Well, based on the first chapter's reception, there are a good number of readers out there who are quite open to a disorientingly non-linear little tale. Happy happy!
That said, this second chapter expends most of its words dwelling upon a day in the life of 1995 Grimmauld Place. Don't worry though -- I promise I'll yank your chains again soon.
Chapter 2. Perfectly Normal? (August 8, 1995)
Harry flipped another egg onto the warm platter beside the stove and added two more slices of toast to a growing stack. Glasses of cold pumpkin juice were glistening with condensation, coffee was brewing, and a pile of bangers filled the room with sumptuous aroma.
He gazed at the dining table. The chairs were all still empty but, otherwise, the kitchen was ready for a spirited breakfast. All it needed was a few hungry mouths...
Ah, and here are some now!
A clatter from the front door signaled that Remus Lupin and the two Weasley parents were finally returning from their overnight reconnaisance. Harry smiled as he heard them whispering and tip-toeing their way back toward the kitchen.
"Good morning!" Harry greeted Molly in a low but friendly voice as she emerged through the door.
"Harry!" She stared, wide-eyed. "What are...? I mean, why aren't you in bed?"
"I was awake early this morning..." Harry paused to smile at Arthur and Remus as they entered with comparably surprised expressions. "Since I was up, I figured I might as well come make breakfast." Harry shrugged casually, with no intention of mentioning that Sirius had staggered into the girls' room forty minutes ago to warn him of the adults' imminent return.
"Breakfast??" Molly gazed around in confusion at what seemed to be a very respectable meal. "But Harry, you mustn't feel the need to..."
"It's my pleasure!" Harry whisked three plates off the counter and began setting places at the table. "I knew you'd be out all night, and assumed you'd return hungry and exhausted, so it seemed a natural thing to do. I was a bit leery of the thought of Kreacher's, uhhh... cooking, so I got things started myself."
"Oh." Molly looked a bit lost for a moment, then blinked. "Oh, well, at least wear this so you don't soil your clothes." She plucked an apron from the hook, and handed it to him.
"Thank you son." Arthur proferred a smile that was part weariness, part sympathy for a young man being made to wear a flowery linen, but mostly sincere appreciation for the food. "Ahh, it smells delicious!"
"Glad you think so; I've had some practice in the kitchen." Harry brought over three mugs of coffee. "So, how was your night?"
The suddenly grim expressions gave Harry more of an answer than he'd expected, and it was not one he would have hoped for. Arthur and Lupin fidgeted uncomfortably; Molly's eyes reddened. Her breath hitched and she looked away.
Lupin sighed. "Let's keep this under our hats for now Harry, but Albus's concerns were correct. Twice last night Death Eaters attempted to breach the wards at the Burrow. If we hadn't been there to strengthen the protections, the place would be in flames."
Turning away from Molly as she dabbed an eye, Arthur stared at the wall, clenching his coffee cup. "It appears we'll not be returning home any time soon," he said.
"Sorry to hear that." Harry gave a sympathetic look as he made his way back to the stove. Then he paused, seeming to straighten and stand tall. "But this too shall pass, right. We can't let them beat us down; we'll all find our way home again eventually."
Arthur and Molly glanced at each other in surprise. Watching Harry as he resumed his labours, they found themselves trying to reconcile his pragmatically hopeful words with the edgy, irascible and distinctly damaged youth who had come to roost only two days earlier. Lupin also paused to study Harry, then shook his head absently, pensive lines etching his brow as he silently carved into his breakfast.
Some time later, after the two elder Weasleys had stumbled away to find some sleep in one of Grimmauld Place's many dilapidated guest rooms, Lupin sat nursing his third cup of coffee. He opened his mouth, closed it, stirred an extra spoonful of sugar into his mug, then finally resolved to proceed. "Harry, I had a chat yesterday with Nymphadora Tonks..."
"Oh yes?" Harry turned tentatively from the wash basin.
"Tonks has a well-placed friend in the legal division at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement..." Lupin tapped his mug for a moment. "They discussed your case in brief, and her friend is of the opinion that nobody can make the charge stick."
"Ah?" Harry raised an eyebrow.
Lupin nodded. "The law offers clear protections for instances of magical self-defence, and we all agree that your story will stand up to basic scrutiny. If there's any question as to your honesty, a competent examiner could simply assess your state of mind when you summoned your Patronus – easily accomplished by casting prior incantatem on your wand. If they extend you that most basic consideration, Tonks' friend believes it would be a farce for them to proceed any further. And even if they conduct a formal hearing, she's certain that the case will be thrown out."
Harry gazed at the doorway, nodding to Hermione. Silent so as to not interrupt the conversation she'd just stepped into, she responded with a worried half-smile and took a seat.
"Thank you for looking into that, Professor." Harry placed a laden plate in front of Hermione and took a seat beside her. "To be honest, though, it doesn't really even seem all that important anymore. Let them decide what they decide. In the worst case, I simply won't go to Hogwarts this year."
Lupin's coffee cup froze, half way to his mouth.
Hermione gaped at Harry. "You can't possibly mean that! You must return to Hogwarts this year! It's... it's..." She trailed off, dumbfounded.
Harry appraised his well-intentioned, open-mouthed friend. He had to admit that her shock was natural – after all, just yesterday morning he'd been ranting about this very topic. Everyone knew how upset he'd been.
However, today was a new day, and his priorities had shifted. It was as if he'd grown six inches over night to find formerly fearsome bullies suddenly looking like puerile, pimply slugs. The dreaded hearing now seemed a foolish distraction, compared to other more pressing crises.
Harry sighed. "I don't know, Hermione. I do admit I'd like to get a proper and normal magical education just like any other Hogwarts student, but let's be realistic. Do you seriously expect the world is suddenly going to let me be just another student? Can either of you truly imagine that I'll ever simply be allowed to go to class, prepare for OWLs and obsess over Quidditch like everyone else?"
Both Hermione and Lupin gave him commiserating looks. Lupin was about to interject, but Harry shook him off.
"Listen, I've confronted near-death every year at Hogwarts, so why should this year be any different? If some idiots in the Ministry want to expel me for saving my soul, then why should I care? They might be motivated by wrong-headed reasons, or maybe by no clear reason at all, but it's honestly occurred to me that it could be a lot healthier for everyone if I didn't return to a school where my very presence likely imperils loads of other students."
"No! Yes! But...!" Hermione burst from her seat. "Harry, you need to keep up your lessons just to... to... to survive! "
Harry looked at her for a moment, then gazed away. "You know, I'm not sure about that. I sometimes wonder if maybe there's another way..." Lost in thought, he rose to return to cooking.
Hermione stared at him, unblinking; barely breathing.
Lupin sighed. Remembering the coffee poised inches from his mouth, he finally took a sip, put the cup wearily, and scratched at his stubbly cheek with an air of self-doubt. "I, er, well... all that aside, Harry don't you at least care about the principle of the thing?"
"Principle?" Harry finished dividing the cooked eggs and rashers among several plates, and started a new batch. "Maybe, but what's principle and what's folly?"
"Err...?" Lupin opened his mouth but got no further.
"To be honest Professor Lupin, the only principle that matters to me right now is the struggle of light versus dark. Where the hell does the 'Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery' fit into that? It's not exactly evil, but if it doesn't permit self defence against evil then it's pretty naffing amoral at best, just like the Minister himself, and half of the quill pushers who'd be judging me. Call me jaded, but I see no principle in fighting a battle with no principle."
An awkward silence began to descend but was broken, mercifully, by raucous laughter as the twins rambled their way down the steps, followed by a rather stoney-faced Ron.
"Shhh!" Lupin frowned as the three Weasley brothers poured into the kitchen. "Please keep it down a bit – Molly and Arthur are trying to get some sleep."
"Keep it down? Us?" Fred stared incredulously. "Could you please tell that to the prat making all the ruckus last night while WE were trying to sleep?"
George laughed. "Yes, did we miss anything interesting?"
"Er, well Ginny had a nightmare." Harry glanced around at the pair, wondering if they had heard any of the hallway argument between Sirius and Ron. With some unease, he noted the morose look on Ron's face, but was relieved to see the twins shrug disinterestedly and crack open a copy of the Daily Prophet to snigger over the morning's stories.
"Nightmare?" Lupin leaned forward in concern. "Poor kid. Is she okay?"
Ron rolled his eyes and was about to comment, but Hermione cut in first. "Yes," she answered firmly, narrowing her eyes at the various Weasleys. "I'm certain Ginny is fine, though she and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley could likely all use their rest this morning, so let's all respect Professor Lupin's advice and try to keep our voices down. Understood?"
Ron blinked indignantly and seemed prepared to argue, but a sharp glance from Hermione silenced him. In resignation, he scowled and slumped noisily into the seat beside Lupin.
Suppressing a smirk, Harry brought out servings for the newcomers, stealing furtive glances as the teens settled into their meal with no further mention of the prior night. Eyes smiling in gratitude, he refilled Hermione's glass of pumpkin juice, then he too (finally) pulled up a chair and took his place in front of a well-stocked plate.
The rising sun was just breaking through a row of trees on the far bank of the stream, sending merry beams across to sparkle throughout the glade where Ginny lay. Specks of light danced across her weary face. Her eyelids twitched and, reluctantly, she stirred and stretched.
Gazing from the ceiling of shimmering leaves to a curtain of swaying grasses, it took Ginny a moment to piece together where she was and how she'd gotten here – a string of disorienting half-memories; a ghastly nightmare of utter desolation; a blurred, bittersweet vignette of discovery and abandonment. And through it all, there had been...
Harry?
Or not Harry?
That face, those eyes, that voice, had been the one constant in all of her strange dreams – dying and living; young then mature; helping and healing; bringing sorrow then hope.
Giving a brooch.
And taking it away?
With a start, Ginny's left hand flinched. Empty! The brooch was gone! Lashed with an icy sense of loss, she flailed about blindly, in the vain hope that she could merely reach out and somehow...
Find it??
Ginny blinked in amazement. The instant her fingers grazed the brooch on her night stand, the vision of riverside leaves and grasses vanished. Instead, she was sprawled haphazardly across her bed in the dingy yellowish bedroom at Grimmauld Place. Sunlight was streaming through the narrow Victorian window. Bedclothes were scattered, her hair hung loose about her face and, once again, she was holding the ornate silver brooch.
She began to examine the mysterious object. It was a small but fascinating piece – a smooth oval shield graced by two wings angling to the side in the manner of a sea eagle drying its wings. On the shield, punctuated by two glittering gems (an emerald and a ruby, Ginny supposed), was an inscription:
Invenies in Tenebris
· ·
P. PEVERELLIVS
In appearance, the brooch was intriguing if not extraordinary. It was ornate, attractive and looked rather unique, but would hardly stand up to the superior Goblin pieces she had seen in fine shop windows in Diagon Alley. What did strike Ginny, rather, was that the brooch seemed to be calling to her – a plaintive song, beautiful yet faint as if heard from a great distance.
Magic!
Ginny's hand dropped it as if she'd been scorched. She stared at it.
Was it truly magical? If so, what did it do?
Mysterious magical objects had betrayed her before, and Ginny was not about to fall blindly into another perilous trap. Yet, for some reason, the brooch felt... wholesome. It made her feel more secure, reminding her of the man who had given it to her.
In her dream...
Huhhh??
Ginny winced as a throb of confusion coursed through her battered head. With no clue how an object from a dream could possibly have landed on her night stand, and no energy for sorting the illogical images left over from a very perplexing night, she rubbed her temples for a moment then came to a resolution.
Mysteries would have to wait. Ginny was sore, tired and hungry. For those afflications, the best cure was the simplest one – a good hearty breakfast.
She tugged on her pillow, removed the slip and draped it over the night stand to shroud the contentious brooch. Wrapping herself in a bathrobe, she found slippers and shuffled her way out into the corridor and down the steps to the kitchen. As she went, she smirked to herself at the distinct noise of her siblings attempting (with predictable lack of success) to be quiet.
As Ginny entered the room, Ron shot her a baleful look "Oh look! Her Highness the Drama Queen is finally out of bed."
Ginny ignored him, instead chancing to spy the way Hermione glared at her brother. Lupin, too, leveled him a frown of disapproval, prompting Ron to turn away, a bit reddened.
Okay... Ginny's eyes narrowed. What was that all about?
Even before getting exiled to this dump, Ginny and Ron had quarrelled almost daily this summer. Few people bothered to intercede anymore, probably fearing verbal shrapnel, so Ginny was baffled to suddenly find not one but two people clearly taking her side.
At least Fred and George (barely glancing at her as they engaged in a heated debate over Quidditch squads) were behaving normally, which hopefully meant that she wasn't covered with green spots (or worse). Nonetheless, as Ginny took a vacant seat immediately across from the twins, she made a mental note to pursue some discreet inquiries later.
Ginny had just opened her mouth to start some frivolous chit-chat with Hermione, when a hand swept in front of her, presenting a plate laden with a hearty meal that her Mum would have been proud to serve.
But that was not her Mum's hand.
In the corner of her eye, Ginny glimpsed an unexpected form retreating back toward the wash basin.
Harry? Serving breakfast??
Subtly gesturing with her thumb, Ginny gave Hermione a questioning glance, but the older girl merely shrugged.
Ginny surreptitiously eyed the young man as he busied himself with cleanup. To her estimation, anyone who'd recently seen a friend murdered, witnessed the rebirth of evil incarnate, been attacked by Dementors and gotten charged for unlawful underage use of magic, would have earned the right to hurl an entire set of Black family flatware against the wall, but instead Harry was calmly rinsing one. Cheerily doing chores for a bunch of noisy ingrates. And wearing a flowery apron.
How curious...
More curiosities seemed to be crop up during the meal, but Ginny focused on enjoying the food, never staring at anything odd, and basically pretending that everything around her was normal. She had long honed this act as her way of navigating raucous Weasley family meals, but today her resolve was being tested.
Dealing with a lot of unprovoked jeers from Ron proved fairly easy. For this, Ginny merely engaged Hermione in one of the many perfectly acceptable female conversational topics that made her brother queasy. Making a noise like a wretching Kneazle, he quickly gave up and fled to the other end of the table.
Other distractions, however, proved more... distracting. Â
In particular, Ginny found herself repeatedly sidetracked by the twins' needling Harry. The more kindly side of her wished they'd leave the poor boy in peace but, well, the jokes about his domestic skills were unfortunately quite funny (especially given his floral attire, which she was not staring at). Ginny successfully stifled several giggles but, finally, Fred's quip about Harry's 'wifely virtues' caught her at just the wrong point mid-swallow and she nearly sprayed juice all over the table.
Ginny was in good company, though. A quick glance about the room, suggested that a little giggle (or spray) would have gone undetected because everyone else – even Harry himself – was too busy laughing.
Ironically, though, it was that same quick glance when all sense of orderly decorum began to fall apart. It was then that Ginny (not staring) saw Harry stepping back from the dish basin holding a manky old rag (greasy, with bits of egg). That, in itself, was hardly unusual (since he was washing dishes), and it was perfectly normal for her to spot such minor details (she was highly observant), and Ginny (prone to normal Weasley instinct) might have mused to herself that gunky rags can make potent instruments of retaliation, but of course Harry was no Weasley, and Ginny would never incite such a fine fellow to crass prankery and, besides, this all occurred in scant seconds during which there was no opportunity for her to wave to him and point out that Fred (quaking in laughter from his own joke) was a perfect target, so Ginny (a self-professed 'innocent' in the whole affair affair) was actually quite surprised by the subsequent...
SPLAATTTT!
It took two startled seconds for everyone to stop laughing at Fred's humour and begin laughing at the rag, glop and coffee grinds sliding down Fred's revolted face. In those second, Ginny very nearly 'did' stare at Harry. And, on his way over to retrieve his improvised (manky) weapon, Harry did meet her (not-quite-staring) eyes... and he winked.
At Ginny.
So Ginny Weasley, actress extraordinaire, did the perfect thing to disguise the fact that she had almost (not quite) been staring at him. She grinned and winked back... because that would be the perfectly normal response.
Yes, Ginny had acquitted herself quite well throughout an eventful, and tasty, breakfast. However, by the time she left with sated stomach, her curiosity was ravenous.
After pouring a sizable dose of hangover potion down his godfather's throat and getting a good meal into the man, Harry put aside the apron and officially signed off breakfast duties. With Molly still asleep from the night's exertions, there were no other chores assigned, so the Weasley siblings had gone off to play Exploding Snap, and Hermione was likely curled up somewhere with a school book.
Despite his cheerful morning demeanour, the night's interrupted sleep had caught up with Harry and he was no longer feeling sociable. Instead of joining the others, he climbed the steps aimlessly toward the third floor. Seeing a pleasant stream of daylight, he followed it back to the only open door on the level, and thus found himself the library.
Although in desperate need of some basic Scourgefy spells, the library seemed brighter, airier and less musty than most of Grimmauld Place. Near the west-facing windows Harry noticed an ornate wooden chair and an escritoire with several quills and bottles of what might still be viable ink. On the north wall he saw a fireplace flanked by an armchair and ottoman. Not surprisingly, most of the rest of the walls were taken up by book shelves, well appointed with a wide variety of old volumes.
After browsing for less than a minute, Harry's finger landed semi-randomly on one of the larger tomes – "A Magical History of Britain", by Titus Cornerstone. Pulling it carefully from the shelf, he walked over to the ottoman, removed the dust cover, and settled himself comfortably. With the goal of lulling himself to sleep, he opened the book somewhere near the end of the first chapter and began to read.
It was with some surprise that the immigrating Roman wizards encountered a sophisticated indigenous magical community in Britain, exhibiting skills significantly superior to Celtic and Teutonic wizardry in continental Europe. In large part, one may safely attribute the British advantage to a long-standing branch of advanced Ollivanderian wandlore already established north of the channel.
Predating Roman settlements by more than three centuries, the first Ollivander wand-maker arrived in Britain via an early Greek trading expedition around the year 382 B.C. Despite their roots within the rigidly formulaic Messenia wand-making tradition, the early British Ollivanders proved to be clever and pragmatic innovators, establishing a well-deserved reputation for magical excellence by augmenting classical Greek magical techniques with Druidic traditions, such as incorporating spirit animal substances (hair, horn, hoof, etc.) into wand design.
The Ollivanderian rise to prominence in pre-Roman Britain was fueled greatly by an unprecedented (and, indeed, never again replicated) application of Greek wandlore principles toward Druidic staff-making. This bold experiment produced immensely powerful staves that gained immediate favour among the Brythonic elite, thus anchoring Ollivanderian reputation in the Isles.
Ironically, the Ollivander family may arguably be faulted for the decline and gradual extinction of traditional staff-making. The Ollivanders' exhaustive and costly magical curing process largely constrained staff-ownership to the wealthiest and most influential figures. Most aspiring middle-tier Druids and Druidesses sought to bolster their status with Ollivander wands instead of using crude indigenous staves. By the year 100 B.C., it thus appears that only the most remote and primitive communities continued to hand-craft staves using ancient Druidic techniques.
Although most secrets of Ollivanderian staff-making have been lost to the ravages of time, magical historians agree that the staves were crafted exclusively from those hardwoods originally preferred by Druids – primarily oak, beech and walnut. While these pale, unpliable woods have generally proven ill-suited for crafting wands, the Ollivanders apparently developed processes for turning such material into larger instruments of prodigious magic.
The last great Brythonic staff, thought by many to be the apex of Ollivander staff-making, was crafted for King Scavo of the Iceni around A.D. 29. Distinguished by its ornate copper horse-head grip, the Icenian royal staff disappeared from public record during the great uprising of A.D. 61. In the aftermath of the rebellion, under pressure from the Roman Proconsul, the Ollivander family destroyed their entire stockpile of staves, as well as all records of staff lore, in order to...
"... protect our loyal Roman citizenry," the tall silver-haired wizard droned with an arrogant sneer. "As an Imperial Publican, you must surely understand that!"
Harry's head throbbed mercilessly. Trying to blink away the disorientation, he found one eye encrusted with blood. To buy a moment to clear his head, he heard himself feigning humility. "Please forgive me Legate, but would you repeat that? What must I surely understand?"
"Imbecile!" The wizard stalked across holding cell and spat in Harry's face. "Understand that Roman interests in Britannia require us to confiscate all barbaric instruments of magic! I demanded of the woman that she surrender her staff peaceably. She refused, and thus she has been forcibly detained, to face the magistrate as a common criminal."
Through his one available eye, Harry saw the man scowling at him; waggling a finger. "Publican, if you had been administering this district properly, no such intervention would have been required. In light of your dereliction of duty, you too shall face a tribunal. Consider yourself charged!"
"What do I care for your trumped-up accusations?" Amid searing pain, Harry was surprised to hear his own voice, clear and defiant. "I stand not for myself, but for the integrity of the Pax Romana. The decree signed by Proconsul Paulinus affirmed the sovereignty and self-determination of the queen and her people in the lands north and east of the rivers Ouse. Per standing treaty, Rome guarantees her family and followers the rights of self-armament, as long as those arms are not raised against the Imperial standard."
"Treaty? What treaty?" A lurid smirk crept across the wizard's face.
Harry tried to reach toward an inner fold of his tunic, but was immediately reminded of his dire situation – bound tightly, hand and foot, to a wooden stool. "I speak of the signed treaty I carried from Camboricum!" Harry winced as the magical cords suddenly tightened, biting into his skin, but he pushed the torment from his mind. "What have you done with it?!"
"What have I done with what?" Â The man slowly withdrew from his cloak a scroll bearing the Proconsular seal. He held it out for one long second in plain view of Harry's one open eye. "There is no such treaty, nor has there ever been!" he declared in a wicked drawl.
As the scroll caught fire, he grinned ghoulishly and tossed it between Harry's feet, chortling at Harry's desperate attempts to escape flames that licked upwards, blistering his calves.
"You're a traitor, Legate !" Harry clenched his teeth, edging the stool far enough back to spare his flesh. "You will enrage the Britons! You will destroy fourteen years of peace! The blood of Romans and Britons alike will be on your hands!"
The Legate smiled coldly. "No, it is you who are the traitor, Publican Peuerellius. Your ceaseless coddling of these barbarians marks you as an outcast to the Order of Letum, and you will rot in hell for it!"
"Order of Letum?!" Harry recoiled. "I have neither allegiance nor dealings with those vermin! Never, EVER, speak to me of that FOUL..."
Harry voice ruptured into spluttery gasps, his chest and throat spasming violently under a crude silencing spell.
Twitching in agitation, the Legate's left hand clutched the head of the awesome Icenian staff. His lips trembled as he glared hatefully at Harry, seemingly caught in some sort of internal conflict. Then without warning, the man howled wildly, lashing out with his right forearm, clubbing Harry hard across the head, knocking him sideways onto the hard floor, bound stool and all.
Rage unsated, the wizard kicked Harry hard in the ribs twice before stubbing his toe hard against the stool. "Aiiiiee!" the Legate cried out, staggering back, clasping for his foot. Panting and sputtering dark oaths, the wizard finally regained his composure.
"No Publican..." Brushing long hair from his face, the wizard caught his breath and glared down at his prostrate enemy. "You may not be a member of the Order, but your sons are. And how mortified they will be to see you lying in blood, filth and ignominy!"
"I... have... no... sons..." Harry wheezed defiantly.
"Crucio!" A wicked spark shot from the wizard's staff.
Harry's nerves seared like magnesium flares; his every muscle seemed to tear; his...
His...
His cheek felt a cool, gentle radiance spread across it, like a moistened cloth over fever. A sense of calm washed over his injured head, shoulder and chest, spreading down to soothe his blistered legs...
Relieved, he opened his eyes to discover someone gazing down at him – a face caring, yet slightly amused.
"You have no sons, Harry?" Ginny inquired, her innocent concern almost completely disguising an infectious twinkle in her eyes.
"I, uh... wow!" Harry blinked dazedly at his best mate's little sister; her pretty hand resting lightly upon his cheek. "I must have been dreaming again."
"Really? Or maybe there are things in your personal life you're trying to hide?" Ginny's mouth was the picture of propriety, but her eyes could not disguise a sparkle that was getting more impish by the second.
"Put a sock in it." Harry gave an exaggerated huff, then grinned and sat up. "What are you doing up here? Tired of playing Snap?"
"Oh. I, uh..." Suddenly a bit shy, Ginny angled away. "Well, when it seemed you wouldn't be joining us in the den, I went looking for you. I wanted to talk about, uh... well, to see if you could tell me what happened last night."
"Last night?" Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Er, what do you mean, 'what happened?' "
Ginny shrugged. "Just what I said. What happened? What did I do? I don't remember anything beyond a blur of strange dreams and, well, today various people have been behaving rather oddly around me. Ron, Hermione, Professor Lupin... And then there's you, Harry..."
Ginny paused as the hint of a grin crept back to the corner of her mouth. "I admit that we've all grown accustomed to Harry Potter being a bit of an odd duck, but today your odd behavior has been strange even for you."
"What?? You think I'm an odd duck?!" Harry flapped his arms comically. "Well quack quack to you then, Little Miss Normal!"
"Oh yes, I specialize in being normal." Ginny smirked for a moment, then pushed his book to the side and, not-quite-accidentally, elbowed him in the ribs as she took a seat beside him on the ottoman. "Now tell me what happened last night, Ducks."
Harry chuckled for a moment, then grew serious. "Er, well, you had a bad dream."
"Yes, even 'I' managed to figure out that much." Ginny rolled her eyes. "But why are people acting so strangely around me?"
"I guess, perhaps... well probably... because you, uh, did a nasty face-plant on the floor."
Ginny blinked, reflexively touching her temple.
Harry gave a half-nod, then continued. "Hermione was flustered, and Sirius was drunk, so it was kind of left to me to patch you up."
Ginny frowned thoughtfully as she tried to align this with her jumbled mix of dreams and fragmented memories. Unconsciously, she turned toward Harry, her eyes seeming to simultaneously look both at, and through, him. "Thank you," she said. "I guess that would explain the headache and all the hushed sympathy. But, does anyone know what I was doing out of bed? Where was I? I haven't been sleep-walking since, uhh..."
"No, no, it wasn't like that." Harry fixed her with a reassuring look. "You were at the foot of the bed; you and your blankets were all kind of tossed about as if you'd made a startled leap. It must have been a frightful nightmare – we heard your scream and crash all the way from upstairs. It was even loud enough to wake Ron."
"Ugh!" Ginny winced. "A mite embarrassing, yeah?"
"I suppose..." Harry shrugged. "But according to some accounts I, er, have no sons."
Ginny stared at his deadpan face... then burst into laughter. As it subsided, her gaze met his eyes, trailed down his cheek and paused unwittingly on the crooked little smile that had taken shape on his... lips.
Harry's eyes flashed wide; he looked away.
Unconcerned, Ginny continued to examine her friend, still contemplating the strange night, but also puzzled by Harry's alternating levity and discomfort. Finally she resolved to stop gawking at the poor (if quite adorable) fellow, and deal with the other issue that had been nagging her.
"So, my fount of wisdom..." She locked her gaze harmlessly onto a dusty old tapestry. "Can I ask one more question? Have you any idea what's the matter with dear brother Ronald today?"
Harry stiffened. "Er, could you be more specific?"
"Well..." Ginny chewed her lip. "He's just seemed a bit... snarky. All day. Admittedly, we do spar a lot, but it's mostly in jest. Today, though, he's been edgy... wound up. A bit hostile, to be honest."
"Oh." Harry fidgeted a bit. "Yes, well, I'm not precisely sure either, but I assume, for whatever reason, it has something to do with..." He trailed off uncertainly.
"Yeah?"
"I assume it's related to..." Harry paused, biting his lower lip.
Ginny nodded avidly.
"Er... because I spent the night with you," Harry mumbled.
Ginny blinked. Twice.
"You – you banged your head really hard." A blush was setting deep into Harry's cheeks, but he steeled himself to continue. "I assume you were really rattled, because when I got there, you latched onto me and sort of, errr, made me promise I wouldn't go anywhere, and so I, uh... well, Sirius helped me get you back to bed then he told me – it was really his idea – he said I should stay to take care of you and that I could come get him if you or I needed anything, and then..."
Even looking pointedly away out the window, Harry could feel the intense pressure of Ginny's wide staring eyes. Summoning courage, he swallowed hard and drove for the finish line.
"Sirius pushed Hermione and Ron out of the room and told them to go to bed. I could hear Ron out in the hall getting a bit shirty about it, but Sirius held firm, and..." Harry shifted uncomfortably. "... well, I tucked you in, grabbed a pillow and blanket... and fell asleep in the armchair. That's all. I truly meant no harm, though I do realise girls prefer privacy, and I'm sure you hardly needed anyone to, uh... uhh..."
Running out of words, Harry finally wilted.
Ginny studied him for five long seconds.
In that eternity, Harry couldn't bring himself to turn around. Looking blankly into the haze above Highgate Hill, he had no idea if she was annoyed, scandalised, or perhaps merely bored. He didn't see the flicker of a smile...
When she stood to leave, he hung his head.
When she leaned close, he braced for consequences, be it anger, or a not-so-playful jab, or a... a...
... an indelible sensation of soft lips pressing his cheek?
Harry Potter had a reputation for swift unerring instinct, but not this time. When he did finally convince his balky muscles to swivel about, Ginny's footsteps were already fading in the distance. Yet, he was at least compensated with a glimpse of lustrous red hair as she disappeared down the steps.
After a long moment gazing down the empty corridor, he finally sighed. Turning back toward the ottoman, he was about to pick up the discarded book, when he paused.
Inhaling slowly, reverently, he noticed a faint fragrance of apple blossoms still lingering in the air.
If today had been a bit more normal, the evening probably would have passed differently... but Ginny had wearied of 'normal'.
An Order of the Phoenix meeting was now entering its second hour in the kitchen, and Ginny knew that Ron, Hermione and the twins were almost certainly still bickering over access to the extendable ears. Under normal circumstances, Ginny assumed she would still be right in the thick of things, squabbling and exploiting feminine wiles to try to glean any clues about what the adults were debating. Harry would normally be in there clamouring too, Ginny told herself, but her dark-haired friend had looked visibly tired and out of place amidst the evening's juvenile shenanigans.
And Ginny had felt tired and out of place.
So, when Harry had politely excused himself, Ginny had quickly realised that he probably had the right idea. If she was tired, bored, and feeling out of place, why not just pack it in?
"Mum would be so proud", Ginny mused to herself with a tired (but still quite wry) smirk.
So now she found herself alone in her quiet bedroom, contemplating the moody flickers of a solitary bedside lamp.
All alone; no regrets.
She couldn't imagine she was missing much. Weeks of attempted spying had been a complete bust – about the only thing she'd been able to learn so far was that Dumbledore never told anybody (including the Order) anything of value, so why should she wait up half the night for the same bootless drivel?
Furthermore, she doubted her presence was missed. When she'd stood up to leave, Ron had scowled, the twins had stayed glued to their silly 'ears', and only Hermione had actually bothered to acknowledge her, offering an understanding smile and a promise to fill her in on any discoveries. Ginny had thanked her politely, and left quietly, without a fuss.
Quiet; no fuss – just what her aching head needed. That, and sleep.
Yawning, she stretched across to extinguish the lamp, accidentally catching the pillow case she had draped over the night stand, and brushing what lay beneath...
Harry is getting into bed now too...
"Wuhh?!" Wide-eyed, Ginny froze, mid-reach. She arched her brow, mystified as to why a random thought about Harry should have suddenly popped into her head.
She had to admit that her former childhood crush had been on her mind a bit today... but that had been strictly an aberration, right? It wasn't as if she cared whether he was getting into bed, brushing his teeth, standing on his head, or whatever it was that Harry Potter typically did at ten minutes to ten on a Tuesday evening.
She shook her head.
In all honesty, she really didn't think about Harry much anymore. The old infatuation had been fading for years. She had interacted so little with him at Hogwarts, and only sparingly in the intervening summers. If the legendary crush had perhaps lingered in the shadows all these years, the Yule Ball had surely put an end to it...
No, not that way!
The Yule Ball was neither regret nor revenge – it had been a celebration! It had brought no crying angst, no bitterness, no burning bridges.
Ginny's memories of the ball didn't dwell on anything that Harry had done. They didn't even remind her of anything Harry had not done. Rather, the Yule Ball had been a rebirth. For once in her life, she had done something strictly for herself! She had attended, not because anybody in her family expected her to; not as a favour to anyone (although Neville had certainly not minded) and, more than anything, she had not been trying to attract the attention of a certain dark-haired boy.
She had simply gone to the ball to have fun!
And she had succeeded. Spot on!
Ginny had derived neither joy nor pain from turning down Harry's (pseudo) invitation, and she was pleased with that. It had been the right thing to do – for Harry, for Neville, and especially for herself. She had set her principles, stood by them, and in doing so...
She had set herself free!
Farewell schoolgirl misery! No more lying alone in the dark, doubting whether she could ever be good enough for a great hero like Harry Potter. Good morning sunshine! Say hello to Ginny Weasley – her own greatest hero!
But any great hero must face the occasional doubts, and this strange strange strange day had raised a few of those.
The lamp still flickering beside her, Ginny hunched over the edge of her bed in a classic Rodin pose, frowning introspectively as she faced those doubts.
What did today mean? Had everything suddenly just changed again? Had she erased her hard-earned gains?
Was she still her own greatest hero?
Was it okay to have shared a casual wink at breakfast? Was she still free as a bird, despite their friendly little chat in the library? Was it normal that images of her old crush had been strewn all through last night's bizarre, vivid dreams? And why the hell had she clung to the poor boy like a bloody damsel in distress??
Bloody? Ginny scowled. Nice choice of invective, Weasley.
Yes, Ginny now knew lots of cringeworthy details. Ever the curious cat, she had proceeded to wheedle a lot of information from a distinctly reluctant Hermione, including plenty of bits that Harry had been too discreet to trouble her with.
Groaning, she imagined lying in a pool of blood; smeared all over Harry as he held her, closing her wounds.
Ick. Wish I'd never asked.
However, Hermione had also conveyed some very useful insight. Without editorializing, the older girl had described how Harry had acted with neither fuss, nor complaint, nor any expectation of reward.
Reflecting on this, Ginny felt mortified yet grateful – a potent and dangerous blend that had haunted her in the past. Luckily, she was far more resilient now than she had been during that terrible summer after her first year... but it did make her question whether she'd truly made as much progress as she'd believed.
Apparently she was not yet as mature as Bill, nor as rugged and independent as Charlie. Apparently being a fourteen year old meant still having to cope with the occasional bout of pathetic fragility. Sighing, she admitted that Ginevra Molly Weasley, hero or not, was still young enough to make an occasional arse of herself.
Yet, despite last night's pathetic showing, she still apparently possessed a girlfriend who was willing to be totally honest with her, as well as a burgeoning acquaintance with a boy who, today, had shown her as much respect and consideration as one might treat... a hero?
"Huh."
When Ginny had set foot on this bleak path a few minutes ago, she had hardly expected to land on a resolution that was... encouraging. In fact, spending a summer in this grotesque stress-warren might actually be worth it, if it meant granting Harry Potter a chance to finally discovered the immense value of her friendship.
She grinned; her moxy near-fully restored... then she remembered the brooch, and her eyes narrowed. "Oho. You wouldn't be monkeying about with us, would you?"
Staring at it for a long moment, she convinced herself that it bore no resemblance to a cursed object, a love charm, or anything problematic like that. Nonetheless, she carefully reached out a finger to touch it, and..."
Harry is almost asleep.
Ginny's eyes flashed wide... but then she rolled them in irritation. "Don't be a ninny. There's no magic making me think about him; I do that well enough without touching some ruddy old hat pin."
Nonetheless, when she reached across one final time for the lamp, she did steer clear of the brooch, then thrust her arms safely beneath her covers where they wouldn't be tempted to reach for it.
Lying alone in the near dark of the bedroom, Ginny's head ached wearily. Her eyelids drooped... but did not stay shut.
In the distance she could hear Ron, Hermione and the twins 'quietly' squabbling about something daft. A clock was ticking. A blue-green blend of distant lamplight from the Islington skyline was creeping through her ragged curtain – casting odd shadows of the sort that sometimes frighten little children, while also illuminating the jumbled pile of clothes she hadn't get gotten around to folding, alighting on school books that she should have started reading...
... flickering softly on the silver brooch.
She glanced at it, unthinking.
She reached for it, clasping it firmly in her hand.
Her muscles relaxed, the distant sounds blended into a rustle that reminded her of a pleasant breeze stirring the branches of trees. She closed her eyelids...
Then they sprang open in panic!
It was bright daylight! The sun had already climbed well above the hedge on the far side of the river!
"It's late! I've overslept!" She leapt to her feet, nearly tripping over the thick grey mantle spread out on the ground beneath her. "Oh Amaethon, master of fate, how could you let me rest so long while he needed me? I must find Harry!"
Without thinking where she could possibly be headed, Ginny began thrashing her way up through the low thickets, making for the road to... to...
Harry??
Ginny skidded to a halt and paused, perplexed. The word 'Harry' suddenly puzzled her. It seemed somehow both familiar and yet quite foreign, as if she'd heard it in a dream.
A dream. Yes, the name brought to mind a bewildering jumble of memories, including the thick, debilitating fugue that had befallen her yesterday. At the worst possible time!
Ginny growled to herself, shaking the cobwebs from her mind, and finding clarity. I must find the good Publican! I must deliver the message!
Clear and resolved, and knowing exactly which direction to run, Ginny raced as fast as her feet could carry her over a stoney roadway, leading her straight back toward untold perils which, only yesterday, she had fled.
Stop, whoa, halt! That's the end of the chapter!
What follows below is a shoddy, old version that I simply can't get rid of. I've tried! Please skip along to chapter 3.