of raven curls behind her ear; a few strands fell back toward her face.

For a long, horrible moment it was like she’d never set foot in a Potions classroom— the silence stretched as heat rose in her face. Ginny dumped the black powder into the cauldron and reached for the bat spleen.

“It’s alright, Miss Weasley. Slow down, take a second to think about it.”

The potion’s hue was still lightening.

“Um, I’m not sure.”

Another long pause.

“That’s okay. And what about you, are you interested in a career that requires potion-making?”

Ginny swallowed and returned her gaze with effort, face flaming. “Why? Do I need to be?”

Professor Dagworth blinked. “Of course not. I’m just curious about the motives of my N.E.W.T. students, that’s all.”

Ginny concentrated on the spongy mass between her fingers. “I’d like to be a Healer.”

“Healing?”

“Yep.”

When she looked over again, Professor Dagworth was wearing a half sort of grin. “Well, obviously I’m biased, but I think that’s great. I assume you’re taking N.E.W.T.s in Charms, Transfiguration, and Herbology as well then?”

“Hopefully.” It came out pricklier than she intended, and she found herself biting back everything else, dangerously close to snapping as they both pretended she wasn’t failing her exam over small talk.

Professor Dagworth rocked back on her heels, and she watched Ginny work for another minute with her mauve lips pressed in a tentative line. “I’ll leave you to finish. Think about what I asked though, alright?”

And she moved on to Hermione as Ginny released a long breath through her nose. The solution was another shade paler now, and she mentally recited the list of ingredients again… All that memorization hardly seemed helpful now… She picked up her ladle, resumed stirring as she thought of the letter she’d be sending sooner than expected… Hi Mum, I know we discussed Healer training but I’ve decided to pursue an endeavor with an even lower success rate. Cheers, Ginny…

On the up side, she could start using her new free period for more time on the pitch.

In the end she wasn’t sure what made her do it, flip the latch on her potions kit and select a vial of gurdyroot. The cork stopper crumbled in her hand and the root slices were well past expiry, fibrous and stringy under her pestle. The desiccated paste dissolved in her cauldron with a gurgle.

An hour later she bottled up a vial of her potion without testing it, handed it in and cleaned her space so quickly that she was halfway up to Gryffindor Tower before anyone else had left.

—

“On the bright side you’re done though, right?” Hermione offered in consolation that evening as she unloaded her bag on her bed. “I bet that feels good. I still have Arithmancy and History of Magic tomorrow.”

“Guess so,” Ginny muttered petulantly, without lifting her head. “I’d feel better if I could go for a fly.”

By now it was a physical sensation, the rain, pressing on the castle walls, plugging windows and doors like capped release valves. What scant light that had muscled its way through the clouds was fading fast, and the lanterns burned bright at their bedsides. After four days her shoulder was stiff like shards of glass between the bones, throat swollen and itchy against her jaw— maybe she really was atrophying.

She heard Hermione sit across from her. “I still have some of those Harrods biscuits in my trunk, if you want. You might feel better if you eat something.”

“Thanks. I’m fine.”

“You don’t know you failed for sure yet, Ginny. Mine wasn’t great, either; I should’ve gone with an easier potion…”

She propped herself up on her elbows but was saved from responding by the arrival of Grace and Thalia, both buzzing with party plans. The latter tucked a heavy-looking canvas bag under her bed with the conspicuous clinking of several bottles, and she headed off to the showers with an overeager smile that Hermione mirrored with a strained look. Ginny concealed her snort with a cough.

Hermione waited another minute before changing the subject, tossing a copy of the Evening Prophet onto Ginny’s bed. “This came during dinner, by the way. I thought you’d want to know.”

The cover depicted a portrait of a wizard with a wide forehead and sharp jaw, wearing Ministry robes and an intense scowl. 

“Gawain Robards declined his nomination for a court seat. And the other three have all been approved— Diggory, Helliwell, and Dippet are getting sworn in next week.”

“Is this about that Wizengamot drama?” Grace interjected from her bunk. She had stripped out of her school clothes, sat on the edge of her bed in her underwear with wide eyes. It was a look normally reserved for discussing Witch Weekly’s Breakup of the Year. “I read the saddest story about the trials the other day… They interviewed Lavender Brown’s mum, and she doesn’t even think her daughter’s case will be tried.” She tugged a t-shirt over her head, pushing her hair from her face. “They really ought to get things going, shouldn’t they? Those poor families—”

Ginny caught Hermione’s gaze. There was something brittle to the stiffness of her shoulders, the tightness in her eyes.

“Yeah, they should.”

In the silence that followed, Grace glanced between them with a mingled look of regret and pity. “Anyway…” she finally murmured uneasily, “how were everyone’s exams?” 

Ginny collapsed against the pillows after Thalia and Grace left for the common room, and with Arnold asleep on her stomach she found herself hoping for Hermione to follow suit, craving the solitude she’d relished through dinner. 

But Hermione lingered, fiddling with papers on her bedside until it was clear she wasn’t going anywhere; she settled in bed with her Arithmancy and History notes spread out over the quilt. Ginny watched candlelight dance across the ceiling beams with the rustle of pages grating on her mood like sandpaper.

She wondered bitterly what was so different that Hermione now sought her company. She never seemed to need time alone; it was starting to feel a bit like the stifling presence of the rain. And it was still odd, weeks in, to watch her secure a red and gold tie at her throat and climb through the portrait hole for lessons without Harry or Ron behind her. Like a different person was dressing in her old clothes, plaiting her hair as part of this charade of a bygone figure. Maybe Hermione felt it too: like something was missing from before, some part of her left behind along with whoever those people were— Golden Trio, as the papers called it. Ginny thought of Ron’s shitty chess set picking fights in the common room, Harry’s frantic quill and muttered thanks before class. 

Maybe that’s what made it so hard to be alone now: the fear of feeling like a broken third of a whole, or someone else entirely. 

“Hermione?” It was late when Ginny next checked her watch, gone eleven. She hadn’t heard any movement for a while.

“Yeah?”

“Has Ron mentioned her at all lately? Lavender?”

She heard another page turn before Hermione cleared her throat. “Only briefly. I don’t… I’m never really sure what to say.”

“Yeah.”

Silence again. She didn’t need to lift her head to feel Hermione’s gaze.

“Think that story’s right? Can they use her case in a trial?”

She heard a heavy thump from across the room, two halves of a book meeting. “Harry was wondering that too. It’s… a tough one, I think. Greyback’s facing plenty of other charges, but…” Hermione went quiet for a moment. “I bet it’s hard to convict someone for their actions in open battle.”

“Right…”

“Yeah.”

Ginny said nothing else.

Hermione continued. “It’s messy, though. It just depends on how the court defines war crimes for these cases… There’s a chance…”

But she didn’t want to hear any more about it. The lanterns kept on flickering orange behind her eyelids as she wondered how long was polite to wait till she could draw the curtains. Flunking Potions suddenly seemed like nothing but a thorn in her side.

“Here, this might help it come together.” He had passed her the jar through a cloud of vapor. Medicinal fumes hanging low in the dorm, socks stuffed under the door to contain them, Seamus keeping watch at the foot of the stairs. “I think it’s an emulsifier, gurdyroot. Professor Sprout says it’s good for stubborn potions in a pinch.” She had ground it to a paste on her brother’s vacant bedside, dumped it in the cauldron of simmering dittany with one arm pinned uselessly at her side.

—

She slept away most of Thursday morning. Woke around midday, roused by hunger and a protesting shoulder, and threw back the curtains to find the empty dorm awash in bright, pearly sunlight for the first time in a week. Even when the reality of her failed potion crashed back over her, she couldn’t find a good reason to care.

The Great Hall was clearing out by the time she made it to lunch with her Firebolt in hand, and she stole away with two corned beef sandwiches and a nod toward Hermione and Luna at the Ravenclaw table. And then the front doors were swinging heavily behind her before encountering anyone else, and she was finding herself alone and breathing sweet, damp air beneath an empty sky.

It really was like the rain had ushered autumn into every corner of the valley— the hills were aflame with red and burnt gold, licking the bases of bald mountains. Mist tumbled from the forests like smoke, sweeping silently over the grounds and spitting leftover flecks of rain. It was one of those days where neither clouds nor sun put forward much effort.

Halfway down the lawns she mounted her Firebolt impatiently and kicked off, spraying clots of mud and grass as her stomach fluttered. And it was better than anything all week, this cool wind making long ribbons of her hair, the broom between her hands and thighs reading her thoughts before they became commands. She took her time reaching the pitch, circled the castle and glided over the lake with the toes of her boots skimming waves. Up here Hogwarts felt small— every part of it, N.E.W.T.s and smuggled booze and pretentious professors. And the world was so much larger, exploding into existence as she crested the treeline, hills undulating for miles through the mist. 

It wasn’t the first time she’d considered it— flying away from here, seeing how far she’d get. The magical wards would be an issue, but if she could find a way out she might follow the tracks south to the sixth tunnel from Hogsmeade, perch atop the mountain peak and gaze over both sides at once. Or wind her way through a northbound ravine, find herself with lungfuls of something colder and thinner and infinite.

“What made you go back? After Christmas, I mean. Luna.” His voice had been a crumpled whisper, one warm hand splayed against her back through the dark.

“It was mandatory.”

“But you would’ve gone anyway.”

She’d considered that for a while, the truth he’d discerned without her voicing it. Grateful, for the moment, that she wasn’t facing him.

“The Order could’ve hidden all of you sooner, Gin.”

“I had to,” she’d finally breathed. “I couldn’t just…”  

“Yeah.” Dark and brittle, like anything else she said might’ve caused something to break. The hand had contracted softly against her skin, thumb circling. “I know.”

She only descended after her hands had gone numb from the cold. The pitch was a dark smudge of green as she circled back around the castle, and her boots splashed down through inches of water on mushy sod, sloshing toward the goal hoops. Not ideal for training, but there was no promising the skies wouldn’t open back up tomorrow. Drawing her wand, she kicked off again.

It was dark by the time she headed up for dinner. Augusta Longbottom’s eagle owl awaited her, preening itself on the table. 

Hey Ginny!

Good to hear from you. I miss you… I’d say I wish I was there, but I think it’ll be more fun when you’re here. How’s Quidditch going?

The Wizengamot situation is a mess, obviously. It seems like everything changes from one day to the next over here. Basically, Savage reckons Kingsley offered the seat to Robards as a gesture. It’s all very weird and secretive, but I think he wanted Robards to turn it down and show people he’s dedicated to this massive mission. I don’t really get the politics either way, but everyone is pretty sure that whoever gets sworn in could have a major effect on the trials. 

Anyway, I’m sure you’ve heard loads about training. Right now the team is split between gathering evidence and tracking more Death Eaters, on top of all the Azkaban shifts. Everyone’s run pretty ragged. I think some of them are frustrated that we aren’t ready for the field, especially with the Mark showing up last week in Bath. Honestly, I get it. I think it would be good for the public to hear that Harry Potter is out there doing something rather than sitting in a Ministry classroom. (Don’t tell him I said this, but he’s good at this stuff, Gin. Like, really good. Seems like he’s missing you loads, though.)

I hope that helps a little. It’s been a weird week, but things seem to be moving now… I’m sure they’ll nominate someone else by this weekend. I know Dawlish is working on some of the stuff from Hogwarts… He asked me some questions, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they reached out to you or Seamus, too. A lot of people are hoping to see these guys locked up for good.

Maybe I’ll see you soon? I’m sure you’ll be spending Hogsmeade visits with Harry, but I hope we can all meet up for a pint sometime. Professor Sprout and I have swapped a few letters, too. I wonder if she’d let me stop by and see the greenhouses.

I’m glad Luna’s doing well. Tell her hi from me. Gran says hello (yeah, I was shocked too).

— Neville

—

Friday brought the same noncommittal weather, but the novelty of dry skies had already worn off. It was the first morning all term that felt devoid of obligation; no classes, homework, Quidditch. After another lie-in she took to the showers with nothing to keep her from standing under the stream for as long as she felt like, hot water beating her shoulders. 

She was free to drop the pretense of Healer training now, she reckoned. The thought might’ve felt liberating but instead somehow made the chasm beneath her ribs more palpable— other, realer worries tangled together like barbed rope, scraping up her insides without the padded layer of make-believe concerns about N.E.W.T.s.

Wringing out her hair in front of the mirror, her gaze followed the curve of her clavicle and neck, roved over her own face. Freckles starker against her face than they’d been in August, shadows like thumbprints beneath her eyes. Peaky, her mum would tut on her way to hunt down a sachet of ginger-lemon. Maybe it was time to consider having a routine, like Fleur had prattled on about all summer with the same tact as Auntie Muriel at a funeral. Seemed like a thing women were supposed to do, at least ones who weren’t chasing after seven kids (“and all the sun and wind you get on those brooms, too… mon dieu…"). Those creams and potions with names she couldn’t pronounce were probably somewhere at the bottom of her trunk.

She stood there in her towel a little longer, pressed up over the sink the way she remembered watching the older girls do. Longer, curvier bodies than she’d ever imagined herself fitting into, impossibly grown up. Women. Searching for imperfections, she’d assumed— anything they could magic or pluck away before slipping on higher skirts and fuller bras.

But maybe instead they’d been doing what she was now, studying themselves to figure out whether this was it— a glimpse beyond the fleetingness of adolescence— if the person staring back was the one she had grown into, not one she would grow out of. Bright, brown eyes with freckled lids; hair she thought was pretty but would look better with a pump of Sleakeazy’s; a sharpness about her jaw and cheeks. That last bit was recent— a product of getting older, probably, or something else entirely. Like how Hermione had left a girl and come back a woman, or the way her mum had turned hollow and brittle. 

The flaw that caught her eye was one she couldn’t magic away— one shoulder sitting a little higher than the other, just barely enough to be noticeable if you knew.

The same ennui carried her out on a meandering walk before lunch, kicking pebbles along the lake shore while Luna tossed bits of crumpet to the ducks. Eventually they found cold, damp rocks perfect for sitting, and Ginny’s gaze slid over the ridgeline in comfortable silence. A lone column of smoke coiled from the hut against the trees. She found herself torn between craving conversation and wishing she was alone. 

By the time they stood, the rock had soaked the seat of her jeans. 

—

There were two scrolls tied to Pigwidgeon’s leg when he landed beside Ginny’s lunch plate. She unloaded both and offered up her pumpkin juice, noticed with a tiny thrill that one was addressed to her. 

She read it under the table, concealed in plain sight with the relieved exuberance of a homework-free weekend buzzing through the rest of the hall. Slid it open to find this one was written in haste again, smudged worse than the first. 

Gin,

I’m sure exams are going great. But if you’re looking for me to stop you dropping out and coming here, you’ve come to the wrong place. I’ll settle for a Hogsmeade weekend, though. Can’t wait to see you.

Weather’s not too bad down here, but with all the northern storms I’m hoping this reaches you. You haven’t been away from Ted too long yet, don’t worry. Your mum and I are trying to get Andromeda to leave him with us for a weekend, but I reckon that’ll take a lot more convincing. They’re coming round the Burrow on Friday. I’ll be sure to pass on a hug from you while you’re all getting pissed. Have fun by the way, and make sure Hermione does too (I would apologize for having you miss the last Gryffindor do, but I don’t regret a thing).

Hope everything else is going okay. How’s the team so far? We’re Replotting the house on Monday, and then someone’s coming out in the next couple of weeks to assess it. Bill wants to make sure nothing funny happens first. 

— Harry

She tucked the letter away again with something like disappointment niggling between her ribs, sticking like cement.

She wouldn’t address the source of that feeling until opening it back up that evening, cloistered by her four-poster hangings while her roommates dressed and shared pre-drinks around her. Differences between this letter and the last, the way it was all clipped and guarded. She supposed she hadn’t asked him much about work, but with Neville’s update for context the omission felt tangible. Weather’s not too bad here… She heard it in the same tone he’d used after her mum had shown the lawyers out, cigar box in hand containing the entirety of the Lupin vault. “Erm… That farm stand down the road had plums today, by the way.”

Have fun, by the way.  

She was reluctant to admit she’d been spoiled by his last note, but of course she had— unfurling something written to her in the dead of night. Thoughts that had felt unhurried, yearning for her from across the country with the same warmth as if he lay inches away. It was easy to picture the way he might’ve scrawled out the latest one at the kitchen counter to the rumble of morning traffic, rolled it up before the ink could dry on his way out the door.

Someone turned up the wireless as Ginny leaned over the side of her bed, keeping a closed fist around the vial as she pulled it from her trunk. The wax was still sealed, a sloppy glob dripped around the cork in her haste. She passed a thumb over it, catching the lip with her nail, pressing a crescent in the soft coating. Even in stifled light the potion was alluring, swirling incandescent and pink. She still hadn’t gotten it out of her head, pathetic as it was— the way one breath had taken her straight from the classroom someplace else, somewhere she could reach out and find him, see for herself that he was okay. 

She slipped it back among her socks without opening it, humiliation prickling the back of her neck. 

—

“Think this is okay?”

From her spot on the floor, Hermione was holding up a maroon button-down top.

“Perfect. What time’s your meeting with the Minister again?”

“Alright, well help me, then,” she muttered crossly, stuffing it back in her trunk.

Ginny rummaged beside her own bed and tossed a shirt across the room. “Try this.”

“It’s way too short.”

“That’s the point, Hermione.”

She chewed her lip, frowning at the striped t-shirt as if Ginny had handed over a silk bustier. “Would you mind if I lengthened it a bit, just for tonight? I’ll set it back after.”

“Fine. Guess it doesn’t matter anyway, seeing as Ron isn’t here—”

“Stop it.”

Ginny shrugged with an impish grin.

Hermione dressed with her back to the room, stood in front of the mirror with her shoulders slumped forward. 

“You don’t have to wear it. I’ve got others.”

“No, it’s fine,” she said in a small voice. She sat cross-legged on her bed like taking a seat in a stranger’s home. 

Ginny perched on the end of her own bunk to face her. They didn’t have to go anywhere, she suggested for a fourth time, to which Hermione took on that same scandalized look and reminded her how rude that would be. She made no effort to move, though. In the quiet of the empty dorm, a thumping beat was audible through the wall. They were already late.

“They’d get over it, you know. This is more about a piss-up than anything else.”

“Or a reason to say they’ve hung out with… one of us,” Hermione snorted, cheeks flushing. Her mouth pulled to one side as she picked at her thumbnail. “I know that sounds awful. But I’m not stupid.”

“Course you aren’t.” Ginny crossed the room, crouching to reach under Thalia’s bed.

“What are you doing?”

She shrugged. “It’s still your birthday… in spirit, at least.” The only bottle she could find was green and three-quarters full of dark liquor, and she only noticed the stag on the label as she was already pouring. She decided there must be something a little poetic in that. 

—

Their second shots went down easier than the first. Ginny settled with a pillow under her chest as Hermione wiped her mouth without spluttering.

“Shame no one’s here to witness me chatting up the Hermione Granger. Can’t wait to write my mum about it.”

“Knock it off.”

They sat in silence for a while longer with the bass pulsing distantly. Ginny felt the burn in her throat spreading outward, heavy in her veins, nestling between her thoughts. 

On the bed facing her, there was something distinctly lonely about the way Hermione examined the ends of her hair, body curled inward— a childlike, diminutive sight for someone whose image had outgrown school robes and dorm parties.The Hermione Granger, shutting herself in as if all the company she’d sought had done nothing to quench something deeper and desperate. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling. 

Eventually, Hermione checked her watch. “Think it’s even ruder to arrive late?”

“Course not.” Ginny shrugged. “The guest of honor shows up whenever she wants. Seriously though, we don’t have to go.”

She pursed her lips in thought, but the decision was already made. 

“You know,” she commented imperiously on their way out the door, narrowing her gaze at Ginny’s neckline. “Harry isn’t going to be there, either.”

“Course he isn’t. I left that top at home.”

—

Naturally, the seventh year boys’ dorm was more crowded than promised. Those two shots suddenly didn’t seem like enough, and as the throng spilling out onto the landing gave a cheer for the birthday girl’s arrival, Ginny ducked her way through in search of a third.

It was loud and hot, squeezing between too many bodies to fit in a dorm with six bunks. 

The room was nothing like last year, from what she could tell— no bare walls or empty beds. Every vertical surface teemed with movement, posters with the usual themes: sports, music, witches. With a tiny jolt of recognition, she spotted the unmoving image of eleven men without broomsticks, one ball shared among the lot. Dean had added a new poster above his bed this term: a framed watercolor from the World Cup.

Despite all the plans she’d overheard, the only party decoration in sight was a string of colored lanterns, Spellotaped to the wall above a makeshift drink table laden with more bottles than she could count. On someone’s bedside, the wireless blared an old Acid Quills album.

Demelza found her first. Bumped her shoulder with a smirk and a cup of something orange and bubbly. “Here, start with this.”

“What is it?”

She shrugged. “Sloper’s creation. It’s horrendous.”

“Cheers, then.” Ginny downed half of it one go. It wasn’t the worst thing she’d drunk all night.

Demelza watched her with a huge grin. “Glad you’re here. Now I owe Jack ten sickles, though… I was positive Hermione wouldn’t show.”

“Yeah well, I can be pretty convincing,” she muttered, glancing around the room. Pockets of sixth and seventh years were squeezed in circles or crowded on beds. With a rush of affection, Ginny spied Luna in a clump alongside Dean and Jack, brightening the room in the same flashy robes she’d worn to Slughorn’s Christmas do. 

Across the room, Grace and Thalia had taken to Hermione like moths flitting around a bright light, showering her with tipsy attention— the latter held up a sparkling, pointed party hat. Ginny hurried to her rescue with a cup of wine, snatching up the hat on their way back toward Demelza.

“You said it was just an excuse for a party!” Hermione hissed, rounding on Ginny. “This is way more than a few people.”

“I didn’t plan this,” Ginny lobbed back evenly. “But of course it’s an excuse, why else d’you think so many people showed? Here,” she pressed the cup into her hand, holding out the hat. “Have some fun. And just wear the damn thing, you’ll make Thalia’s night. As soon as everyone’s hammered, I promise no one will care about your birthday.”

Demelza was looking between them both, lowering a bottle of wine from her smiling lips. Next second she was loudly calling for a round of shots with a wink in Ginny’s direction. A tiny explosion of gold sparks and confetti burst from the tip of Hermione’s hat, forming little number nineteens in midair.

“Ay, Ginny— oh shit, sorry…” Someone tripped on the corner of a trunk and knocked into her from behind, overcorrecting by grabbing her arm. The firewhisky she’d swallowed was still searing through her chest, licking at her throat, fluttering in her stomach. When she turned, Andrew Kirke was grinning down at her. “Alright? Didn’t see you there.”

Ginny narrowed her eyes to meet his half-glazed look. “Mm, good one.”

“What? No, I…” He blinked at her for a moment before his grin returned. “I just didn’t know you’d made it.”

“Glad to see the head’s back on straight.”

Andrew let out a bark of laughter. “Better than ever, honestly.” He peered into her empty cup. “Hey, let me grab you a drink…”

“Maybe in a bit,” she said archly, slipping between a few people and making it her mission to find Luna.

She and Dean had strayed from the other Gryffindors, navigating the room as a unit. Now Dean was knelt in front of the wireless, fiddling with the dials while Luna swayed to a different beat.

“Ginny!” She hurried forward, and Ginny felt a good measure of drink spill down her back as Luna threw both arms around her. “Oh, you smell lovely. Honeysuckle?” She pressed her nose into Ginny’s hair. “Ooh, and rosehips…”

Ginny glanced at Dean, who was trying not to laugh and failing. “You sure it’s just booze in that cup?”

“S’far as I know,” he chuckled.

And then it was easier, hanging around the two of them. Comfortable. Even if she did feel a wry twinge of irony every time Luna leaned heavily against Dean’s shoulder, or gazed at his hands while he worked. Ginny leaned back against the wall, forcing back a pang of the same loneliness she’d recognized in Hermione while the party ebbed and swelled around them. 

Turned out Dean was scanning for Muggle radio signals with a charm he’d heard of somewhere. He waved his wand over the antenna with every attempt, commenting under his breath about every new song. After another drink (or two, she lost count), Ginny was finding his judgments increasingly offensive.

“And you think wizard bands have weird names,” she scoffed. “Radio Head…?”

“That’s miles better than the Hobgoblins! Who haven’t put out anything decent in about five years, by the way.”

“Please, anyone would take a break after something as cracking as Enchanted Echoes—”

“Sure, anyone but the Beatles…” he counted hotly on his fingers, “or Wu Tang, the Spice Girls, Nirv—”

“Alright I’ll give you the Spice Girls, but that’s it.”

“Christ, Ginny—”

“I need the loo,” Luna interjected, steering Ginny by the elbow. They left Dean still tinkering, and he threw an exasperated smirk over his shoulder.

Comparatively, the common room was eerily quiet. Younger students who’d stayed up late were taking rare advantage of the best seats by the fire, the cushiest armchairs in the corners. As she and Luna crossed to the girls’ staircase, a few cast withering looks of envy.

“Isn’t it weird to be in our last year?” Ginny wondered aloud, leaned up against the stall. On the other side, she heard the toilet flush. “Some part of me feels like we’ll be doing this forever. But I guess part of me thought I’d never come back, too.”

Luna opened the door, and Ginny nearly fell inside. “It will be good to finish, I think,” she said with a sober look, crossing to the sinks. “Then we figure out the rest.”

Ginny snorted, studying her reflection. In that moment she barely recognized her own eyes, slightly darker brown than she’d expected, a little too big for her face. She licked a finger and swiped away a smudge of mascara, pushed her hair to one side. “Mm… figuring out the rest. Piece of cake. Cake with ladybirds.”

Luna grinned at her in the mirror. 

By the time they got back Dean had succeeded; now the wireless antenna was over two feet long, bent at an awkward angle, and the speakers thumped with something Ginny didn’t recognize. A few other Muggle-borns in the room were nodding appreciatively, toasting in his direction.

Faced with his expectant look, Ginny offered an indifferent shrug. 

“Liar,” Dean lobbed back easily, draining the rest of his cup. “It’s good shit and you know it.”

She reunited with Hermione at some point, squeezed in next to her in a circle of Gryffindors. The charm on her hat had begun wearing off— the bursts of confetti were paler and smelled a little like burnt fireworks. Hermione gave Ginny a contented smile and leaned against her arm, a little pink in the face from laughter or wine or both.

“Heads up,” she muttered under her breath, swirling a cocktail umbrella. “I’ve been getting a lot of questions about Ron.”

“Merlin, Hermione,” Ginny giggled, leaning in, “how many articles does Witch Weekly have to publish before you realize you’re in a celebrity couple?”

Hermione blinked at her. “Don’t be thick. We are not the ones most people care ab—”

“Ginny! Hey, I was wondering where you’d got off to.” Andrew Kirke approached them both from behind, disheveled and a little breathless, grinning massively. “Fancy that drink now? Happy birthday by the way, Hermione.”

This time Ginny didn’t object, passed him her cup with a cheeky grin. As he walked away, she gave Hermione a nudge. 

“Problem solved. No one’s going to ask me anything.”

“Be serious, Ginny. He isn’t concerned about his privacy…”

Andrew rejoined them a minute later, wedging in a little awkwardly beside Jack. Across the circle, Romilda Vane was holding court; Ginny overheard the name of a Ballycastle Chaser she knew to be dating Celestina Warbeck’s son. The summer holidays had been kind to Romilda— her hair was lighter, the round girlishness in her face giving way to dramatic cheekbones and jawline. She wore it well too, with a little slip dress to go with the demure look draped carefully across her features. Ginny avoided her gaze with disinterest before realizing with a stab of something white-hot that the person off to her right was her date— clearly torn between wondering how he got there and leaning into the role— Dennis Creevey.

She’d noticed him a few times this term, mostly in corridors and at meals. Really though, she hadn’t properly seen him since May, not since tapping her glass to his so hard it nearly broke, since toasting their induction to the world’s shittiest club while the Muggles around them prayed. 

He’d grown out his hair. Abandoned the look, apparently— no longer the smaller of an identical, inseparable duo.

In her ear, Andrew was competing with the music to tell her all about Exploding Snap Club. How it was all for the best he didn’t make Quidditch, really, since they met on the same weeknights. Ginny nodded in agreement and sipped politely at the drink he’d made with a tiny prickle of guilt.

“We should play a round sometime. Euan’s got a deck with a penalty for taking too long on a turn… Keeps everyone on edge.”

“Careful what you wish for,” she smirked over the edge of her cup. “I’m pretty competitive.” 

He smiled down at her, leaned in much too close. “I know. Everyone’s seen you play Quidditch… Chaser and Seeker… Who’s your team, by the way?”

She had an urge to slap Dennis’ lanky arm from around Romilda’s waist, demand he trim the floppy fringe above his eyes. 

“Holyhead.”

“You’re joking. We’re rivals?”

“God, the Wanderers? That’s bloody brave of you. I respect the loyalty, though…”

Romilda caught her attention again— “Merlin, even the training sounds so dangerous !” she was gasping at Hermione with a dramatic flourish. “I would just worry constantly… All those Death Eaters still out there…”

And then the song changed and Dean threw his head back with a howl, startling half the room, and he led a giggling Luna by the hand to the middle with a wide berth. On her other side, Jack had a hand in Demelza’s back pocket, who didn’t seem to mind at all. 

Ginny looked back up at Andrew with her pulse running hot and quick through her veins. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“I was, er… wondering if you wanted to get some air or something…”

Ginny cleared her throat. “Erm—”

But Andrew stumbled forward as someone tripped over the same trunk and fell into him, spilling most of their drink on his shoulder. 

“Ah, sorry mate! Here, lemme get that…”

The voice grated her nerves before she looked. Even hammered, Zach Smith’s pointed face was rife with arrogance, split in a narrow grin as his glassy-eyed gaze turned to linger just below her face.

“Weasley! Shit, how were the hols?” He drew his wand to cast the same drying charm Andrew had already used.

“Who let you in here?” she asked mildly. “Thought Hermione explicitly said friends only.” Her hand twitched for her wand, itching for him to give her a reason. 

He shrugged, sneering. “Sounded like an open invitation to me. Here, mate.” He was still patting Andrew’s sleeve. “We can swap, if you want—”

“No, really, it’s fine—”

“Someone told me you got your hands on a Firebolt, by the way,” Smith suddenly drawled like he’d been itching to say it, pressing in closer.

“And that made you nervous? I’ve news for you—”

“Nah, not nervous.” Warm breath hit her face, heavy with firewhisky smoke. “It’s just a nice broom, is all. Wonder who I’d have to shag to get one.”

“Oi, what the fuck —” Andrew took a step toward them both.

“The Russian National Team’s hiring a new Bludger boy,” Ginny spat back. Something about his tone sent heat rushing high in her throat, tightening her jaw. “I’m sure they’d put you to good use.”

“There’s an idea.” He smirked. “I’m curious how they compare to Aurors, though. Bet someone over there could pull a few strings—”

The incantation burning her tongue was so close she felt it ripple down her arm without permission, and a jet of black light crackled from her wand. A few people nearby jumped back as the hex sent sparks across the floor— one collided with an abandoned cup and it sprouted black wings, lifting off the ground to flap around erratically.

“No one pulls strings for cowards, Smith. Bet your hols were pretty mellow—”

But Andrew had evidently heard enough. He shoved Zacharias hard in the chest, sending him toppling back into an unsuspecting throng.

“Ay! For fuck’s sake…” And now Jack, Rowan, and Dean were breaking it up, grabbing each of their arms, steering them away. Smith threw elbows to free himself as the latter two tossed him back. Jack let go of Andrew with an apologetic grimace as Demelza met Ginny’s eyes in confusion. In the moment it took to gather her thoughts, chatter in the room had resumed, largely unfazed— it wasn’t the first row anyone had seen all term, and far from the worst.

She apologized to Andrew through gritted teeth, stowing her wand in her back pocket. Blood still thundered in her ears. 

“S’alright. Did I miss something, though?” he asked with a bit of a forced chuckle. “You two—”

“We don’t exactly get on.”

“No kidding.”

It took her another minute to realize his hand had found the small of her back between jeans and top— warm, thick fingers trailing gooseflesh along her waist. Felt a little stupid, suddenly, showing off this much skin.

She squirmed a little, feeling warm. “Fancy another shot?”

“Sure,” he murmured, but he was urging her closer, finding her hip with his other hand.

“Hang on,” she whispered, stepping back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”

For a second he stared back blankly, then his forehead crumpled. “Oh, sorry,” he mumbled. “Shit, I must’ve misread—”

“No…” Guilt slid into her gut like a stone, pooling with the other knots gathered there. “Don’t be sorry. It’s… I’m seeing someone, that’s all.”

“Oh. Oh. Thought that was old news… You and Potter still, then?”

“No,” said quickly, and the lie would’ve come easier without Demelza’s eyes on the back of her neck, too close not to hear. “Bloke from back home, actually, a long-distance friend of Ron’s. Ilvermorny.”

“Ah. Gotcha.” He shifted his weight. “Well, er, good talking to you… Sorry…”

“Yeah, you too, no worries…” 

She could feel Hermione’s glare from nearby too but didn’t look up, knew it would fall somewhere between I told you so and what the hell are you doing .

Demelza at least had the decency to wait for him to slink off before sidling up to her. “I fucking knew it.”

Ginny chewed the inside of her cheek, saying nothing. 

“Knew what?” And of all people, it was Dean who’d approached them, nudging Ginny with his elbow. “Smith wised up and did a runner, by the way. Said to give you his best.”

“Lovely.”

He narrowed in on Demelza, who did her best to match his stare. “Come on, Robins… you fucking knew what?”

“None of your business, Thomas. Some bloke she’s seeing at Ilvermorny.”

“Ilvermorny?” And he looked at Ginny with the corner of his lip betraying the bit. “That’s a pretty long commute. I could’ve sworn they trained Aurors in London.”

“You told him ?”

“Course not. He—”

Dean grinned. “I still know you pretty well, you know.”

“Erm… Sure.”

—

“Never have I ever… ooh, mentally undressed a professor.”

“Cheers, mates,” Ginny announced, and a mouthful of rum from her cup went down easy. “I was eleven,” she added, after someone whistled. “There was just something about Binns’ voice…”

Luna gave a honking laugh and fell back against Dean’s shoulder. Next to her, a pink-faced Hermione took a subtle swig.

The crowd had dwindled; Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws had largely gone, along with most younger Gryffindors. Those remaining had formed a loose circle, lounging on beds or sitting on the floor, passing around a bag of pickled onion crisps. Ginny’s limbs felt loose and weightless.

“Never have I ever… hm, driven a car, Dean…”

“Fine, never have I ever given a handjob by the lake, Thalia.”

Demelza was still throwing glances at Ginny, eyes narrowing as she finally slid closer. “Could’ve told me sooner.”

“I know.”

“You know Romilda still doesn’t believe you either, right?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ginny mumbled before tipping her head back to empty her cup. Blood thudded sluggishly in her ears as she thought of his jumper and letters— solace and evidence, tucked away in the same place. “She can’t prove anything. Didn’t believe me last year either, did they?”

Demelza shrugged. “Just thought you’d want to know. She brought it up first thing on the train ‘cause she knows we’re friends. Can’t imagine she’s wasting too much brain power on it right now, though…”

Over at the table by Dean’s bed, Dennis was refilling two cups with wine, cracking a grin as Romilda bumped a playful shoulder against his. 

“Never have I ever earned a P.”

“Oh Iris, come on…”

“Okay, fine… Never have I ever snogged a Quidditch Captain.”

“Oof. It counts, Dean.”

“He’d’ve wanted you to have it, really.” Ginny had known what it was before Dennis pressed it into his hand. Fifteen years old in a suit tailored for broader shoulders, jaw set like he’d never been so sure of anything.

That night she’d waited up. Stomach in knots, five in the morning. Eventually, Harry had wandered home with the Galleon still clenched in his palm. 

“Ginny, it’s your turn—”

“I need a new drink, then,” she snapped, stumbling to her feet. 

—

It was Rowan who suggested a trip to the kitchens. Jack who rallied the group. Hermione who refused point-blank, and headed for bed before anyone else moved. 

“I’ve had too many of these already,” Ginny whinged, nudging aside the empty crisp bag. “But if they have curry chips, bring me some.”

After they left she sat without moving, arse and back going numb against the bedpost until she pulled her legs up onto the mattress, nudging aside Dean’s feet. He grunted and started from a half-slumber. 

“You snore like a train. Here, I saved you a drink.” 

He scowled and sat up, looking around. “They actually went down there?”

“Sure did. Apparently Filch takes his break around now, but I’m pretty sure Sloper made that up.”

“Morons.” And then he nodded toward the wireless with a grin, as if he’d just remembered it was still playing. “Oh come on, Ginny. You have to admit this is good.”

The Muggle music was good, much as she hated to concede. Now it was something a little softer— raw and uncompromising, filling the room with jagged tones and reverberations that mirrored her own heartbeat. As if somehow, a life without magic was more distinctly human. For a long time they both listened, heads tipped back, eyes drifting closed. Maybe she should have felt weird about it, sitting across from Dean in his own bed. She might’ve felt worse if they weren’t both glued to the spot, equally loath to move.

“Hey, don’t spill that.” When she opened her eyes, he was gesturing toward the leaning cup in her hand. “What is it, anyway?”

“Rum.”

“God, what’s that all about? Thought it was firewhisky for you.”

She shrugged. “Fancy myself a pirate these days.” 

He nodded once with a chuckle, staring down at the quilting between them. And she watched something stoic slowly steal over his face, tugging on his brow, pressing his lips together. They were the only two left, she realized— even Dennis and Romilda were gone.

“So ah, you and Harry… Seems like a pretty big thing to keep quiet about. Has that been weird?”

She met his gaze when he looked up, and it was devoid of the cold betrayal she’d once found there. Instead, he was steady. Curious. 

“Erm, not really. It’s nobody’s business, especially since people are losing their minds every time he wears a new jumper.”

“Damn. A bloke disappears for a few months and suddenly people think he’s all interesting…” 

She was quiet for a second. Waited for what felt like forever till his lip twitched. “I wouldn’t hold your breath, Thomas.”

“Oof.”

She sat up a little. “Do I get to ask you something now, then?”

He smirked. It had been something like a game for them once, questions passed back and forth— notes between classes, letters between terms. “I guess that’s how it works, yeah?” He reached for a near-empty bottle of wine. 

“What made you decide to come back?”

Dean blew out a long breath and slumped back against the headboard, swirling his cup. “Honestly? I’ve no idea.”

“Sounds like you really liked Paris… You could’ve switched to Beauxbatons, like Justin.”

“I did, yeah…” He frowned soberly, and for a long minute she thought that was all he’d say about it. 

“I think I just needed to feel like I finished something, if that makes any sense. I haven’t got anything to show as a Muggle… No school, no work… My art’s not good enough to make a living yet. When I got the letter it just felt like something I knew how to do. I was heading back up here anyway.”

Ginny smoothed the sheet down and balanced her drink on top. “Nothing to do with Luna, then?”

His eyes widened, and she wondered whether he’d answer or call her out for cheating the game. “Luna?”

“You’re telling me nothing’s going on?”

“Nah, we’re just mates. Why, did she say—”

“No, I was just wondering…”

Dean grinned and cocked his head. “I mean, I’m quite fond of her. The shit she says sometimes... Reckon I’d’ve gone mad in that cell without her there.”

She said nothing, watched him study the crimson curtains while the wireless thrummed on, low and heady. He took his time noticing her silence, like he’d forgotten what he’d said.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” And she downed the rest of her drink without tasting it. “I’m just glad to hear the blokes in your year are done messing with mine.”

“Us messing you around? That’s a bit rich, Ginny.”

“Is it?”

His eyes narrowed, still grinning. “Course it is. You know you had your pick of the D.A., right? And from what I hear, it was Luna that ditched Neville… and then Thalia and Anthony…”

“Mmm… hearsay.”

“I mean, the only one of us that really mucked anyone around is—” And he stopped, brow softening. “But I’m guessing that’s water under the bridge now, yeah?”

Ginny rolled onto her back. Her vision spun for just a second. “Course it is.”

She could still feel his gaze as the music swelled and the vocals whined, heavy with whatever was coming next.

“My turn, isn’t it?”

“Sure.”

“Was it hard? When he came back?”

She snorted and raised her empty cup. “If that wasn’t meant to be a joke, I’ll need another drink.”

“Fine, but we might be out…” He rose from the bed to search the table. “There’s this apple stuff from Dennis, doesn’t look like anyone’s touched that…”

She sipped on something bright green and syrupy that she’d have found cloying if she’d been sober. After another minute, Dean prodded her again expectantly.

“This is a weird question.”

“I know, sorry. Rules are rules, though.”

“I’m not even really sure what you mean.”

He shrugged. “I guess I’m just wondering if it was weird, after everything. When we stayed with Bill it sounded like he missed you… But I got the impression he thought you were angry, or moving on, or something.”

Ginny felt like she’d swallowed something cold, clenching in her gut. Somehow she’d let herself forget they’d all been there at once, that little refuge by the sea. 

“We’re not here to babysit you, ickle sister… Just making sure you don’t try going anywhere…”

“Bill says they’re fine, okay? All of them.”

She had written Neville that night in a rage, thrown Pig from Muriel’s back window carrying her poorly-coded note before anyone could stop her.

“ That’s what you two talked about after he pulled you lot from a dungeon?”

Dean paused, chewing his tongue. She wished she could vanish that tether of hesitation. “I guess it was one of the only times we got to talking, actually. After Lupin’s baby was born. Not just about you… But there was a lot of wine, and I think it was just easier than talking about everything else…”

“Mhm.” She tugged a wayward thread along the sheet until it caught on a stitch.

“So, were you?”

“Was I what?”

“Angry?”

“No.”

“Really?” He arched a brow and leaned closer. She bristled at the way his eyes penetrated, dark and inquisitive.

She pushed her drink away, drew her knees to her chest. “What’s this all about? Was Eleanor pissed off that you left? Or your mum?”

“What? No… course not.”

“Then why do you care if I was?”

“It’s… different.”

“Hardly.”

He didn’t offer anything further, and his throat contracted, Adam’s apple dipping. For one wild second she thought his gaze dropped lower, and something hot and metallic filled her mouth.

“It’s my turn,” she snapped.

“Damn.” But he was grinning ruefully, reaching for her abandoned cup.

“What makes you think I was angry?”

He finished the rest of her drink in one go— I still know you pretty well, you know — and she wanted to wipe the smug look from his mouth. As he mulled over his answer she wondered whether that was even true, if knowing her at one point meant he still did now, even if she felt like an entirely different person…

“Because it’s a little fucked to just up and disappear, isn’t it? S’what I’ve been told.”

She blinked. “Who said that?”

Dean let out a long, slow breath, avoiding her gaze. “Seamus.”

“Oh. Well of course Seamus was miffed, he was a bloody mess last year. But it’s always like that with him for a minute, isn’t it? Bet he got over it pretty quick.”

His lip twisted humorlessly. “Like I said… it’s different.”

Ginny focused her gaze on him with a little effort. The room was rocking a little, like they’d boarded a boat. “Like… that sort of different?”

“Yeah.”

She giggled, and her head tipped back. “I swear to Merlin, Dean, you think you’re funny …”

But either he was a better actor than she remembered, or she’d said something very wrong.

“Never mind,” he muttered. “Just forget about it, it’s like four a.m… you’re pissed…”

Her laugh ended with a hiccup as she pushed the hair from her face, reassembled her features. “Wait, don’t— You’re serious, aren’t you?”

He swallowed and nodded, this time without breaking her gaze.

“Holy shit, Dean…”

“Yeah, well, sorry. You know, if this is weird.”

But she was already thinking back on Seamus and the post, scanning obits in the Prophet and sending letters with no reply, sleeping next to an empty bed with his fist clenched around a dormant coin.

Dean nudged her knee, and she jumped. “My turn.”

“Fuck off, no way. You cede your turn with news like that.” She offered a grin, and the corner of his lip slowly lifted.

“Fine.”

She was tempted to reach for the low-hanging fruit, the when that might be difficult to explain and harder to hear. “So, has it just been Seamus then, or…?”

“Erm… things were sort of on and off with him, for a bit. So… no.”

“Hot.”

“Ginny —”

“Hey, I get it. Paris, right? So now is he like, your b —”

“Damn, you guys are still up?”

Jack’s footfalls were heavy on the top few steps. He leaned against the doorway to survey the room, a bleary-eyed figure flickering in the lamplight. “Where’d everyone go?”

Dean shrugged. “No clue. Bed, probably. Where’ve you been?” He nudged Ginny again and she took his cue, sliding from his bed to sit on the floor.

“Prefect’s loo.”

“Oi. You’re not allowed—”

“Ginny, you gave me the password earlier.”

“Doubtful.”

“Anyway,” Jack yawned. “We fell asleep, and Filch came and kicked us out. Pretty sure he’s gonna go to Podmore about it tomorrow…” He flopped back onto his bed with a groan, sending a few Exploding Snap cards fluttering to the floor.

Dean lifted his head from the pillow. “Us?”

“Me’n Mel.”

“Ha!” Ginny snorted and rolled backward. Something wet and sweet-smelling seeped through her shirt from the floor. “What a gentleman.”

She lay there on her back for a while with the floor rocking and the room swirling, and as seconds stretched into minutes she wondered whether the churning in her stomach was from the liquor or the unresolved weight billowing silently in the room. 

“Ginny.”

“Hm?”

Dean’s voice again. “You should get up. Do you want help?”

She’d must’ve closed her eyes for a second, or maybe longer, opened them now to a room that seemed as though no time had passed at all, other than Jack’s heavy snores in the bunk by the door. “I’m fine.” She stood and her stomach pitched again. Dean wore a hesitant look as he held out the same cup from earlier.

“It’s water.”

She still tasted a trace of apple, but it helped. And then somehow she was lying on her back in an empty bed, one arm thrown over her eyes to block out the lantern as the spinning subsided.

“Ginny?”

“Yeah?”

“You can tell me if you’re upset. I just— I felt like you should know.”

She pressed her arm tighter against her face, and her forehead prickled numbly. It was too much to think about now, every minute spent on guilt and pity and worry that now seemed woefully misguided. All of it belonged to a different person, anyway. Someone else’s life. 

“Nah, I still need three Chasers tomorrow.”

He was quiet for long enough that she thought he’d fallen asleep. “Okay.”

“I’m staying here,” she mumbled.

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

Dreams came to her in fragments for the rest of the night, in a bed that wasn’t hers in a room that didn’t smell like stale fear. Black waves climbing stone walls, paintings on parchment, fingers in the bloody seam of a cracked skull… And then something different— solid and warm in her bed, calloused fingers on her skin, whispers on her forehead… She clung to sleep like fistfuls of sand as it fell away, leaving her colder than before. Half-awake and aching, peppered by the melancholy whine of Muggle men because no one had bothered to switch off the wireless. 

—

Discussing Jack Sloper over breakfast was a welcome distraction. 

Her shower hadn’t made much difference, washed the smell of wine and rum down the drain but did nothing for the nausea that seemed to penetrate her bones. Like her insides had all been pulled out and replaced in the wrong order, skin taut and itchy under her Quidditch kit, shoulder coiled like a rusted spring. 

She chugged pumpkin juice while Demelza talked, leaned in at all the right moments with her head pounding and her thoughts trudging through honey. Hermione took pity and passed her two scones and a teapot, vanished the coffee from her mug that no amount of milk or sugar made palatable.

“I just can’t believe Filch showed up.” Demelza dropped her head in her folded arms. “How much do you actually think he’ll tell Podmore?”

“No clue. Glad it was all good up till then, though— I didn’t think you actually fancied him back.”

She groaned against the table, and Ginny nearly followed suit. Dread was joining the nausea, percolating alongside the slow trickle of last night’s blurred memories. It was still early; the Great Hall was only dotted with a few students besides the Gryffindor Quidditch team. She thanked Merlin Andrew Kirke hadn’t shown up yet. Or McGonagall, for that matter.

Her stomach and legs protested as she rose from the table and shouldered her Firebolt, scanning the Hufflepuff table for good measure.

She was hardly surprised when Dean followed her out.

“Think we can talk for a sec?”

He stowed his hands in his pockets on their way toward the pitch, boots carving tracks in the dew-soaked grass under a sky that promised good visibility. Ginny pulled deep breaths of cold air through her nose, wondering whether he was waiting for her to speak first or figuring out where to start. 

The bits she could recall from their conversation crawled along her arms and neck with needling humiliation. Any hope that she’d imagined it all was dissipating.

“Ginny.”

She searched for a response in icy silence.

He sighed. “Look, if you’re upset, I think we should clear things up.”

“I’m not—” Uncertainty cut her off. “I’m just surprised, I think. Or confused, I dunno.”

“I know. That was shit timing, I’m sorry.”

“Right…” she murmured.

They passed the Whomping Willow, branches outstretched like open palms toward the first proper sun in days. A few leaves had conceded to gold, but the rest still clung to a verdure the valley’s foliage had abandoned. Dean fidgeted with his Quidditch gloves as they went, long fingers tracing the stitching. 

“I’m sure you have questions,” he finally said.

She let out a breathless laugh.

Everything she wanted to ask felt trapped high in her chest, stuck behind a meager wall of dignity that any of his answers might shatter in one swipe. Last night’s memory stung with a deeper wound than she cared to admit. Sentiments she had no right to, embedded like barbs in her skin.

“He fancies you. Gin. Don’t be fucking thick.”

It hadn’t been the night she’d ended it, but it should’ve been.

“You’re paranoid.”

“Am I?”

“I really did like you, you know,” she finally whispered, hoping it was loud enough to hear.

“So did I, Ginny. You’re brilliant, fit… It’s—” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “It wasn’t like that back then, I swear.”

“When, then?”

“When what?”

She considered it. “When did you know?”

He let out a slow sigh. “I dunno, honestly. S’not like I woke up one day and things were different…”

“…Right.”

But he explained more as they approached the stadium: long talks after Dumbledore’s funeral while the air reeked with impending war; swirling rumors of a Registration Commission in August; too much time to think while he was away and no time wasted when he returned. Fear and denial and anger coalescing into something blistering and bright.

They reached the gate and Ginny dug in her pocket for the key. Her limbs were still clumsy and heavy, stomach churning.

“Have you told anyone else?” she finally asked, unsticking her tongue. 

Dean was examining the shaft of his broom. “Just Parvati.”

“What about Harry or Ron? Or Nev?”

“Not sure. He was considering it though, last we talked.”

She nodded, and they were engulfed by another silence. She checked her watch; they still had fifteen minutes till practice. Kicking off right then would be a mistake though, she reckoned, lest she leave the contents of her stomach on the pitch.

“Seamus is a good bloke,” she finally murmured. “He was worried sick about you.”

“I know.” Dean gave her a long, searching look. “I’m sorry I told you like that, I was pissed too—”

But she breezily dismissed the apology, assured him she was glad he was happy. 

And she was, she concluded as she collected equipment from the shed, even if she couldn’t shake the queasy sense of doubt. Once upon a time she had let go of her guilt surrounding Dean Thomas, assured herself she’d firmly closed one door before opening another. Absolution had slipped in alongside the thrill of something else that had been new and easy and right.  

Now she watched him kick off across the pitch, and something smothered the last flicker of guilt she hadn’t realized was there. It was like turning back to realize the door behind her was on fire, or had never existed in the first place. And along with it, the girl from that life— the one who had six brothers and chased after Snitches, one with something hard and blazing in the place that now felt hollow. 

I still know you pretty well, you know.

—

All things considered, it wasn’t the worst practice she’d suffered. Ginny talked the Chasers and Beaters through their first organized plays while her nausea settled, and she watched from the center line as her summer’s homework unfolded across the sky. Bit by bit, Dean and Demelza were rediscovering the rhythm she remembered— one that had never fully clicked with the same fluidity as when Katie had been their third, but had come close for a few fleeting moments in her absence. The Beaters caught a good cadence on occasion too, like the layers of rust from a year and a half off were flaking away with every hit. And even Ellis was handling the air a little better; she dodged Bludgers with wide, shaky swerves in pursuit of the Snitch, managed to close her fist around it once before Ginny called the end of practice. Despite her body’s protesting aches, she found herself cradling a spark of optimism for the season. 

Ross, however, was presenting a bigger challenge. He had done well to save penalty shots during tryouts, but was less adaptable in regular gameplay. She’d shouted herself hoarse during their first practice last weekend but didn’t have the energy today, and watched from a low hover as he dove too far left for easy shots that sailed through the center hoop. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled as he touched down hard on the turf. “I’m just trying to learn everyone’s style, you know? So I can predict what they’re going to do.”

“Well, don’t,” she ordered, tugging off her gloves. “By the time you learn the opposing Chasers’ styles they’ll have scored ten goals against you. Eyes on the Quaffle, not the handler.”

“Maybe Ritchie and I should switch our focus to the Chasers for Ravenclaw,” Jimmy suggested under his breath in the changing room. “Keep the Quaffle out of our end.”

Ginny pinched the bridge of her nose, nursing a headache made worse by all the wind in her ears. “Don’t be daft, we’re not handing them a hundred and fifty points. He’ll learn.”

By the time everyone packed up she was looking forward to an early lunch and the comfort of her bed.

“My mum’s gonna send the worst Howler you’ve ever heard,” Demelza groaned as they trudged back up toward the castle with blustery sunshine at their backs. “Think Podmore’s already written her? Maybe I can convince him not to.”

“It’s really not that bad, breaking curfew,” Dean assured her from her other side. “He’s not gonna mention you were with anyone…”

“Maybe he won’t do anything till Monday,” Ginny suggested. 

“Hope not. Then the letter will get there while she’s working, and Alfie will get it instead…”

But Demelza’s worries about their Head of House would be short-lived. The Great Hall was busier than expected for the first minutes of Saturday lunch, and there was something different to the clamor crackling through the room, bits of information leaping like wildfire between tables in that age-old way that school news spreads. Wide, can-you-believe-it stares; furtive glances of speculation. Ginny was reminded of dinner following the twins’ departure, or breakfast after her last Quidditch match.

“I guess it happened just like that,” she heard someone say with a snap of their fingers as she passed. “He left last night.”

“Damn, is that how the seventh years got away with a big do…?”

Ginny separated from the rest of the team and found Hermione and Luna at the Gryffindor table with an open newspaper between them. Seemed like the first headline all term to captivate the entire school, intrigue trickling down from the staff table to penetrate the student body’s fickle attention. 

The wizard splashed across the front page was burlier than the real-life version she knew— he had thicker muscles wrapping his jaw and torso, a boyish energy to his features she hadn’t realized was missing until faced with this younger portrait. And not a chair with wheels in sight.

“I reckon Mel and Sloper dodged a Bludger.”

Shacklebolt’s Pattern Continues: Wizengamot Approves Final Court Nomination

Ex-Auror and Order of the Phoenix affiliate Sturgis Podmore is due to be sworn in on Monday, 28th Sept. Death Eater trials could begin as early as October, and Podmore’s appointment indicates the mission couldn’t be clearer: justice for Hogwarts.