Who Is Ginny Weasley Dating? by sapphire200182



Summary: ***Winner of Best Overall and the People's Choice award in The One Where Everyone Found Out challenge (2021-1)***The fact that someone new was going out with Ginny Weasley seemed to interest a great number of people, including the rest of the Weasley family. But this time, it's a little different...
Rating: PG starstarstarstarstar
Categories: The One Where Everyone Finds Out (2021-1)
Characters: None
Genres: None
Warnings: None
Challenges: None
Series: The Moments In Between
Published: 2021.04.23
Updated: 2021.06.05


Index

Chapter 1: The Brothers
Chapter 2: Private Words
Chapter 3: Hogsmeade Weekend
Chapter 4: Reactions


Chapter 1: The Brothers

Chapter One: The Brothers


“You’d think people had better things to gossip about,” said Ginny, as she sat on the common-room floor, leaning against Harry’s legs and reading the Daily Prophet. “Three Dementor attacks in a week, and all Romilda Vane does is ask me if it’s true you’ve got a Hippogriff tattooed across your chest.”

Ron and Hermione both roared with laughter. Harry ignored them.

- Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

* * *


It was half past nine at night in the Ministry of Magic, London, and the building was mostly deserted. Only a dozen or so souls were left in the building, and that only because there was a War on, didn’t you know? Half of these were Aurors who now stood ready round the clock to defend the Ministry, and respond to Death Eater attacks at any time (one year ago, Cornelius Fudge had curbed this practice as unnecessary waste of Auror effort in a time of unparalleled peace, until the Ministry had been penetrated one night by a group of Death Eaters, schoolchildren, some public-spirited citizens, You-Know-Who, and then-fugitive Albus Dumbledore). The other half were the most earnest of the Minister of Magic’s administrative staff, doing their part unto the wee hours to battle the sudden surge in bureaucratic work necessary to ensure the War was properly logged, filed, collated, stamped, dotted and crossed.

One of these was the Junior Assistant to the Minister for Magic.

Percy Weasley sat in his office chair, his quill scratching out a detailed report on the forecast impact of the Ministry of Magic’s wartime measures on the domestic economy of Wizarding Britain. At his elbow, his evening mug of chamomile tea sat, half-drunk and now stone-cold. He scowled at the report as if it had somehow personally offended him, as he did at most things and people these days. Percy finished a line, picked up the cup, drank, and grimaced. He threw aside his quill, leaned back in his chair wincing at the aches in his back, and looked at the clock.

Half past nine. At this time, most Ministry employees were home, full of dinner, feet up in front of the fireplace, spending time with their families. Percy had a rented apartment in Purs Lane, Highbury; had bolted a sandwich two hours ago, and had no family... that he cared to admit to.

Half past nine. The brothers would be well into business matters about now, he thought. Then Percy pushed the thought aside. He had work to do. The new Minister for Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, did not have as much appreciation for Percy’s administrative abilities that Fudge had. Much work was needed for Percy to impress the new Minister and get his career back on track. Afterwards; there would be time for apologies afterwards, when they saw what he had achieved. He bent back to his report.

But his thoughts strayed anyway.

* * *


“Damn it, Charlie, will you sit up and pay attention?”

From the depths of a pint of sudsy dark brown Palmer’s, Charlie mumbled something and gave Bill a finger.

“I’m being serious, Charlie!”

Charlie finished his fifth pint of the night, belched, grinned happily at Bill, and said “Alright, alright, keep your knickers on. What were we on about again?”

Behind his own pint-glass George sniggered, his chair balanced on two legs and his dragonskin boots planted on the table amidst the remnants of battered cod, cottage pie, and Yorkshire puds. Fred snapped chips out of the air like an inebriated performing seal, having enchanted them to get up off the plate, solemnly dip themselves in brown sauce, and leap high into the air, aiming for his mouth. The upright chips had formed a grim kind of queue in front of the ramekin of sauce, like resigned aristocrats waiting for the guillotine.

There were times when Bill thought he was the only Weasley left with a Sickle-worth of sense in the whole damn family. Seriously. First of all, to address the Erumpent in the room, there was that completely pig-headed Perce, who couldn’t get over his own massive pride to take back all that he had said. Consequently Dad, who felt he had failed the family in handling the Percy situation, was killing himself to make up for it by doing all he could to protect them from the war, never mind enough sleep and regular meals. Mum was fretting over every one of the family, one after the other, on rotation on the hour every hour. And the remaining brothers... well, they each had their own idiosyncracies. Not to except the Baby Sister, no, not at all...!

It was Bill who had, of his own accord, initiated the tradition of the Weasley Brothers’ Meetings. These took place whenever Charlie was in London, which wasn’t often as it was a shattering 12-hour broom flight from Romania, and these days he only travelled to London on Order business... and there was always the chance of being nobbled by the Death Eaters. But still, they did manage to get together every couple of months to eat, drink, swap news with a frankness less suited to the ears of the Parents, and decide on whether there was any need for an intervention upon any family member by the Adult Weasley Brothers, with all the force of a united front.

This they did in a private room of a Muggle pub in the village of Ottery St Catchpole. It had the advantage of being fairly anonymous in wizarding terms, while yet familiar, private and secure enough once a Gringotts Curse-Breaker had put up all the wards that were expedient, and gave the meeting all the outside appearances of a big old piss-up... which frankly it was, now that Percy was no longer an attendee, and Fred and George had joined the fray.

“Look, Bill, Percy’s going to keep on being a pillock, there’s sod-all you can do about that,” said Fred. “And if it’s only work that’s going to take Dad’s mind off the git, let him have at it.”

“We were done with all that half an hour ago,” said Bill evenly. “The subject now, for the last time, is Ron’s latest letter to me.” Besides the official Letter Home to the Family, which was always addressed to Mum and contained news that did the rounds of the family by and by, Ron also kept up a separate correspondence with Bill, which typically contained news and remarks of the kind best not seen by maternal eyes.

“Oh. Right,” said Fred disinterestedly. He twiddled his wand; the next unfortunate chip did a twist and somersault before plunging to its fate. “That’s news from the front, that is. Well, how’s old hoggy warty Hogwarts then? Still standing? No more Educational Decrees?”

“That’s the oddity; Ron’s being unusually uptight. It seems Ginny’s got herself a new boyfriend, but Ronnie won’t tell me who he is.”

There could not have been greater reaction if You-Know-Who had burst into the room wearing a bikini and singing A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong Love. Charlie choked on his sixth pint; Fred mischarmed a chip and it fired like a bullet into the ceiling, smashing into potato paste; George overbalanced and tumbled backwards out of his chair, swearing.

“What, already?” exclaimed Fred incredulously. “Blimey, she runs through them like socks don’t she?”

“Oh, bravo, Ginny,” muttered George, “On top of everything, give Mum kittens about raising a ‘scarlet woman’.”

“What d’you mean, he won’t tell?” asked Charlie. “Did you write back and ask him specifically?”

“Course I did,” said Bill. “He said to ask Gin, if we dared.”

The Weasley brothers thought about this for a moment, unconsciously crossing their legs.

“Cheeky little tosser,” Charlie observed. “Remind me to poke him in the snoot the next time I see him.”

“You want us to persuade him for you?” asked Fred with a gleam in his eye. “I can think of a couple items we can send him by owl that ought to remind him to obey his elders.”

“Yeah, like about twenty Galleons,” said George. “That should settle him easily.”

“You dimwits are missing the forest for the Bowtruckles,” snapped Bill. “The question is, who is Ginny dating this time that’s so different? Ron had no trouble selling Corner and Thomas down the river the last time. What’s different this time?”

The Weasley brothers considered this new angle.

“Maybe he’s a seventh-year,” said Charlie, who to Bill’s satisfaction now appeared to be taking things seriously but was still at least one sheet to the wind. “How old is she again? Twelve, thirteen? I forget, I just think of all you lot as a bunch of titchy tots,” he grinned, nodding at the twins.

George chucked a spoon at him.

“She’s already taking her O.W.L.s, Charlie,” said Bill. “I haven’t a clue who he could be. Whoever it was, Ron didn’t seem very pleased. Maybe he’s someone really gormless, like this McLaggen bloke Ron keeps harping about.”

“Nah, she likes them brainy, not brawny. Even that Corner bloke wasn’t exactly dull, just a pillock.”

“Maybe he’s a Hufflepuff,” said George; “Maybe he’s a Slytherin,” said Fred, simultaneously. They stared at each other in horror.

“Maybe it’s that Finch-Fletchley bloke, the one who got Petrified,” said George. He wrung his hands dramatically, “They bonded over the shared trauma of their first years! She was possessed by You-Know-Who, he was nearly offed by You-Know-Who’s great big bloody snake; who would’ve thought love could spring from such...”

“Not funny, George,” said Charlie. “Anyway, I can’t see this Fletchley chap going after the girl who sort of got him into that state, even if it wasn’t her fault at all.”

“He’s a Slytherin, that’s why Ginny’s put the screws on Ron,” said Fred confidently. He thought for a moment, then blanched. “It’s Malfoy!” he whispered, horrified by his own imagination.

“Doesn’t have to be Malfoy, could be any Slytherin,” said George. “How about that lah-di-dah bloke with the poncey name, what’s it... Zabini...?”

“Blaise...”

“Yes, that’s the one, it could be him!

“Oh, brother!” Fred and George put their arms around each other and shuddered.

“Knock it off, you silly asses,” said Bill sharply. “The point is, if Ron won’t cough up the gen, we’ll have to find out from someone else. Is there anyone you can owl in Hogwarts who’ll spill?”

Charlie shrugged. “Long out of school, brother.”

“Same here. It’s really down to you two,” Bill nodded at the twins. “What about your friends? Maybe your Gryffindor Quidditch team-mates?”

“Most of our mates left school last year,” said Fred. “The only one of the old team still in is Katie Bell, and she's got in some kind of accident, had to check into St Mungo’s.”

“Besides, no Gryffindor would risk crossing Ginny to snitch for us,” said George. “Her Bat-Bogey Hex is practically House legend, and everyone knows she hexes first and asks questions later.”

“Well, if that’s so, then there’s only one thing for it, is there?” said Bill. “We have to take a direct hand in this. Someone, or someones, will have to look into this seriously, and get direct eyes on the situation. Maybe even go to Hogwarts, see if we can collar Ron and shake him down, or something like that.”

“Well count me out, I’m going back to Romania,” said Charlie.

“I’d think of something myself, but Gringotts is running me ragged,” grumped Bill.

The two older Weasleys turned and looked expectantly at the twins.

“Well, it’s true that as successful independent small-business owners, and unlike contractual employees, we have a freer hand with our schedules,” Fred buffed his nails theatrically. “But I’ll have to discuss this with my business partner.”

“Be with you in half a sec,” said George.

Bill rolled his eyes. The twins conferred amongst themselves rapidly in low whispers, then nodded to the other two Weasleys.

“I can give George some time off,” said Fred regally.

“Fred’s due a replacement holiday,” said George with officious authority. “We’ll do it, both of us.”

“Whatever,” said Bill. “Now, I won’t have to tell you two to be discreet, alright? No pranks, no jokes, don’t even let yourselves be seen. The last thing we want is for our baby sister to know we’re looking out for her on, er, this matter, and she’s as sharp as anything, she’ll see through any excuses. I can’t imagine how you’ll swing it, but FIND OUT.”

“Leave that to us,” said George, grinning. “We know just the right time and place.”

Bill groaned, snatched Charlie’s seventh pint out of his hands, and drained it himself.

Back to index


Chapter 2: Private Words

Author's Notes: Sorry for the delay. I found it wasn't easy writing Draco Malfoy.


Chapter Two: Private Words



Bill Weasley loved the Burrow. He loved the messy tumbledown cottage full of memories of family and growing-up; loved the practically-wild apple orchard blooming a pretty pink and white like a blushing maid; loved the vast variegated vegetable garden bursting full of potatoes, leeks, artichokes, cabbage and rhubarb; loved the cosy bedrooms all jumbled together higgledy-piggledy like family gathered elbow to elbow round a sumptously-laid dinner table. He knew he would be missing all of it to not-insignificant degree, even as he was looking forward to moving out and setting up his own home with Fleur.

But sometimes, he admitted, it was a nice change to not be living arse to elbow with one’s parents and siblings. Which was why he was spending most of his time recently in Fleur’s chic apartment in Hibis Close, Battersea, only Flooing back to the Burrow late at night. It was not quite his address of choice — the magical neighbours comprised a family of Fawleys, some American and Continental expats, and a couple of very senior goblins; hardly any blokes of Bill’s stripe — but Fleur had gravitated to the European connection while finding her feet in England, and Bill could hardly begrudge her that.

There were also other advantages to having one’s own apartment, such as the convenience of one’s very own private Floo-connected fireplace. Bill and Fleur looked up from the remains of their supper as the fire flashed green, and Percy Weasley’s head appeared in the fireplace.

“Mm,” said Fleur tactfully, “excusez moi, I will be in my bedroom.”

Bill sat back, sipped his tea, and said nothing as he impassively regarded the head of Percy Weasley for what seemed like long minutes.

Finally Percy spoke. “The brothers had the usual meeting, then?”

“Yes,” said Bill dryly. He answered the unasked question: “Everyone is well, or as well as can be expected, under the circumstances.”

Percy nodded slowly. “That’s good. I’m... I’m glad.”

Bill let the prodigal Weasley stew for a few moments more before he spoke again. “Dad’s working too hard. Mum’s worried sick, as always. I’m just peachy, as you can see. Charlie still drinks more than he should, and still thinks big bloody-minded fire-breathing lizards are a laugh a minute. Your name was mentioned a few times, along with a couple of other epithets I won’t repeat,” Percy winced, “though I’m sure you can guess. The joke shop is still raking in the Galleons and putting the rest of us desk-jockeys and dragon-nutters to shame. Fred’s still in love with his own genius, George still has horrible taste in clothes and women both. Ron is still a pants Keeper, Gryffindor only won the championship four-fifty to one-forty. Our Ginny caught the Snitch by the way, Potter mislaid himself somewhere again.”

Percy tried to smile, but didn’t seem to remember how. “That’s good,” he repeated.

“Oh, and Ginny has a new boytoy, but Ron won’t blow who.”

Percy coughed loudly a few times. “Ahem... ash in my throat, I think.” He frowned. “Ginny was supposed to be with Thomas. This is fast turnover, even for her. And who is this person, why wouldn’t Ron divulge his identity? That’s not a good sign.”

“That’s what I said. We’re taking steps to find out.”

“You are?”

“Fred and George are.”

Percy reddened, so that it seemed almost as if the Floo fire was really burning him. Of all of his family, he was on the worst of terms with the twins. Despite the estrangement Percy had varying levels of regard for the Weasleys. The parents had after all been The Parents; Bill and Charlie he still to some extent looked up to; Ron and Ginny were still in school and dismissed as children, even though both had expostulated loudly as well. With Fred and George however, it had come very close to duelling. They had not disguised their contempt for him one jot, and that rankled deeply. So Percy only said, again: “I... see.”

“I trust them to find out, at least,” said Bill.

“You will update me when you do? I,” Percy hesitated, “I’m sure we’re all concerned for Ginevra’s well-being.”

Bill’s steady gaze was stony. “Our family is. Are you? You made your position with regards to the family quite clear last year, Weatherby. And that includes me as well, in case you haven’t forgotten.”

Percy flushed redder. “I... I’m very appreciative of our, uh, arrangement, Bill.”

“Yeah? Well I’m not,” snapped Bill. “I don’t see what I get out of it. It’s all for your benefit.”

Percy only said quietly, “I need more time.”

“You know you’re wrong, Perce. You just haven’t found the bollocks to say you’re sorry, yet. Well, I certainly can’t speak for everyone else in the family, but for now my door’s still open, although,” Bill stabbed a finger at Percy’s head, “my patience isn’t infinite. Find the humility to get over your big head before it’s too late, and none of the family cares any more if you’re sorry or not. I don’t think Fred could give a wooden Sickle as it is. Don’t come crying to me then when you’re shut out and you want back in. Cause let me tell you, brother, when it’s lock-out time, the bars are up for life.”

Percy nodded shortly, said nothing, and closed the Floo connection after a jerky gesture of farewell.

Which was perhaps just as well. Bill had had enough of him for a while.

Fleur slid softly out of the bedroom. Bill didn’t need to ask if she’d heard, he knew she would have eavesdropped. “He will come back,” she said, as she opened a cabinet, extracted a half-full bottle of red wine, and poured.

Bill grunted. “Prick.”

“As you Anglais say, zere is one in every family.” Fleur sipped, rested her chin in one hand, and smiled thoughtfully. “I wonder who eez Ginny’s mysterious beau.”

“You and me both, chéri.”

* * *


It was late at night in the Gryffindor common room. Everyone else had gone to bed. Everyone, that is, other than Hermione Granger, who was putting the finishing touches on her foot-long essay on Corporeation Charms by the quiet glow of the banked fire. The essay was already half a foot longer than Professor Flitwick had called for, but Hermione thought she simply must add a four-inch footnote on the contrasts between Corporeation and Transfiguration, it was so key to understanding the essential difference between...

Hermione looked up at the sound of someone padding over the carpet. A red-haired figure in faded periwinkle pyjamas slouched out of the dark, and flopped into a squashy armchair. “Ginny? Is something wrong? Why aren’t you in bed?”

“ ‘s nothing,” said Ginny. She drew her knees up to her chin and hugged them, her eyes peeping over the tops at the fire. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Being around the Weasleys for the last five and a bit years had taught Hermione a few things. One of those was that stubbornness ran deep in the family; you could never get them to do or say anything if they were at all reticent about it. On the other hand, she had also learned that there were certain ways to handle any Weasley that, in Hermione’s experience, never failed. She rummaged around in her book-bag, and found what she was looking for. “Here you go, Ginny, have a Chocolate Frog. You can keep me company while I finish up this essay.”

Hermione patiently added a few more neatly-printed lines to her essay before Ginny spoke up again, somewhat muffled around a mouthful of Frog. “It’s Hogsmeade weekend, next.”

Hermione’s mind raced ahead. “That’s nice. Are you going down to the village?”

“...maybe.”

Ah, I see. “Would you like to go down to the village?”

Ginny shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Hermione continued writing. “Why don’t you know?”

“Because… I don’t know if Harry would like us to go out to Hogsmeade.”

“Why do you think Harry wouldn’t like it? And what does it matter what he thinks, if you would like you both to go?”

Ginny fiddled with the Chocolate Frog card, not looking at Hermione. “Well, I think I’d like to take a walk around Hogsmeade. But I’d also like us to do something we’d both like to do, together. And I don’t know if he’d like to. I don’t know if he’s even noticed the weekend… he didn’t say anything when I mentioned it, offhand.”

Hermione laid down her quill and turned to face the redhead in the armchair. “Ginny, this is Harry we’re talking about. He sneaked out of the castle under the Invisibility Cloak to go to Hogsmeade, remember? He’s like me, he grew up the first ten years of his life not knowing anything at all about magic. He likes the village as much as he likes anything magical. Also, he’s completely loopy over you,” as much as you are over him, she didn’t say out loud, “and he’d love to do whatever you’d love to do.”

“D’you think so?” said Ginny doubtfully. “But… it’s the first Hogsmeade weekend since we’ve been, y’know, together. And the last time he went to Hogsmeade on a date, it was that absolute disaster at Puddifoot’s with Cho Chang. You know, the day we met at the Hogs Head the first time with the D.A. and all. And when I said a Hogsmeade weekend was coming up, he didn’t say anything, not a word!” Ginny threw up her hands in exasperation.

Hermione sighed. “Ginny, it’s Harry,” she repeated. “He’s not the sharpest quill in the drawer when it comes to girls, and you’re his first real girlfriend. He’s all heart, but he’s completely clueless what to do. The thought of Hogsmeade probably won’t occur to him until three days before the weekend itself, and then he’ll spend the next two days working up the courage to ask you, and then he’ll ask you if you’d like to go spend a day together in Hogsmeade. On Friday night. Remember the Yule Ball?”

Hermione noted with satisfaction the effect her words had on Ginny; the tension drained out of her face at once. Ginny even managed a giggle. “Vividly.”

“Well then.”

“Thanks, Hermione. You’re the best.” Ginny got up, then gave Hermione a sisterly hug. “I’m sorry my brother’s such a complete prat,” she said quietly. “He’ll come round.”

“Don’t worry, I know,” said Hermione. “Night.”

Ginny went up the stairs to the girls’ dorms. Hermione rubbed at her eyes. She must be really tired, she was tearing a little.

Late the next night, Hermione was going over her Transfiguration notes by the fire in the Gryffindor common-room. Everyone else had gone to bed. Hermione had taken lots of notes in class, but she thought she simply had to re-read them regularly, or else what was the point? Merely swotting for exams, and then forgetting them all afterward? No, Hermione wanted to properly remember, properly learn everything Professor McGonagall had taught, and this was the best way to do that. Besides, every time she read she seemed to derive new insights, which she would jot down, such as here in Gamp’s…

Hermione looked up at the sound of someone padding over the carpet. A tousle-haired figure in faded blue pyjamas slouched out of the dark, and sank heavily into an armchair. “Harry? Is something the matter?”

“I, uh, couldn’t sleep, Hermione,” muttered Harry. He sat back in the armchair and said nothing more, staring at the fire.

Being around Harry for the last five and a bit extremely eventful years had taught Hermione a few things. One of those was that for all his bravery and intelligence in terms of, say, fighting the most powerful Dark wizard to terrorise Magical Britain, Harry could be very shy and need a little cluing-in when it came to more mundane matters, like social relationships. Fortunately, Hermione had dealt with just this situation before, and she knew just what Harry needed and would appreciate most: a firm, no-nonsense, and detailed explanation of What Was Going On.

“Is it Ginny? Are you two getting along well?” she asked casually.

Harry nodded, and gave her a somewhat uncertain smile. “Yes. I mean, yes, it’s Ginny. And yes, I think we’re alright. I mean, I’m happy. And I think she is, too… I mean, I hope so. I want her to, y’know. Be happy, I mean. With me.”

By Harry’s standards, thought Hermione, this was a veritable outpouring of emotion. “Well, that’s alright then. So what’s the problem?”

Harry struggled visibly to find the words for a moment, then said, “I don’t know how I can make her happy. I’ve never had a proper girlfriend, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. What if I’m doing something I shouldn’t be? What if I’m not doing something I ought to be? What does she expect?”

“Well, you two have been spending a lot of time together. What do you do?”

“I dunno. Eat, do our homework, talk, practise spells, play Quidditch...” Harry faltered, and the colour rose in his cheeks.

Hermione smirked. “Snog?”

“Er, yeah. That. A bit.”

“Did she mention anything else she’d like you to do for her?”

“Not really. Well… I wondered if she’d like to go to Hogsmeade, this weekend. Because… because that’s what she used to do, with, y’know,” Harry picked at the worn upholstery of the armchair, “Dean and Michael. But then I wondered, what would we do anyway, she isn’t Cho Chang, she’d hardly like tea and cakes at Madam Puddifoot’s… and what if she wanted to stay in, and I couldn’t really ask her, in case she thought I wanted to go, and went along with me just… because… I… did…” Harry trailed off, and looked desperately at Hermione with what she privately termed the ‘help-me-with-my-homework-Hermione-please’ expression.

Hermione marked her page carefully, and closed her notebook. “Harry, think. It’s Ginny. She’s never taken anything lying down, she knows what she wants and then she goes straight for it, and nothing can stop her. If you’re doing anything she doesn’t like, she’ll speak up. And if there’s anything she’d like you to do for her, she’ll mention that too. However, if you want to pleasantly surprise her, you’ll have to anticipate her just a little, because that’s what all girls like their boyfriends to do, even Ginny. She’s not at all difficult to please, oh no, but you’re going to have to think ahead, and act.”

Harry looked worried. “Well, I do think she’d like to get out of the castle for a bit. But what are we going to do? Have a pint at the Hog’s Head, I don’t think.”

Hermione sighed. “Oh, Harry. Just go spend some time together, doing whatever it is you’d normally do in Hogsmeade. It’s Ginny,” she repeated. “She likes flying, showing up her brothers, and you,” Harry blushed, “so just think along those lines, will you?”

The half-grin on Harry’s face was growing goofier by the second; Hermione judged that it meant her job was done. “Thanks, Hermione, how could I possibly do without you?” He put one arm around her and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “You’re right, me and Ginny have been sloping off together a lot lately, and we haven’t seen much of you. Are you alright? You shouldn’t stay up revising so late all the time. Why don’t you come with us to Hogsmeade?”

Hermione smiled and shook her head. “No, it’s yours and Ginny’s big day. You two enjoy yourselves.”

“Okay, well, maybe I’ll have a word with Ron and he can go down the village with you, keep you company. Otherwise the lazy prat would just spend all Saturday in the castle. And you need some fresh air yourself.”

Hermione blinked. Then searched Harry’s face for any hint of double meaning, but he appeared as innocent and guileless and artless and clueless as ever. “I… I, uh… yeah, maybe Ron a-and I could go for a walk in the village too...”

“Great,” said Harry. “And maybe we can meet up at the Broomsticks for Butterbeer. Well, I’m off to bed. And you ought to be as well. Thanks again for the, y’know, Ginny and everything.”

As she packed away her notebooks and climbed the stairs to the girls’ dormitory, Hermione allowed herself a self-satisfied smile, and mentally patted herself on the back for a job well done. It didn’t exactly take much to be an éminence grise in Harry and Ginny’s relationship, just a little time and trouble, but it was a job that needed doing, and someone had to do it.

As for herself and Ron... well, she would just have to be patient.

But at least — and here her cheeks suddenly warmed, as Hermione changed into her nightgown, and climbed into bed — at least she too now had a Hogsmeade weekend to look forward to.

* * *


Tucked away in a corner, Draco Malfoy rifled quickly through Advanced Theory of Magical Transportation, found nothing of practical use, put it aside and opened Household Hocus-Pocus for the Hands-On Homemaker. The soft buzz of the Slytherin common-room in the evening flowed around him; fifth- and seventh-years revising or procrastinating from revising; firsties playing some kind of made-up game with Exploding Snap cards; and by the fireplace a merry gathering of the more influential Slytherins — Parkinson and her gaggle of girls, holding court amongst a group of admiring fourth-years.

Ordinarily Draco would be in the thick of the group, circulating, building connections, forming relationships with his like-minded, right-minded peers. Because the Malfoys understood that, whatever society thought, knowing the right people was just as important as being clever, bold, and industrious. You never knew how a good network of school friends could ease your way through the rest of your life.

But this year was different. This year, Draco was playing for higher stakes, with far more powerful people than a set of schoolboys and schoolgirls. The stress was incredible, and he could not afford to be distracted, even by his other Slytherin House friends, even for a moment...

Dra-co Malfoy,” said the breathy, giggly voice nearly at his ear; Draco jerked his head away in irritation and looked up. Pansy Parkinson, Tracey Davis, and Daphne Greengrass stood over his study table, each wearing mischievous smiles and striking poses calculated to show off their best profiles. Oh, brilliant. Just what he needed.

“Go away, Parkinson. I’m busy.”

“What are you do-oing,” said Pansy, craning her head to read the title off a book. “Theory and Practice of Technomancy… oh, just leave that for the workmen, Draco, you’ve more important matters to take care of.”

“I said, go away, Pansy, this is important.”

“Come away from those dusty old books and talk to me. You’ve become a terrible swot recently, Draco dear, it’s so boring,” pouted Pansy. “We could share a chair by the fire, like we used to. Tracey has the most exciting news about the Gryffindors, you won’t believe it. And did you know, there’s a Hogsmeade weekend this week?”

“I couldn’t give half a pile of dead Doxies for Hogsmeade,” snapped Draco. “Now go away, you interfering busybody!”

Draco expected Pansy to snap back with some sort of retort and flounce off. To his surprise, he saw her eyes go wide and glossy, and she retreated with far less than wounded dignity. Tracey shot him a nasty glare, and it was Daphne who shot back on Pansy’s behalf: “Keep yourself to your books if you like, but you needn’t be such a yob about it!”

Draco dismissed the incident and went back to his books. True, Pansy did fancy herself and Draco something of an ‘item’, as the girls called it, and he did not find her attentions unwelcome. But that was all in the past. Draco was playing for far higher stakes now: the continued survival and growth of the Malfoy family, the future of Wizarding Britain, and the assurance of a place within the inner circle of the inevitable New Order to come.

If he sensed the short, slender girl sitting at the neighbouring study table getting up and packing away her books and quills, he did not give any outward indication.

“Even if you are working on some sort of secret personal project, you could go about it more discreetly. It doesn’t pay to advertise.”

Draco looked up in annoyance. Who was it this time? “Oh. Astoria Greengrass.”

“Draco Malfoy,” said the girl primly, her arms crossed and holding a couple of Herbology books to her chest. Her manner was that of a friendly queen acknowledging a subject.

Astoria was Daphne’s younger sister, a fourth-year who could be found frequently holed up in the Library or fooling about with plants in the Greenhouses. The latter was about as physical as she ever got; she was not one for long walks on the school grounds, or apparently the least interested in Quidditch, in fact she always seemed a little like a neglected house-plant herself; sickly, pale, and underfed. Not for the first time however Draco was struck by the observation that Astoria was not wholly unpleasant to look upon. She had large hazel eyes, a pixie-ish face, a sharply-pointed chin and thick dark hair, which added to an air of resolution that amply made up for what she lacked in constitution. Astoria was reputed to hold her own ably in the vicious cut-and-thrust of girls’-dorm society; at any rate, no one seemed to dare pick on an otherwise obvious target.

Nonetheless, Draco would not let himself be cowed by a mere fourth-year. “Who says I’m working on anything?”

Astoria rolled her eyes. “Please. The whole House is talking about how you’ve been skiving off classes and quitting the Quidditch team, and here you are doing your best Ravenclaw impression.” She gestured at the books. “If it’s not schoolwork, then what else are you killing yourself over?”

Ordinarily Draco would have just replied ‘none of your business’ and turned away, but something — perhaps the strain of keeping his big secret, perhaps something in the manner of the young witch standing beside him — made him blurt out, “There’s more to it, you know. More to my life than exams and Quidditch.”

Astoria shrugged. “Well, of course. But education — and even Quidditch, if you like that sort of thing — is important.”

“This is different. It’s,” Draco hesitated, “it’s family. The future of the Malfoys, and our place in society.” Yes. Perhaps even survival. Because if things went wrong… if He was sufficiently displeased...

“Are you trying to get your father out of Azkaban?”

“Something like that,” he admitted.

Unaccountably, Astoria looked sad. “Oh, Draco,” she said softly, “don’t do anything rash. Your father made his mistakes. Let him pay for them, don’t let him drag you down with him.”

“Mistakes? Drag me down? My father tried to do what was best for the family. The Malfoy family!” snarled Draco. “It’s a war out there, he fought, he lost, they put him away because he was on the losing side. He can’t do anything where he is, so if it falls to me to restore the family, well, that’s a duty I bear gladly!”

A few heads turned around; Draco shot them a furious glare and they hastily looked away.

“What about yourself, Draco?” said Astoria quietly. “Surely you have aspirations, dreams, a life of your own. What about doing what you want, for yourself?”

“I have no time to think for myself! I have to save my father. He did everything to help me when he could, and now’s my turn to help him. That’s what family does. But what would you Greengrasses know about that?”

Astoria’s look turned frosty. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Are you sure you and your sister are proper Slytherins?” sneered Draco. He glanced at the group by the fire, where Daphne Greengrass was listening raptly to something Tracey was saying. “That you have pure blood I’ll allow, but pride, ambition... the Greengrass family doesn’t seem to want a place anywhere in proper wizarding society.”

Astoria lifted an eyebrow. “Oh? Whereas the Malfoys do?”

Draco dismissed the question with the tiniest shrug. Obvious questions didn’t deserve answers.

“Which society would that be? Azkabanian?” Astoria tilted her head to one side, as if considering. “Thieves and thugs and hooligans. Well, if the Malfoys think that’s the proper wizarding society for them, who am I to contradict?”

“Don’t you dare imply...”

“Or what?” snapped Astoria. “Right now a threat from you, Draco Malfoy, is barely worth contemplating. You’re clever, or at least not stupid, but you’re rash, you’re a loudmouth, your bark is far worse than your bite, and you’re too obviously making yourself a big target for everyone... and where has that gotten you thus far? Everyone either despises you or pities you, except for your crew of mindless minions and giggly groupies. That’s where all your efforts to follow your father have taken you. You want to keep making the mistakes he made? You want to associate yourself with toadies and hooligans and psychopaths? Go on then. Keep at it, sooner or later you can join him in Azkaban!”

The look she gave him was not just scornful, it was dismissive, as if she thought Malfoy truly was beneath her — far beneath her. It made Draco’s blood boil. He wanted to slap that look off her face... he wanted to... wanted to...

“Don’t you dare!” hissed Astoria, and to his shock Draco looked down and saw her wand out from under her books, its tip pressed against his stomach.

Draco was even more stunned to find himself standing up, even with his average height towering over the small girl. He could not remember either rising. Slowly, he sat down with as much nonchalance as he could muster.

Astoria nodded. “Good. You sit down and have a jolly good think about how you really want your life to go. You might have more brains than your father does, I suggest you use them. And, Malfoy, if you doubt the strength of my family, I leave you to consider this. We have a saying: the snake out in the open is crushed, while the snake in soft green grass is hidden from its enemies, until it is time to strike.”

Astoria pocketed her wand, hitched her books up, turned on her heel and left. Draco watched her go; in his imagination she seemed to cut a swathe through the Slytherin common-room much wider than her small figure warranted. He snorted; it was probably that thick mass of sleek dark hair. Perhaps she cultivated it just for that attention-grabbing effect. Girls and their manipulation of aesthetics and wordplay. Well, it certainly hadn’t worked on him.

Hadn’t it?

Back to index


Chapter 3: Hogsmeade Weekend

Author's Notes: Thank you for the nominations! Final chapter next week - stay tuned!


Chapter Three: Hogsmeade Weekend



“Hogsmeade weekend, George.”

“Weekend at Hogsmeade’s, Fred.”

“Perfect day out for all the lovebirds of Hogwarts.”

“Nice change of scenery from classrooms, the castle grounds, broom cupboards.”

“So all we have to do is park ourselves in the village square...”

“...and keep our eyes peeled...”

“And she’ll walk right into our sights.”

“Easy does it, nothing to it.”

“No need to bother running round like a couple of numptys.”

“Could have a nice cuppa tea while we’re at it.”

“Could have ourselves some lovely crumpet, cream, and blackberry jam.”

“And once we have the identity of our Mystery Man?”

“Follow, and look for a way to plant some of this Chameleon Coughing Chocolate, that happens to look and taste exactly like a genuine product of Honeydukes.”

“Or some of this prototype U-No-Pee that happens to look and taste exactly like a genuine bottle of Butterbeer...”

“...all the sensation of needing to pee, none of the excretory relief...”

“...at four Sickles a bottle, a bargain.”

“But wait! Bill said not to get caught.”

“Bill said not to be seen.”

“Same thing, really.”

“Which is why we’ve got this tot of Polyjuice Potion...”

“...made with hair of clueless Muggle boyfriend...”

“...what we happened to pick up from those two blokes in the bar down Soho way...”

“...where we happened to pick up those two gorgeous birds with the jealous boyfriends...”

“Focus, Fred.”

“Sorry, George. Where were we?”

“Polyjuice.”

“That’s right. Well then, bottoms up, old chap.”

“Mud in your eye, old bean.”

Grinning, Fred and George threaded their arms through the other’s, and tossed back the contents of a small phial of potion.

A minute later Verity Carter, the lovely, loyal, long-suffering shop assistant of Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes, heard a couple of distinctly unfamiliar voices chorus from the back room, “Mind the shop for us there, Vee, we’re stepping out for a bit.” She shrugged and continued wrapping joke products in brown paper for owl delivery. Far stranger things happened on this job.

* * *


It was a beautiful May morning in Hogsmeade. Harry strolled down the village street, basking in the gently warm sun, and couldn’t remember ever worrying about anything at all. Beside him Ginny was practically skipping with the sheer joy of being able to forget all about O.W.L.s for a few hours. Between them, her hands were held lightly in his — a rather novel feeling that Harry thought he could never get tired of, forever. Ginny’s small strong fingers rested almost casually on top of his slightly up-tilted hand, his thumb and fingers curled round their ends. They were absolutely begging to be kissed, so he raised them to his lips and brushed them lightly.

“...and then June said no, she doesn’t… Harry, you aren’t paying attention to a word I say!”

“Course I am.”

“No, you were busy slobbering over my fingers!”

“I didn’t slobber,” said Harry with dignity. “Heather accused June of scoffing half of those excellent jammy buns she saved from yesterday’s lunch and stashed in the dorm, and June said no, you were about to say, because she absolutely hates blackberry jam. And the reason is that June can’t stand the little bits of seeds you always get in blackberry jam. You’ve mentioned that before.”

Ginny had a strange half-smirk on her face that looked like she didn’t know whether to be delighted or put out at being wrong. “Alright, clever cogs, no need to be all smug about it.”

“Oh I haven’t begun to smug,” said Harry, grinning. “You’re telling me all this because I asked where we’re going, and you said we have to drop by Honeydukes to pick up some fudge — which both Heather and June love — and you were about to confess that that’s because it was Chaser Weasley who nicked the buns after a long evening studying, and you’ve got apologies to make.”

“There’s no bloody way you know I nicked them!”

“Course I do.”

“How?!”

Harry bent a little and put his mouth next to Ginny’s ear. “Because you tasted of blackberry jam when I kissed you good night,” he murmured.

Ginny blushed. “Oh… oh alright. What kind of fudge do you think I ought to get?”

* * *


In Hogsmeade’s High Street, two dark-haired young men lounged carelessly outside the Three Broomsticks, nursing two tankards of Butterbeer and making headway into a stack of crumpets on the table between them. Up and down the street students wandered around, talking, laughing, pointing at things in windows. Few would have noticed that although the two appeared to be deep in conversation, they scanned every face that passed, paying particular attention to any young couples.

“Capital crumpets, Frasier.”

“Jolly good jam, Gerald.”

“Not a sign of her, though. And him, whoever he is.”

“Oh, don’t fret,” said ‘Frasier’ comfortably, buttering himself another crumpet. “They’ll come round. If we don’t catch them coming, we’ll catch them going. Leave off fidgeting and let’s enjoy second breakfast.”

“I’m not fidgeting,” grumped ‘Gerald’, who was poking at the tanned skin on the forearm of his assumed identity. “I’m checking on the Polyjuice. If we’re going to be hanging about longer than we expected, we’ll need a couple more swigs.”

“Ah, it’ll turn out alright. Always does. Hey, when we’re done here, do you think we ought to nip into Zonko’s and check out the competition?”

“Don’t see why not. Never pays to let our guard down.”

* * *


Ginny wandered around Dervish and Banges poking at odd things on the shelves, towing Harry behind her, and feeling absolutely super. She’d prattled on about absolutely everything and anything as they walked around Hogsmeade; Ginny loved the way she could say anything to Harry, and he would be genuinely interested. He listened, even if he often didn’t seem to be, and made intelligent replies, and often remembered more things she’d said to him than she did herself. For example, right now she couldn’t remember how they’d got on the subject of her favourite band.

“What do you mean, ‘hairy’?!”

“I meant they had loads of hair, it was like I was watching a band of trolls.”

“Harry, you did not just call the Weird Sisters a bunch of trolls! No troll ever played music that good in their life!”

“It was catchy,” admitted Harry. “But I could’ve done without the bagpipes.”

“I couldn’t, if that meant Gideon Crumb wasn’t in the band.”

“Crumb’s the piper? So is he your favourite of the lot, then?”

“He looks pretty dishy, doesn’t he?” Ginny turned to find Harry frowning. She rolled her eyes. “I meant that I fancy his looks, not that I want to be his girlfriend.”

“Crumb’s about seven feet tall, looks like he could wrestle a troll, and has a great big beard,” said Harry.

“Yes, and?”

Harry had a very puzzled look on his face. “I don’t look one bit like any of that.”

“So? You do realise you don’t have to just fancy one particular type, yes?”

“Yeah, but still...”

“Oh, boys, you don’t understand anything,” said Ginny. “I suppose you would only ever be interested in pint-sized Quidditch players then.”

“Well, as a matter of fact...”

“Don’t you dare answer that. Oh look, is that a Graphorn-hide jacket?”

* * *


At the other end of the village, two young men were strolling down the High Street with their hands in their pockets, pretending to be unconcerned.

“We’ve made a mistake, Gerald.”

“We must have missed them somehow, Frasier.”

“We got complacent.”

“You were stuffing your face with crumpets.”

“Hey, it’s not like you didn’t scoff your share.”

“Well, no use crying over slipped fish,” said ‘Gerald’ philosophically. “Right, they can’t have gotten far, we’ll just have to go through the shops one by one and see if we can’t spot them.”

“They have to be around here somewhere,” said ‘Frasier’, apparently peering into the shop window of Gladrags Wizardwear, but mainly eyeing the students inside and not the colourful display of frocks.

“Can’t have gotten far.”

* * *


Ginny considered the cottage. It was quite unlike the Burrow; short, single-storey, built solidly out of big brown bricks. A well-kept garden bursting with daisies and bluebells gave it a cheerful air. “It’s alright, I suppose,” she said. “But not quite my cup of tea. I’m not sure I fancy living in Hogsmeade. It’s a bit lonely all the way out here, don’t you think, Harry?” She looked around. “Harry?”

Harry was standing at the end of the lane, his hand resting on the stile, staring wistfully up at the mountain that loomed over Hogsmeade and Hogwarts. Ginny went over and slipped her arm through his, leaning her head on his shoulder. “What is it?”

“We met Sirius here, during the Triwizard Tournament,” he said. “Sirius flew here on Buckbeak because I told him about seeing Barty Crouch in the castle — well, we didn’t know it was Crouch Jr, and he was pretending to be Mad-Eye Moody. Sirius met me and Ron and Hermione by this stile, and brought us to a cave up on that mountain.” Harry bowed his head. “I shouldn’t have gone to the Department of Mysteries.”

“No, you shouldn’t have, and you wouldn’t have, if you knew Voldemort was just baiting you and Sirius wasn’t there,” said Ginny. She laid her hand on his cheek. “But if you thought Sirius was there and needed your help, then you did the right thing. Just like you shouldn’t have gone to rescue some silly little girl that Voldemort was just using to bait you, but you did anyway. And I’m so glad that you did.”

She kissed him. For a moment, Harry stood still, tense, unyielding. Then she felt him return her kiss, encircle her with his arms and pull her in close. They stood there for a while, foreheads touching. Then Harry sighed. “You always know what to say, Ginny.”

Ginny smiled. “Don’t you forget it, Potter.” She took his hand and led him away from that place. “Come on. We’re supposed to be having a grand day out. It’s nearly lunchtime, aren’t we supposed to be meeting Ron and Hermione at the Broomsticks?”

“I think it was the Hog’s Head. I hear they have a pretty interesting lunch menu.”

“Merlin, I can’t begin to imagine...”

* * *


At the Three Broomsticks, two extremely serious young men were rehydrating themselves with consolatory pints of Madam Rosmerta’s famous mead after having rushed about Hogsmeade in increasing agitation.

“Where can she have wandered off to, George?

“We looked everywhere, didn’t we, Fred?”

“Too bloody right we did. Honeydukes, Scrivenshaft’s...”

“...Gladrags, Dervish and Banges, the Hog’s Head...”

“…the Post Office, the bookshop, the grocer’s...”

“...even Puddifoot’s bloody teashop… and not a damn sign!”

“Think they decided not to come down the village after all?”

“She’s never missed a Hogsmeade weekend before,” George replied. “None of us ever have, mostly. And we saw Ron mooching about, didn’t we? She ought to be around here somewhere.”

“Fred? George? What are you two doing here?”

The twins jumped, and looked around guiltily. Hermione was standing behind them, Ron beside her. Too late the realisation struck that their last doses of Polyjuice Potion had worn off.

“Dropped by to check out rental rates on the High Street,” lied Fred.

“Yeah, now that you lot have been allowed out on weekends again, the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes expansion plan is back on track,” said George.

Ron had a strange look on his face. “So, uh, are you done here, or will you be staying longer?”

Fred’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, we’re just about to have lunch,” said Hermione brightly. “Why don’t you join us? Harry and Ginny should be coming along any minute now.”

“Brilliant!” said George enthusiastically. “Fred and I haven’t seen you lot in ages, we’d love to catch up!”

“I’ll get the first round,” said Fred with a big grin and a not-too-secret wink at George. “Butterbeers, all, right?”

“Right,” muttered Ron glumly.

Ten minutes later, Hermione was busy telling Fred and George about the Slug Club, when the door to the pub pushed open and a familiar red head of hair came through. Fred and George, who had carefully taken seats at the table which faced the door, nudged each other and grinned toothy, predatory smiles.

Ginny, who had been laughing at something, looked around, caught sight of the group sitting at the table, and ran over. “Fred! George! What are you doing here?” she squealed, flinging an arm around both their necks.

“Oh, just hunting after our natural prey,” grinned Fred.

“He means we came to see about opening a branch, now that poor Zonko’s retired from the field,” said George.

“What, isn’t the owl post service bringing in the Galleons?” asked Harry pleasantly as he sat down.

“Oh, it’s always better to have a physical presence,” said Fred, looking over Harry’s shoulder. “You can’t rely on mail order catalogues to do your selling for you.”

“Yes, can’t leave it to customers to go through long lists of stuff by themselves,” said George, craning his head to look behind Ginny. “Customers need to have product pointed out, demonstrated, shoved in their mugs.”

“It’s easy to miss things, even if they’re smack dab in front of you,” said Fred, scanning the pub. “So yeah, opening up a shop here would push up the Hogwarts sales a tad.”

“Well, you’re the businessmen, I guess,” said Ginny, sitting down beside Harry. “Can we order? I’m starving!”

One of Madam Rosmerta’s assistants came round to take their orders. Although they were very well fed at Hogwarts with familiar British food, the Three Broomsticks served a slightly more varied menu and it was always fun to try something different. Harry, Ron and George opted for chicken curry, Ginny for a lasagna, Fred a steak and ale pie, and Hermione, partan bree. While they were ordering, the twins exchanged worried glances and kept looking around for someone else to join the table. Ginny was here, but where was He?

“So, did you enjoy yourselves?” asked Hermione, looking at Ginny.

“Oh yes, quite,” said Ginny. “I bought some fudge for my dorm-mates, and peppermint toads for myself. Then we had a nice long walk around the village. What about you?”

“I bought more quills at Scrivenshaft’s, mine are all ground down,” said Hermione. “Then Ron had to go drool over all the Quidditch stuff in Spintwitch’s for ages. But we had just enough time to pick up some sugar quills and toothflossing stringmints and… are you looking for someone?”

This last was directed at Fred and George. Fred nodded distractedly; George rather bluntly said, “Is it just the four of you for lunch? Or were you expecting anyone else?”

“It’s just the four of us,” said Hermione quizzically. “And lunch is here, if that’s what you’re keeping an eye out for.”

Heavily-laden platters hovered down in front of them, landing with soft thumps, along with baskets of fresh-baked rolls. Everyone dug in and for a few minutes there was only the sounds of chewing and a few comments on the food.

“That curry looks good,” said Ginny, eyeing Harry’s plate. “Can I try some?”

“Go ahead.”

“Look,” said Fred at last, looking up from his pie, “we were really wondering...” What he was wondering, nobody ever found out.

George said nothing. His open mouth said everything for him.

Ginny had leaned over to help herself to Harry’s curry, in the process revealing quite obviously that Harry had an arm draped casually round her waist. “Mmm, spicy,” she remarked. “What were you saying, Fred?”

“Uh… uh…”

Ron, who’d spent most of the lunch concentrating fixedly on his curry, uttered a small groan and drained his Butterbeer.

* * *


Professor Severus Snape was not often to be found in the village of Hogsmeade. He was not of the type to socialise over a drink in the inns and teashops. The castle provided for almost all his needs. As the Potions Master of Hogwarts, he could have delivered nearly any potion ingredient he desired to the castle. However, occasionally he did have to meet with business acquaintances, such as when dealing with more controversial substances. For this purpose, he did sometimes make use of the Hog’s Head. Usually, these meetings took place at night, often for the convenience of his acquaintance. It was safer to effect a transfer of illegal goods in the dead of night, when most of the world was asleep.

Unusually, this time his contact was in sufficient haste to dispose of some freshly-caught Lobalugs that he had insisted that Snape come to meet him immediately, in the middle of the day. Which was why at about a quarter to two in the afternoon, Hogwarts students availing themselves of the weekend were startled to see Snape striding quickly, first down the High Street, then back up to the castle, carrying in one hand a bulging, slightly damp holdall smelling of brine. Nobody stopped even to gawk; everyone hurried to get out of his way. Most assumed that he had heard of some wrongdoing in the village, and some hapless student was going to be spending the rest of the term in detention.

As Snape approached the Three Broomsticks, the door opened and a group of students came out. Snape turned his head fractionally, and then he slowed down.

* * *


Hermione shoved Harry and Ginny out the door of the Three Broomsticks, and grabbed Ron by the collar of his jacket. “It was great seeing you two again,” she called over her shoulder to the twins. “Good luck with the shop!”

Fred and George stared after her with blank, rather absent-minded expressions. They hadn’t spoken much during lunch, and afterwards they had headed straight for the bar, ordered and downed stiff drinks of Old Bucklebury’s Best Brandy. Hermione hoped the lunchtime imbibing wasn’t a sign of budding alcoholism, all too prevalent throughout both Muggle and Magical Britain. Perhaps some brilliant idea had struck them during the meal, she thought optimistically.

Outside, the temperature had fallen, and a chill wind had begun to carve its way through the village, along with a drift of Scotch mist. Hermione paused to pull on her gloves and snug her jacket tighter round her, and as she did, saw none other than Professor Snape going past. She saw him turn his head, his eye flicking over the group, then resting on Harry. His lip curled.

“No, no, it looks loads better on you, keep it,” Ginny was ramming her Holyhead Harpies beanie on Harry’s head, giggling madly.

“It’s too tight, and I don’t fancy a hat the colour of fresh-pickled toad, Weasley!” Harry was attempting unsuccessfully to snatch back his own red-and-gold hat from Ginny, who had pulled it down on her own head over her ears. He was somewhat handicapped as his arm was thrown round Ginny’s shoulders, and she kept it pinned there with one hand, fending him off with the other.

Hermione wasn’t quite sure what to do if one ran into Professor Snape in the middle of Hogsmeade — after all, he was a professor, and a member of the Order of the Phoenix; but he was also, well, Snape — so she gave a tiny hesitant wave. Snape glanced back at Hermione, then dismissively turned away and walked quickly back up the path to Hogwarts. Oh well. At least she’d tried.

“Oi, knock it off, you two, you’re in the middle of the street!” snapped Ron. Ginny was giving Harry a peck on the cheek as her latest attempt to keep her hands on his hat.

“Oh, never mind, Ron,” said Hermione cheerfully. She grabbed Ron by the elbow. “Come on, I can’t wait to get back to the castle and get out of this wind.”

The four made their happy way up the path to Hogwarts. A few other students were also walking back, most of them laden with bags of shopping. Harry and Ginny walked a little way ahead, hand in hand, eyes only a little on the path and mostly on each other. Hermione was feeling the effects of a decent Hogsmeade excursion and a big bowl of thick crab stew with rice washed down with two or three Butterbeers, and was looking forward to a dozy afternoon lounging around the common-room with Harry and Ginny and Ron. Perhaps she would treat herself a day off and do a little easy reading, like Self-Defensive Spellwork, or Modern Magical History.

Beside her, Ron slouched his way comfortably along, his hands jammed in his pockets, his mood apparently improving by the minute as he digested his lunch. In fact, Ron was perked up enough to help Hermione doff her jacket as they stamped into the toasty Entrance Hall, which made Hermione feel extra cheery and warm inside as well as out.

So it was that none of them really took much notice of the lone, pale, blonde-haired figure hurrying down the stairs, heading towards the dungeons with a bulging book bag under his arm. Harry and Ginny brushed past him, smiling, and didn’t see him stop and stare incredulously.

* * *


Harry was feeling very loving. He loved the nice ramble he’d had through Hogsmeade, with all its magical sights and sounds. He loved the creamy, spicy, exotic curry he’d had for lunch; he loved the warm, smooth Butterbeers he’d had with it, best drink in the world. He loved the friendly companionship of Ron and Hermione and Fred and George; he loved the slow, comfortably-stuffed walk back to the castle; he even loved the refreshing sting of the Scotch mist, and loved stepping out of the chill into the welcoming fuggy embrace of the Entrance Hall.

He loved the way Ginny’s hand perched on top of his own, swinging beside him. He loved the small toothy smiles she flashed at him every now and then. He loved the sheer exuberant joie de vivre that fountained out of her, drenching everyone around her, but most particularly him. Harry thought he could never make her understand how much warm brilliant beautiful joyful sun she shone into his life.

“That was a really nice day,” said Ginny, smiling gently. “I had a great time.”

“I had a great time too,” beamed Harry. “Best Hogsmeade weekend ever.”

Ginny blushed a little. She was feeling very loving as well. She had had a lovely walk, through the peaceful cosy village filled with cheerful students, the muscles of her body feeling relaxed and unknotted and unwound after lots of exercise. She loved her most delicious and filling pub lunch, surrounded by family and friends, the people she loved most in the world. She loved the way Hogwarts felt like a real home away from home.

Best of all, she loved the way Harry’s hand felt in hers, so firm and calm and reassuring. She loved the solid feel of his body when he held her in his arms. She loved how the determination and dependability that was so much his character so filled his very body, she could lean into his stalwart frame, and rest, completely at ease.

“I really like hanging out with you,” said Harry. “You… you make me so happy.”

“You do the same for me,” said Ginny. “So, what are we going to do now?”

“Well, most everyone is still in Hogsmeade, I think,” said Harry. “So we could bags all the good seats by the fire and play Exploding Snap or do Rune Riddles or just, y’know, laze.”

“Oooh, great plan! I think I’ve got half a bag of custard creams stashed away somewhere.”

“Should go well with some of this pumpkin fizz,” Harry jiggled his shopping bag slightly, so the bottles clinked.

Ginny tucked herself under Harry’s arm, and they made their way up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower. Somewhere downstairs there was a commotion, probably part and parcel of a castle full of skylarking students, but it didn’t register at all.

There was so much they wanted to say, thought Harry and Ginny both, and no idea how to say it. But that was okay. They had plenty of time to find the right words.

* * *


Draco Malfoy couldn’t believe his eyes. Potter and the Weasley girl were walking hand in hand past him, almost brusquely knocking him aside. They were all wrapped up in each other, it was clear, and equally obvious it was that they had been this intimate for a while. So was this the juicy bit of gossip that Pansy had wanted to tell him? The sight called up all kinds of emotion inside him, feelings he could barely acknowledge let alone begin to put a name to, but foaming on the very top of it all was a kind of rage, and he couldn’t help himself. He opened his mouth.

“All right, there, Potter?” called Malfoy loudly.

Instead of turning, Potter and Weasley went on up, talking quietly in low, happy voices. It infuriated him even more. “Oh so you’re the Weaselette’s latest conquest, I see,” he jeered. “She’s struck gold at last, all the Weasels will be so pleased. Or was it you who fancied a spot of blind, dumb hero-worship?”

No answer. Malfoy shouted up the stairs, “Well enjoy having it off with your best friend’s sister then! Maybe she’ll show you what goes where, I hear she’s popular, she must have had loads more experience than you…!”

He turned to go back down the stairs, and had time to catch a single glimpse of a furious red-headed figure behind a brandished wand: “OOOF...!”

The Trip Jinx snagged him neatly round the ankles, and he tumbled head over heels down the last couple of steps, books and papers and wand and everything flying everywhere, hitting his head against something and fetching up against the wall knocked completely out of breath. Through stars of pain Draco looked up at Ron Weasley, wand pointed at him and trembling with rage. A few passing students snickered, and stopped to watch.

“Come on, Ron, leave it,” hissed Hermione, grabbing Ron by the wand arm and shooting Draco a look of supreme disgust. “He’s not worth the trouble. Come on!”

Slowly, Draco got his breath back. Picked himself up. And began picking up his scattered things.

Sensing that there was no more show to be had, the other students went on their way. A couple even bothered to hide their smiles behind their hands. Soon, there was no-one else left in the Entrance Hall besides Draco… except one.

* * *


Astoria Greengrass knelt and solemnly picked up two books — The Home Floo Maintenance Handbook and Principles of Apparation — and an inkpot that had rolled into a corner. When she gave them to Draco, he snatched them out of her hands brusquely. For an instant she caught his eye. Astoria controlled herself well; she gave no outward indication of the fear she felt of what she saw looking back at her in that fleeting moment.

Draco turned his back to her, stuffing his things back into his book-bag. He started off in the direction of the Slytherin common-room, then stopped. His back rigidly erect, Draco turned halfway on his heel, and gave her a jerky nod, his eyes fixed downwards. Then he hurried on his way.

Astoria watched him go, then continued on her way out to the greenhouses. She never let herself be overly troubled by the little things; minor inconveniences, petty rudeness, the troubles of others. She was determined to do whatever she wanted — such as pottering about with her beloved plants — and to enjoy every moment of her day. She lived her life to the lees, in her own way, because as she well knew: there was so little time.

Back to index


Chapter 4: Reactions

Author's Notes: Thank you for the reviews and Silver Trinket votes! Well, at last we are done. I hope you have all enjoyed reading this as much as I have had writing it – it was rather a trip down memory lane back to school for me, in some ways. I hope I did justice to each character, I like them all, even Draco and Astoria – whom I hope to revisit soon.


Chapter Four: Reactions



By the Gryffindor common-room fire, on that cosy Saturday afternoon, the Four sprawled comfortably over their favourite armchairs and sofas.

Harry relaxed on one end of the sofa, next to a low table where a deadly quiet war was being waged on a beat-up chessboard, dipping every now and then into a bag of Bertie Botts’ Every-Flavour Beans. On the other end of the sofa, Ginny flicked through the latest Witch Weekly tucked behind The Standard Book of Spells Grade Five, her legs occupying most of Harry’s lap, and a bottle of pumpkin fizz at her elbow. Opposite her, Hermione was curled up in an armchair doing a Rune Riddle, scratching Crookshanks absently behind the ears and not in the least fooled by Ginny’s ‘studying’.

Seated beside Hermione was Ron, ostensiby concentrating on the chessboard and his share of Beans, but glancing up every now and then from behind his “chess face” at the couple across the way.

Ron had expected fireworks of some kind when Fred and George had finally clued in over lunch at the Three Broomsticks. But the Twins had been left stunned and speechless — a fact which rather tickled Ron, actually. And at least it solved one problem — it was now their business to tell Bill and Charlie. Ron was out of the line of spell-fire, both ways; he could safely swear to Ginny that he hadn’t told on her, and Bill would be out of his hair.

In any case, Ron was struggling with some serious doubts over where he stood in all this. Of course, from the very start, he’d known where his duty lay, all the Brothers did — protect the Baby Sister! Don’t let some spotty grabby greasy git get his smarmy hands on her! She deserved only the best! And any bloke who made her cry, let alone break her heart, was going to feel the full wrath of six wands and twelve boots! Because that was what family did for each other — but most especially especially for Baby Sisters.

But... this was Harry. Ron’s best mate.

Oh, Ron had seen it coming a mile away, of course. He’d seen all the signs himself, and as a fellow teenage wizard observing another, had deciphered them correctly. He just hadn’t wanted it to come true, and had for a long time convinced himself it wouldn’t. Because if anything went pear-shaped in the relationship, Ron would be forced to stick by his sister. And then Harry wouldn’t be his best mate any more, and Ron would be completely shattered.

But... this was Harry. He was the nicest bloke Ron knew. After all, that was exactly why they were best mates. He’d be the last bloke on earth to mistreat Ginny. In fact, he had been nothing but courteous and respectful to Ginny, all these years. Heck, Harry had even saved Ginny’s life, as they all remembered. And although Ron still hated the idea of his sister doing anything disgusting with Harry — they were all blokes, dorm-mates; they’d all heard and cracked the same jokes, but sisters were never part of the jokes until now and it was all starting to be very un-funny — Ron had to admit that push come to shove, if it had to be anyone going out with his sister — and he knew intellectually that it would have to be someone, someday — then Harry would not be a bad choice. No, he couldn’t in fact think of anyone else he could stomach, besides Harry.

Damn it, it was all too confusing for one bloke to think through alone!

Ron sneaked another peek at the two teenagers on the sofa. He watched as Ginny kicked Harry playfully, and leaned over to show him something funny in her totally-not-Witch Weekly. Ron took the opportunity of Harry’s distraction to discreetly nudge Hermione’s elbow.

“Look at them,” he said quietly. “They’re rather cute, aren’t they?”

Hermione looked up from her puzzle, and flashed him a complicit smirk. “Absolutely adorable,” Hermione agreed.

Ron thought of Dean Thomas and Michael Corner, and of Cho Chang. “Think it’ll last?”

Hermione answered with all the confident innocence of the young. “Ginny’s never had eyes for anyone else, and she understands Harry best. Harry absolutely adores her. They’re a good match for each other, and they’re happy. So why not?”

“Yeah,” said Ron. “Why not.” Absent-mindedly, he left his hand where it was, as he watched his sister settle down again with her magazine, feet curled in Harry’s lap.

Why not, right? After all, Harry did like Ginny very much, and Ginny, everyone knew about her thing for Harry. And if his best mate and his sister were so clearly head over heels for each other, well... maybe Ron would never ever be forced to choose between one or the other, right? And that was all he’d ever wanted, really; for his best mate and his sister both to be happy...

“Check.”

“Eh?” Ron looked up. Harry grinned at him from across the chessboard, and pointed down to where Harry’s Knight had come vaulting from out of nowhere to boot one of Ron’s pawns off the board, and was now threatening his King and Queen simultaneously.

Forked, and no way out. He would not even be able to take the Knight in return afterwards.

Ron suddenly realised his friend was the happiest and most carefree he had ever seen since, well, since their fourth year. Before Sirius, before Cedric... no, not happy. He looked like what Hermione would call serene. Ron glanced at Ginny. She was mouthing the words to some song, probably some Weird Sisters tune, and bobbing her head to the imaginary beat. Every now and then she looked up, and when it happened that she caught Harry’s eye, she flashed him a smile of pure... peace.

All I ever wanted was for my sister and my best mate to be happy.

He looked down at the board again. His King and his Queen...

Ron smiled, reached forward and gently tipped over the chess-piece, which squawked in protest as it tumbled over. “Cheers, mate,” he said. “I resign.”

* * *


All in all, it had been a great Hogsmeade weekend. Watching the sappy couple opposite, Hermione mentally patted herself on the back for the little bit of engineering she had performed to bring these matters to pass. She helped herself to a handful of Every-Flavour Beans, settled back in her armchair, thoroughly self-satisfied, and got on with a lazy Saturday afternoon.

She was careful not to dislodge Ron’s hand from where it rested on her elbow.

* * *


On Sunday afternoon, Bill Flooed to Number 93, Diagon Alley.

Number 93’s fireplace led into the kitchen of Fred and George’s flat over their shop. Once again, Bill was reminded of the reason why the Weasley Brothers didn’t hold their piss-ups in 93, and not just because they were respecting the Twins’ privacy. The kitchen, like every other room in the flat, was lined floor to ceiling with merchandise. Cauldrons simmered away on the stove, emitting purple and green smoke, and the room was redolent with the fragrance of cotton candy and castor oil. The sink and counter top groaned under the weight of more containers and bottles and bags of ingredients and experiments. By the fireplace was a hat-stand on which a dozen more cauldrons hung. Bill took especial care not to nudge them; he didn’t want to spill anything dangerous or embarrassing on himself.

Half the stained and pitted kitchen table was likewise taken up with similar bric-a-brac. The Twins occupied the other half, along with the remnants of their lunch.

Fred and George greeted him rather subduedly. Uh oh, thought Bill. He helped himself to a bottle from the waist-high stack of crates of Stoor’s Mild sitting within easy arm’s reach of the table, cleared a space on the table of mostly-empty pizza boxes and empty ale bottles, took a long swallow, and planted his elbows firmly on the table.

“Alright,” said Bill. “Report.”

There was a moment of silence, then Fred cleared his throat. Twice. “You’re not going to like this,” said Fred.

“We didn’t,” muttered George.

Bill’s heart sank. “He’s that much a pillock?”

“Not quite,” said Fred. He looked to his twin for support, then squared his shoulders. “It’s Harry.”

“Harry who?”

“Harry Potter,” said George, in funereal tones.

Bill remembered a moment, deep beneath the Valley of Kings, when he and his team of Curse-Breakers had been taken complete by surprise by the sudden clanging of alarm wards, the ones set to repel the most dangerous curses, and looked up from their work to see a hidden chamber slam open and a huge swarm of centuries-old Greater Flesh-Stripping Khepers emerge. That was the only time he had ever heard those particular wards set off for real, and he still had nightmares about that day. Bill’s cool actions getting his team out alive in the face of excruciating death had earned him one of the highest of commendations the Bank could give.

“Oh,” said Bill. He drank more of his ale, wishing it was Firewhiskey. “Okay. Does, uh, does Ginny look happy?”

“Oh yeah,” nodded Fred.

“Positively over the moon,” said George.

“This isn’t the right time, really,” grumped Bill. “She should be concentrating on her O.W.L.s. And Harry should be preparing for his N.E.W.T.s, even if it is just sixth-year. And there’s the small matter of the bloody war going on. Harry’s got a big part in that too... ah, damn it, what is he thinking?!”

“Looked about as lovestruck as our Ginny,” mumbled Fred.

“Head over heels besotted,” confirmed George.

Bill eyed the Twins critically. Something was amiss. “What’s up with you two? Ginny didn’t spot you, did she?”

“We had lunch together at the Three Broomsticks.”

“With her and Harry? Did you argue?”

“No...”

“Did she hex you?”

George shook his head.

The Twins were behaving absolutely inexplicably. Bill pressed them further: “You didn’t prank them, did you?”

“NO!” said Fred, in palpable anguish.

“Good, because I said not to!” said Bill. “You’ll get your innings if we have to, don’t worry about that.”

“No,” said Fred and George together. “We’re not pulling anything on him,” said Fred.

“Not Harry,” said George.

“Why not?”

In answer, Fred and George stood up, and silently led the way out of the flat, down to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. The shop was quiet, as it was during term-time, but Verity Carter was busy filling out mail orders in the back room. She greeted Bill with a kind of squeak and a wave, and blushed madly as she stuffed innocent-looking brown paper owl delivery bags with Skiving Snackboxes and other merchandise.

The Twins led Bill to the front of the shop, and stood there, hands in their pockets. “This is why not,” said George.

Bill stared. “You think Harry will burn down your shop in revenge?” he said, with heavy sarcasm.

“He might as well,” said Fred. “He’d be within his rights to, frankly.”

“We owe all this to him,” said George simply.

“We’d be a pair of right bloody ungrateful berks if we lifted a finger in this matter,” said Fred.

“Oh, knock it off, you cross-grained gits,” said Bill sharply. “You two had better start making some sense fast, because I am running...!”

“You don’t understand!” wailed George. “He gave us the Galleons to start all this!”

“A thousand Galleons,” whispered Fred reverently. He crossed to a shelf of Skiving Snackboxes, and laid a trembling hand on them. “All his Triwizard winnings...”

Bill’s jaw dropped.

“We were completely skint after Bagman stiffed us. And anyway between us we barely had fifty Galleons and the robes off our backs, even before Bagman made off with the lot...”

“He practically owns all this, you know,” said Fred, walking slowly down the shelves, his fingertips caressing the merchandise. “Without Harry, all of it would just be a big load of grand ideas and failed experiments.”

“We owe it all to him. That great, big, noble git.”

“And he wouldn’t take a Knut back, not to this day.”

“Not a single Sickle.”

“He did get our sister, though,” observed Bill sourly. “Would you say she’s worth a thousand Galleons?”

The twins rounded on him. “It’s not the monetary value, you Knut-nobbling goblin, it’s the... the principle of the thing!” exclaimed Fred.

It all came pouring out then in a torrent. Fred and George stormed up and down the shop, gesticulating in anguish.

“Haven’t you been listening?!”

“We made all this stuff, directly and indirectly, with the Galleons he gave us.”

“All the stuff we were going to use on Ginny’s paramours!”

“We can’t do Harry with this! Any of it!”

“None of it!”

“It’s not right at all!”

“But we can’t let him get away with it!”

“Making off with our sister like that, and scot-free!”

“We’ve always pranked all Ginny’s boyfriends, on principle...”

“We got Thomas even after we left Hogwarts...”

“Yeah, waited for him outside Scrivenshaft's and switched all his new quills for Smart-Arse ones...”

“Slipped U-No-Poo in his mints...”

“Jinxed his gloves to bite his fingers every now and then, cause we heard he was grabby...”

“But Harry’s our one and only benefactor! So we can’t!”

“Alright, alright, I get the picture,” cut in Bill, rubbing his temples.

“We’ll have to get back to you on this,” said Fred firmly.

“Me and Fred are going to have a long talk about our business ethics,” said George glumly.

And they solemnly escorted Bill out of the shop, shut the door, turned down all the blinds and flicked the sign to ‘CLOSED’.

Standing there on their doorstep, Bill muttered to himself, “Guess I’ll Apparate then.”

* * *


On the little loveseat in the living room of Flat 5B, Hibis Close, Fleur laughed and laughed, recovered herself, had some wine, and then laughed some more.

“Well, I’m glad you’re tickled, at least,” grumped Bill.

“Oh, mon coeur, who would not be,” said Fleur, wiping tears from her eyes. “Well, Gabrielle will be crushed. But it is good to be disappointed early, I think.”

“It’s not funny, Fleur,” said Bill. “Ginny’s young, and Harry has a great big putain of a task in front of him, as you would say; you know the Prophecy, you know what he has to do...”

Fleur shrugged as only the French can. “So the future holds challenge aplenty, so what. Let them enjoy the time they have. You think Ginny does not know what the future looks like for him, and her? I think she knows exactly what he faces.” The tall blonde half-Veela sipped her wine. “Perhaps she has decided to stand by him all the same. That is something I can respect.”

Bill ran a hand through his hair, and sighed. “I’m not sure she knows fully what she is in for. It’s going to be terribly dangerous, being the girlfriend of Harry Potter. And Harry doesn’t need distractions right now.”

“It is going to be dangerous for all of us, mon coeur. And Harry, you trust Harry to defeat him, do you not?”

“Of course I want him to, but...”

“Of course we all do, because if he doesn’t, then we are all in le grosse tas de merde. So,” she shrugged again, “trust him.”

Bill sighed. “I’m just going to have to, aren’t I?”

Fleur put down her wineglass, and swung a leg over Bill, straddling him. “Need I remind you, we Triwizard Champions are, how you say, ‘tough customer’. And after all, he did win the damn thing.”

“Alright, remind me then, Mademoiselle Delacour...”

* * *


Arthur Weasley had long ago learned the importance of knowing when to see and hear nothing. It was a critical skill to possess, bringing up six boys and a girl, all of them clever, high-spirited, and as violently obstinate in their own ways as their parents had been. Most days he let dear capable Molly have her head, intervening only when his absolute authority was appealed to.

So when he wandered into the kitchen of the Burrow and found Molly and the poor lovelorn Nymphadora Tonks conversing quietly over tea and muffins, Arthur figuratively Silenced his ears, and paused only to greet Tonks and snag a muffin for himself on his way out the kitchen door.

Unfortunately, it was difficult for even Arthur to ignore when Tonks said much too loudly, “No, Molly, it’s completely unfair to me; I’m an Auror for Merlin’s sake, on top of being in the Order, does he think I lead the safest life in the world? So what about the war? So what about You-Know-Who? None of that’s stopping Bill and Fleur, or even Ginny and Harry from being together, for Merlin’s sakes, so why should he let it come between me and him?”

“What do you mean, Ginny and — OH!” Molly shot a look at Arthur. “Arthur?! Did you know about this?”

Molly’s colour was immediately rising, Arthur could see. He made sure to speak slowly, calmly: “No, Molly, I didn’t know.”

“...oh, damn,” said Tonks miserably, her hand jumping up to her mouth, “I thought you’d know, practically everyone in Hogwarts does, I... oh, sh-”

“What on earth goes on in that girl’s head, I’m sure I don’t know, she has her O.W.L.s to worrry about, not to mention...!”

“Molly, calm down,” said Arthur, shooting a glance at Tonks. He took his wife gently by the shoulders, and smiled as he looked down on her worried face. “Our children are growing up, have grown up, almost all of them. The time for us to tell them what they cannot do is nearly past. Yes, I know Ginny is young, but,” he shrugged, “well, that’s also the best time to make mistakes. We’ll discuss this later.”

“But, Art...!”

Later,” said Arthur quietly but firmly. He turned pointedly to Tonks and said kindly, “Please don’t distress yourself, my dear Tonks. We do find out these things sooner or later. Molly and I would love if you could stay for dinner.” Turning back to his wife, he said casually, “I’m, er, going to my shed for a bit.”

Arthur went down to his shed, carefully shut the door, and surveyed its familiar, cosy insides. A half-dismantled radio sat on the workbench, parts and screwdrivers scattered all over, notes on its interior workings scribbled on the backs of discarded drafts of Muggle protection legislation. On the sagging shelves lining the walls sat carpentry tools; soldering irons; burned-out toaster ovens; a carefully-polished collection of telephones ranging from ornate rotary diallers to brick-shaped cordless sets to flip-out cellulars the size of a toddler’s fist; a framed photograph of the Weasley family, just missing Percy for the moment, that silly boy. All the bric-a-brac of his passions gathered together... and not a single red-headed soul, nor Extendable Ear, nor worried wife in sight.

Arthur was satisfied he was quite alone.

So he sat down, slapped his knee, and laughed, noiselessly, until his sides ached and the tears squeezed out of his eyes. “Harry Potter,” he said to himself, grinning. “Well, I can’t say fairer than that.”

Of course, Arthur knew that he would have to remind Molly to keep as outwardly oblivious and inwardly impartial as a parent could possibly be. He could rely on Bill to keep a general eye on things, and on Charlie to look out for Ginny in particular. He hoped Percy might somehow hear of it, and be cheered. Fred and George would jolly things along and smooth over any minor fuss, as usual. Ron might be inclined to jealousy, but Arthur had an inkling that he would have his own hands full with a certain other young clever-cogs of a witch before long. And he would have to reassure Ginny, gently, that come what may, he would always have a ready ear, and perhaps shoulder, for his baby girl.

Meanwhile, Arthur would work as he always had to keep them all safe from the threats and cruelties of the world. As would Harry, Arthur knew he could count on him for that. Ah, there was a fine lad who had never shied from doing what needed doing. All said and done... if the Chosen One wasn’t good enough for one’s daughter, who else would be?

You couldn’t say fairer than that.

* * *


“Sod Potter, and sod his Weaselette girlfriend,” snarled Draco out loud to himself. The words echoed in the Room of Requirement, sounding empty and hollow in dead stillness of the air. “And sod Weasley, and sod that bloody mudblood Granger, and... and...”

He couldn’t quite bring himself to speak Astoria’s name. He didn’t know why. His mind was all in a jumble these days, ever since he had undertaken the mission the Dark Lord had given him to restore the family honour. The Dark Lord, Potter, Dumbledore, Weasley, Astoria... their faces swam in his mind, his thoughts flicking from one to another rapidly until his head pounded and his throat felt dry and it seemed even his eyes ached. There was no reason for them to do that, he was hunkered down here on his heels on a patch of Scourgified floor, his head in his arms. His eyes had no right to be tearing up like this. It was the dust in this damn Room, no doubt about that.

Somehow Astoria swam to the forefront of his aching head. Draco thought about what she had said. Yes, a part of him longed, screamed, begged to be released from this repulsive duty he had been forced to — no, that his father’s choice of friends had forced him to accept. He wished he had friends, proper friends, strong in will and in magical power, friends to whom he could turn to when the whole world felt like it was crashing down on him — not sycophants even weaker than himself, and rivals waiting to stab him in the back, step in and fill his dead shoes. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to run away from it all, away from Hogwarts, the war, the Malfoy name...

A larger and far louder part of him shouted down that blubbering, weak coward; there was no way out, here too Astoria was right — he was trapped in a net of his own weaving, running had done nothing for Igor Karkaroff, and would do nothing for him, they held his parents and would be sure to hunt him down and end him messily, painfully. The only way out was to win, the only way to survive was to kill... kill or be killed...

Floundering, Draco grabbed onto that treacherously tenuous lifeline of thought and held on for dear life.

Because, the Dark Lord was sure to win, wasn’t He? He had an army, Draco had seen it, a formidable army of hardened soldiers and pure-bloods and werewolves and giants, steeped in blood and cruelty; and the other side had nothing but old men and platitudes and mud-bloods, and Father had always said they lacked the magical power and force of will to do the necessary. Like it or loathe it, the Malfoys had to be on the winning side, for survival’s sake.

And when the Dark Lord did win, when Draco took his rightful place beside the Dark Lord, a pillar of proper Wizarding Society, having proven himself a worthy heir of the Malfoy name, having guided the family through these perilous times, having proven her wrong... wouldn’t Astoria then concede he had been right to stay this course? Wouldn’t he be able to look her in the eye, and not feel burning shame at the humiliation he and his family had endured at the hands of Potter and his friends?

Perhaps then... perhaps then Astoria would look up at him the same way the Weaselette looked up at Potter, like they thought no-one was watching, like they didn’t care if anyone was watching. And then maybe he could...

Draco pushed that last thought out of his mind through sheer force of will. He must focus. He got up and turned back to face the Vanishing Cabinet. “Yeah, well... to hell with Potter and the Weaselette, anyhow.”

He told himself there was nothing to be jealous of.

* * *


When Molly Weasley was angry or fearful, she cooked. It didn’t matter even if it wasn’t anytime near breakfast, lunch or dinner; in her experience someone peckish was always around and all the plates would be licked clean in a twinkling. And a life spent raising a family of six boys and one girl all equally rambunctious had never proven her wrong. So while Tonks went and had a lie-down in the living room, because she had been up all night on duty, poor dear, Molly began peeling potatoes, chopping vegetables, boiling stock and browning slices of beef. From four hundred recipes in her head she plucked a handful without really thinking about it, and let comfortable routine take over her hands while her mind buzzed like a disturbed wasp’s nest.

Harry Potter. Of all the boys in the world. Of all the boys in the world!

She liked Harry. No, she loved him, almost like a son. But that was the rub, wasn’t it? He was not exactly hers, she did not have the absolutely undisputed right of a mother to tell him off for dragging Ron and the others on all sorts of dangerous excursions, let alone talk to him about forming relationships during these uncertain times. And that was the line between family and almost-family, wasn’t it?

What if he’d finally let his fame get to his head? He seemed a nice boy and all, but... that was just it, wasn’t it? He was a boy, and she’d raised six of them, and she knew boys would be boys as much as girls would be girls. Ginny was clever, and outgoing, and quite attractive, and that was half the problem wasn’t it? Boys, let’s face it, rarely looked beyond such matters. And famous Harry Potter could certainly have his pick of the lot. Not that Molly knew what else he had been up to in school. But there had been snatches of talk, here and there, that she couldn’t help overhearing about some Ravenclaw girl, and before that some other girl, during the Triwizard mess. (Molly coloured a little when she thought about her unkindness to poor dear Hermione, and wondered if Hermione knew how very sorry she was.) So how serious about all this was Harry, really?

And what about Ginny? What had she been thinking? Was she actually happy, or was this a rebound, after that Thomas business? Was it hero-worship? Was she living out her silly crush from when she was little? Was she throwing herself after him just because of all this ‘Chosen One’ business? Molly fervently hoped not; she’d raised her daughter to be better than that!

She’d known there was something, of course. A mother always knows. (Her mother certainly had, although she hadn’t seen the elopement coming.) She had seen the longing looks, measuring and wistful by turns, stolen when one or the other thought no-one was watching. She had seen the secret pleasures taken in the snatched moments as they drifted together, the hidden pain and regrets as they drifted apart. Mothers always knew!

Molly cast an irritable eye over the table full of food, then stood there stock-still in surprise. She put a hand to her mouth. And then she laughed softly to herself, as she looked over the dishes and for the first time that afternoon became consciously aware of what she had made — lamb chops, steak-and-kidney pie, spring greens, baked jacket potatoes, and treacle tart — a mix of Ginny’s and Harry’s favourites. They sat there on the table, together, looking and smelling absolutely beautiful. They conjured up memories of the joyful past and hopes for a loving future.

Molly laughed again, her heart suddenly at peace.

After all, a mother always knows. Even if she herself doesn’t know it, at the time.

And that was a kind of magic Molly could trust.

* * *


Professor Severus Snape examined the seventeen small cauldrons simmering gently on the long low table that occupied most of his private sitting room. He added a touch of ingredient here, a precise stir there, observed hue and consistency, smelled and tasted the ones that were safe to smell and taste, and recorded everything in a logbook. Satisfied that his long-term projects and experiments were progressing well, he crossed over to the fireplace, banked the fire, and sat down in the worn armchair.

Night enfolded the castle. All was, if not exactly well, then at least still and silent.

It was at moments like these, in the deep, dark gap between dusk and dawn, when the world itself seemed to fall Petrified into a crack between time and space, that Severus Snape lessened for a fraction the iron grip of self-control with which he otherwise ruled his actions, his thoughts, his very feelings. For without these cofferdams of steely will rendering impenetrable his mind and his heart, he would very quickly come to a messy, agonising and prolonged end. In these fleeting moments Severus Snape opened a chink in his mental armour, allowed himself a brief interlude from the tragedy-play that was otherwise the entirety of his existence.

Severus sat, and examined his thoughts.

It really should be none of his business, the personal lives of two children, outside of class, of the School, of everything. He should not be affected in the least by either the knowledge or the sight of Lily Evans’s son and the Weasley daughter, walking hand in hand, with every sign of oblivious adolescent infatuation. Evans’s son was in no physical danger, and that was that as far as his deepest and darkest secret was concerned. The Weasley daughter meant even less to him than that — should mean far less to him than that. The entire fact ought to mean nothing to him. That Saturday morning, he should have seen nothing more than a messy brave black-haired boy and a lively clever red-haired girl.

And yet... he saw a messy brave black-haired boy. And a lively clever red-haired girl.

Ridiculous, yes. But that was what he saw nonetheless, and thought of ghosts and bones and pain and regret. And so he brooded upon those thoughts, deep into the timeless night, as the fire hissed and crackled.

Sometimes, on such nights as these, as Severus thought about his life — all that the past held, all that the present was, all that the future promised — he found himself tottering at the very edge of the abyss, felt himself nearly overcome by the blackest and bitterest of despair, by helpless fury so all-consuming it was all he could do not just to retain control of his own actions, but to remain literally sane. All he could do not to scream and wail and dissolve into a mindless wreck, as lost to humanity as the victim of a Dementor’s Kiss, from the sheer anguish and misery of his existence.

On nights like these, Severus had a certain indulgence.

It was an indulgence he rarely permitted himself, and if he had no need of it he did not partake, unless it was the very worst of the worst of such nights. Even now, with most of his defences let down, Severus tried to weather the storm of his emotions without recourse to his one weakness. So he sat and brooded, and the flames threw long dark shadows in the room and on his face and in his heart, until he could bear it not a moment more.

Only then, white-lipped with fury, black-eyed with rage, with trembling fingers, did Severus grope for his wand and choke out, “Expecto Patronum!”

His Patronus burst from his wand, cantered a few steps, then turned back to gaze at him with sad, luminous eyes. It could be a figment of imagination, but over time, Severus somehow thought his Patronus — which should be no more animate than spell sparks — had begun to acquire more and more animalistic behaviour. Severus held out a hand, and his Patronus came closer. It trotted around him in a curious circle, almost exactly like a snuffling animal, until it was so close it would be nuzzling his shoulder if it was a real animal.

He could not touch it, any more than you could touch a sunbeam, but if he could, Severus imagined it might almost feel like the dimmest memory of a friendly fall of red hair pillowed on his shoulder.

The sight of the shining silver doe, and all that it meant to him, calmed his heart and restored his spirit like nothing else ever could. The spell-animal stayed with him for several long minutes, until Severus breathed easier, and then it stepped behind him, and faded away.

As easily as he had taken them down, Severus rebuilt the Occlumentic walls that guarded his mind and his heart day and night. When he was finished, no outward trace of emotion remained. He was once more Professor Severus Snape.

On nights like these, Snape was especially careful to take the appropriate precautions once his equanimity was re-established. Often, far too much hinged on far too little, and Snape was not one to be careless with even the least of little things. No-one must be allowed to see either his moments of ultimate weakness, or his means of dealing with them... not even himself.

Calmly he brought his wand-tip to his temple, and removed the memory of his Patronus. He allowed the silvery thread to fall thoughtlessly to the floor.

It was strange. For all his prowess at various other charms, Severus Snape had somehow never acquired the knack of casting this particular spell non-verbally. If you asked him why, he honestly could not have said.

“Evanesco.”

* * *


Charlie nodded to himself. He’d seen it coming a mile away, of course, the way the two little ‘uns always mooned over each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking. Like a pair of cautiously courting Chinese Fireballs those two were, shy and snappish at turns. He’d told Bill near as much, but he wouldn’t listen either, he was always “keeping an open mind”. Ah, they’d all been a right proper bunch of prats hadn’t they, let the egg-thief right into the nest, and he’d pinched the lot, yes he had. He’d have to give Harry a good clip on the ear for that, friendly-like, the next time he saw the wee rascal.

But Harry was a decent chap wasn’t he? Wouldn’t harm a fly, nor a dragon neither. (Being considerate to dragons put anyone tops in Charlie’s book.) There was all that business with Hagrid and Norbert, well played Potter, and then there was the Triwizard and the Horntail. None of your nasty sneaking Conjunctivitis curses, no sir, and yet a healthy respect for tooth and claw and firepower. That had been a nice bit of flying too, bold as brass monkeys, and he’d heard Potter was a fine Seeker as well. In fact, if Charlie was being completely honest with himself, he wouldn’t lay even Galleons on himself, were he and Potter ever to find themselves on opposing Quidditch teams.

No, Harry was as tough as they came. If Harry ever broke his poor baby sister’s heart, Charlie’d have to find something special for him. Coming from Charlie, that was a mark of respect, that was. Harry’d already proven he could take on a Horntail, but Charlie thought even the “Chosen One” might find a Peruvian Vipertooth a little surprising... especially if she was accompanied by a Swedish Short-Snout, diving out of the clouds or pouncing up from the undergrowth...

Ah, but that Ginny though, what a fine pair they were. She hadn’t fussed around, had she? Set her cap on him from the start, gone straight for the alpha, and straight for the kill. Bet Potter never knew what’d hit him. What a fine pair they’d make. And all jokes and dragons aside, they gave every indication they’d make it. Whyever not? They were two decent people at heart, and that was all that was needed for love to hatch, grow, unfurl and soar.

Yes, Charlie decided, this called for a toast.

He got up slowly and carefully to his feet, steady as a rock, using every ounce of his renowned Seeker dexterity to keep the ship from rocking. Yup, he still had it. Charlie raised his flagon of Romanian lager, and decided that the occasion called for a general toast. The whole world should know of his fine opinion of the couple. So he addressed the world in general.

“To Ginny, and Harry Potter! Good luck, mate, you’ll need it! Sănătate!

“SĂNĂTATE!” chorused everyone else in the bar, grinning widely.

Charlie drained his flagon, slammed it down, and subsided into a happy heap on the bar. Across the room, everyone drank the toast, then went back to their conversations. A Romanian witch asked her date, “What was the Englishman saying?”

He shrugged. “Not a clue.”

* * *


Percy Weasley sat in his office chair, his quill poised over a detailed report summarising the results of several conferences with valued International Confederation of Wizards security partners on mutual co-operation in managing the You-Know-Who situation. At his elbow, his morning mug of tea cooled, a half-eaten Ginger Newt sitting on the saucer. On his table lay a short scrap of parchment in Bill’s no-nonsense hand. There were only three words: It’s Harry Potter.

Percy’s eyes, however, were not on the report, but on a photograph shoved partially behind his out-tray. It was a Muggle photograph, because in Muggle photoraphs the images didn’t — couldn’t — move and walk out of frame. It had been taken three years ago, when Father had been messing about (as usual) with his Muggle gadgets, but it was the only photograph he possessed in which he was not alone.

Father and Mother sat beaming at the head of a laden table, flanked by Bill and Charlie. Charlie had his arm around Ginny, frozen with wide grinning mouths as if in mid-laugh over a shared joke. Bill was resting an elbow on Percy’s shoulder, looking thoroughly at ease. Fred and George were feeding each other mashed potatoes, pretending to coo like newlyweds over wedding cake. And here were Harry, Ron and Hermione, at the bottom of the table; the three inseparables. To the keenest of eyes, aided perhaps by a dash of imagination, one might fancy that Harry was glancing from the corner of his eye up the table just a little, and Ginny likewise down it, at him.

But Percy knew from long familiarity the scene the photograph had captured. In reality he was lost in other recollections on the inside of his head far more vivid, though no less pleasant, albeit overlaid with regret. As Percy stared sightlessly at the unmoving image, the perpetual frown he had somehow acquired lessened, his brow cleared, and an almost-smile straightened the downturn of his mouth a little.

“Harry Potter,” he said quietly to himself. “Good luck.”



THE END



* * *


Post-script Author's Note: JK Rowling has remarked that in the movies, “Good luck” are the first two words Ginny says to Harry. Snape's scene is inspired by Makani's "DH: Always" artwork, on Deviantart.

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