CHAPTER TWELVE:  STAIRWAY TO PARADISE

26 December 1994

I’m not exactly a morning person, but can you believe that I slept until noon?  Maybe it was because Neville and I stayed up until 2 a.m. just talking.  He didn’t try to kiss me again (not that I would have put up a fight) Neville’s a good friend and a really nice person.  I’ll never be sorry that he was the first person to kiss me.  It’s sweet really. I’ll never be ashamed that it was Neville.  In fact, I’m glad really, he was as embarrassed as I was over the whole klutzy episode and I know he won’t go telling tales.

There’s got to be a way to keep from making such a fool out of myself the next time a guy tries to kiss me.  Too bad there’s not some sort of instruction manual, you know, that Dummies series that came out just a few years ago, Kissing for Dummies.  That would be perfect.  But that doesn’t explain why I was so tired.  Maybe it wasn’t just staying up until two.  Maybe it was dancing so much with Michael, or more likely, it was the flaming row between Ron and Hermione that Neville and I (and the rest of Gryffindor house) got to witness.

It would have been humorous if they hadn’t been taking it so seriously.  Ron exploded, literally explodedwhen Hermione came into the Common Room.  He tried to turn her going with Krum to the Ball into a loyalty issue, but the fact that he was jealous was written all over his face, in capitol letters, bold type, exclamation points and a few under scorings just to be on the safe side.

Hermione’s parting shot, about next time Ron asking her before someone else did instead of as a last resort, touched a nerve.  He hid it well, but I know Ron.  He looked for a spit second as if he’d been punched in the stomach.  He spluttered and went on about how Hermione had completely missed the point, but he couldn’t fool me. 

Poor Harry was in the middle as usual.  He looked so lost as they stood there screaming at each other that I was half tempted to wade in and rescue him, but thought better of it.  I have to admit that a small part of me said that it served Harry right to suffer a little.  After all, I have to share his mind (whether he realizes it or not) and anyone whose brain is continually dwelling on Cho Chang (when it isn’t agonizing over the Triwizard tournament) deserves to suffer a little.

Damn but it must annoying to be a slave to the male sex drive.  Short of throwing myself at his head, it’s doubtful that he’d even notice me if Cho and I were standing side by side.  According to Mira, Harry and I get together during his sixth year — so what happens?  Does he give up on Cho?  Do she and Cedric end up as a couple?  Or maybe he goes out with her and they have a falling out . . .very frustrating, to only have half of the picture!

Speaking of the male sex drive . . .Michael is an absolute doll!  Not only is he an excellent dancer, but he's also a skillful flirt.  Our conversations (while we were dancing) were packed full of sexual innuendo (stuff that would have left poor Harry blushing and stammering) and he kept dropping compliments and come-ons with an ease that I should probably find alarming, but you know what?  After years of being ignored by my brothers (my brothers friend), and put down by girls my own age, it felt pretty damned good to be on the receiving end of such a smooth operator, even if it was insincere.

Michael and I danced four straight dances after Neville introduced us, then I danced two more with Neville and one (if you can believe it) with George! 

When I danced with George, he complimented me on my dress and on my dancing and even went so far as to congratulate me on keeping supper lively.

“I’m assuming you spiked the coffee,” he muttered as he took me back to my table where Neville and Michael were both waiting.  “What did you use?”

“Fire Whiskey,” I shot back, getting a kick out of the mixed look of shock and admiration that stole across his face.

“Where on earth did you get hold of Fire Whisky, little sis?”

“Give me some credit George darling, I’m a Weasley!”

“And a credit to the name!” he agreed gallantly.

High praise indeed, coming from one of the masters of mayhem.

I danced the midnight dance with Michael, and I really do think that he would have kissed me if Neville hadn’t been watching.  He looked like he wanted to.  But it was Neville who walked me back to the Common Room just in time to witness Ron and Hermione’s fireworks, and afterwards we ended up talking for the longest time.  I kissed him though, when we finally said goodnight.  Granted it was just a peck on the cheek, but you should have seen his face!

4 January 1995

What a nasty specimen of humanity!  I can’t believe what that Skeeter woman wrote in The Daily Prophet about Hagrid!  Better yet, why did the Prophet print such crap?  Garbage is what it was!  Complete and utter horse manure.

WHO GIVES A DAMN IF HAGRID HAD A GIANTESS AS A MOTHER!  I know what everyone says about Giants, but this is Hagridthey’re talking about!  Anyone who has even the slightest acquaintance with him can tell that he’s not bloodthirsty, or vicious.  I’ll grant you that he does have a fixation with monsters, but he means well.  He wouldn’t purposefully hurt anyone, or anythingfor that matter.

And now Hagrid’s in hiding!  He could quash that woman with a look and yet she’s got him cowering like a whipped pup.  The power of the press. Does public opinion really matter that much to Hagrid?

*     *     *

I had to think about that for a minute, and I guess I’m not one to talk.  I treasure what few friends I have and would do practically anything to keep their good opinion.   I’ve hurt so many people, my family mostly, by being such an idiot over the whole thing with Tom’s diary.  You can’t know how much it hurts me to have my family (all but Bill and Dad really) be so disgusted by what my mind was exposed to.

I mean, there’s people like Mandy and Padma and Lavender who I wouldn’t want as friends anyway, but people like Neville and Colin and Lisa, they’re precious to me, all of them.  I don’t want their feelings hurt like mine were.

Is that why Hagrid’s hiding?  Is he afraid of what people will say?  Or maybe he’s afraid of how he might react to what they say.  Or maybe he’s scared that the people he really loves will no longer want to be around him when they know the truth.

Speaking of hurting people, I think that the incident with the ornaments last Christmas really shook mum and dad up.  They didn’t send out the ornaments to those of us who stayed at Hogwarts this year, like they did last year with Ron.  No, this year there was just the regular gifts and a letter from mum hoping that we were all behaving ourselves and having a good time, but no ornaments.

Mum sent me my usual jumper (mine’s always a non-descript beige color which I suppose she thinks goes well with my hair, but it’s hideous, really!  It makes me look like some sort of wretched rutabaga) as well as two pairs of socks and a sort of knitted hood that has long ends that I can wrap around my neck like a scarf.  Typical mum, her gifts are always practical (except for the fudge, mum’s fudge is to die for!).

Bill sent me a collapsible Barre.  You shake it out and it springs up to full size.  All you have to do is say ‘shrink’ and collapses again, to the size of a matchbox.  Cool!  This means that I can practice right in my dorm room instead of having to beg for use of an unused classroom.  He also sent me two refills for my journal. 

Charlie’s gift was a packet of Dragon Mist seeds.  Besides being exquisitely beautiful, Dragon Mist has all sorts of magical properties, but they grow in Southern China, so how on earth did he get them?  They’re really rare and valuable.  I’ll have to plant some in my garden, but I’ve already decided to give a few to Madam Sprout, she’ll be so excited!

From Percy there was a writing kit, a small black leather pouch with a neat quill, a vial of ink and several rolls of parchment.  Useful, but boring.  Percy reminds me of mum sometimes, so practical it makes your head ache.

Fred’s gift was a small, dilapidated book with the title of, A Young Witch’s Guide to Etiquette and Department.  He had thoroughly marked up the margins with droll notes, all of them poking fun at the lessons mum had us working on all summer.

George surprised me, again.  He’s been doing that a lot lately.  His present was a small figure of a ballerina.  She’s on Pointe, dancing to The Firebird (to judge from the costume).  What really got me was that her hair, which was slicked back into a miniscule bun, was as vividly red as my own.  Even her features bear an unusual resemblance. 

I have to grin every time I see her because I’m reminded of last summer when George alone turned up to watch my first Dance Recital.  She’s on my bedside table now, alongside my model of Mr. Chubbs.  The first time I put them together was nearly catastrophic; he stalked her!  I swear!  He crept up behind her and pounced.  She reacted with a fan kick that sent him sprawling.  They’ve avoided each other ever since and have taken to glaring at each other from opposite sides of my African Violet plant (which was my gift from Ron).

Dad’s gifts were whimsical (as Dad’s gifts tend to be).  He gave me a stack of yellowing letters all tied up with faded blue ribbon.  They were letters to my Grandmother from her mentor, Parnell Flamel.  He also gave me a wide, wooden bracelet, which has been engraved with precisely the same designs as my gifting ring.

Sweet of him to remember!  See, I told him last summer about having to field all sorts of questions about my ring, and this was his answer.  His not said it all really.  “Tell them the bracelet was a gift from your father and maybe they’ll think it was a matched set.”  He also said that there was nothing of “importance” in the letters, but he thought that I might enjoy reading them.

Hermione gave me a box of chocolate frogs and Lisa’s gift was a mystery novel by Gene Baker, she knows I’ve only borrowed Laura’s copy about a dozen times! 

There are only two gifts that I can’t account for.  One was a beautiful scarf.  It really is quite astounding.  It isn’t just one color, but seems to contain bits of every color and it shimmers whenever the fabric moves.  It looks like distilled sunlight, or perhaps solidified rainfall, or maybe it’s liquefied earth, or the manifestation of air.  Anyway, I have a fairly good idea where that came from, and I’ll have to thank Mira next time I see her! 

The other unsigned gift was a little more enigmatic.  It was a book.  A very old book, to judge from the antique language, but it is in pristine condition.  It seems to be a combination of runic script and some sort of spiky letters I’ve never seen before.  Talk about mysteries!  I’ll have to speak to Professor Dumbledore.  It is possible that he may have seen something similar to this before, but I have the distinct impression that he’ll be as intrigued as I am.

Merry Christmas, eh?  Plenty to think about.

8 January 1995

I tossed and turned for hours before finally giving up and coming down to the common room.  I’ve been sitting here since midnight and it is now two in the morning. 

I know this is going to sound really stupid, but I keep going over and over that botched kiss in my head.  Was there something I could have done different?    Should I have held still to begin with, let him kiss me?  Should I have kept my eyes open so I could gage what angle he was coming in from?  I feel so bloody stupid!

It’s not that I regret the kiss.  Neville really was a duck about it, and I know he won’t go ratting on me, that’s not Neville’s style, but there has got to be a way to learn how to be a better kisser!   It’ll have to be the library though, because while Tom’s storehouse of knowledge may have covered a wide variety of subjects, kissing was not one of them.

If you think about it, that’s sort of sad.  Here was a handsome, sixteen-year-old boy who was so dead set on revenge and so full of fear at the prospect of his own eventual death that he absorbed volumes of information on Dark curses and spells, complex potions and arcane historical information, all of which somehow transferred itself to me (along with the ability to speak Parseltongue and the ability to read a person’s character just by looking at them) when he forced himself on me was it what, nearly two years ago now?  Has it been that long?

Not everything he gave me was useful, or even nice.  Much of what transferred itself to me was of such a graphic nature, so dark and intense, that it still haunts my dreams.  I no longer have regular dreams about Tom forcing himself into my head, but I do get flashes, glimpses of darker things, ancient things, things that weave themselves into my dreaming world and cause me to wake up in a cold sweat, my sheets all twisted into knots. 

I’ve learned to accept these glimpses for what they are: remnants of a traumatic experience.  Who knows, perhaps the information Tom inadvertently gave me, both good and bad, will come in useful someday.  I guess I’ll just have to wait and see.

12 January 1995

Well, I was sort of hoping that Michael would ask me to go with him to Hogsmeade (there’s a trip coming up on the 16th).  But how could I possibly have turned Neville down when he was so gallant?

Lisa and I were coming back from charms when we met Neville at the portrait hole.

“Hey, Ginny, you going into Hogsmeade this weekend?” he asked hopefully.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Do you want to go in together, like we did last time?” asked Neville, then glanced at Lisa and added quickly, “all three of us of course.”

He really is a sweetheart, not wanting to hurt Lisa’s feelings like that!  And while it’s not really a date as such, it still precludes me from taking off with Michael, should the chance have presented itself.  That would be just plain rude.

And speaking of Neville, you won’t believe what I found in the library!  Eleven books JUST ABOUT KISSING!  Can you believe it?  Wild!

Three were really boring, clinical volumes that went into longwinded descriptions of chemical reactions and pheromone production (making kissing sound like some sort of biological by-product) and sported pages and pages of equations and diagrams and graphs that were all supposed to support their ‘conclusions’ but which left me more confused than ever.

Two others were on the history of kissing (I didn’t realize that kissing had enough history to warrant a whole book, or rather two whole books!).  These didn’t really get around to giving any practical advice, but talked instead about famous historical figures and courtesans who were the power behind the throne things of that sort.

There was one on cultural practices, Kissing Around the World.  Did you know that natives of the far northern countries (Lapland, Siberia, Alaska etc.) don’t kiss each other on the lips when they’re outside during the winter?  It’s too cold, they risk chapped and bleeding lips, so they keep their lips protected with oil and rub noses instead of kissing to show affection.  Damn, can you imagine if one of them had to sneeze?

There was one slim volume that actually offered practical advice for preparing for a kiss.  It seemed to assume that you would know that the desired event was approaching and would have plenty of time to prepare for it.   It was titled, When You Know the Big Day is Coming, and offered such breathtaking advice as; “ensure that your lips are soft and pliable, repeat exercise eight every day for five minutes to ensure proper lip position,” and “keep breath fresh and sweet, but remember to remove any gum or candy from your mouth before the desired event takes place.”

I sniggered my way through the entire book, nearly getting myself kicked out by Madam Pince.

Another rather droll book was written for witches and was called, How to Get Kissed by the Wizard of Your Dreams.  Here are just a few of the comments that caught my attention;  “keep your eyes on his mouth, girls, this is a subtle clue to your dream wizard that you have kissing on your mind.”  “While he’s talking to you, keep your lips slightly parted.  As a more direct hint, moisten your lips with the tip of your tongue.”

Poor northerners will simply have to skip that part.

I was getting rather desperate, but there were two volumes that actually got down to brass tacks and explained how to kiss.  They even broke it down into types of kisses (open and closed mouth), pressure levels (for closed mouth kisses), how to turn a closed-mouth kiss into an open-mouth kiss, tongue techniques for open-mouthed kissed, and what to do with your hands during all of the above.

I’ll have to admit that those last two were informative (though I assume that the entire process would be much smoother if both parties involved have read the same manual, seeing as that there were discrepancies between the two books) but they left me sort of, I don’t know, empty, as if there were something very important that they are failing to tell me.

The last one absolutely fascinated me.  It was called Kissing Your Way to Heaven.  The title page said that it was based on the Kama Sutra, and that it had been translated from Hindi.  In short, it described (in detail and with color photos) the thirteen most erogenous zones on the human body (male and female) and how to stimulate each and everyone (these photos were moving).  But the most fascinating part of all was the technique they termed The Stairway to Paradise. 

The Stairway to Paradise moves one through all thirteen zones (in a most particular order) and is supposed to be a means to bringing your partner to total bliss.  Very explicit photos, but far from being obscene or pornographic, they were, well, beautiful.  The way the couple in the photos were touching each other, it was as if they were worshipping each other’s bodies.  Wow!

The thing is, I started this research because I didn’t want to look like a total idiot the next time a guy tries to kiss me.  As I was reading through those different kissing manuals, I tried to imagine myself kissing different guys using those different techniques, and while I could envision a hearty, closed-mouth kiss with Neville, when I tried to picture Colin, I broke into hysterical giggles, and while I could easily see myself giving Michael an open-mouthed kiss, the idea of Neville sticking his tongue in my mouth nearly made me gag, sorry Neville.

But when it came to imagining myself performing the Stairway to Paradise, there was only one person I could envision being that intimate with.  God, just the idea of Harry’s hands, his lips, his tongue, all over my body, it sent tingles all up my spine and lit a hot molten fire deep inside my body.

The only problem is that the wizard in question is currently grinding his teeth every time he catches a glimpse of Cedric and Cho in the halls.  Poor Harry, he’ll come around in time, provided of course that I don’t kill him first for being so goddamned thick!

16 January 1995

I find it distinctly odd that it can be so damned cold when the sun is shining!  I mean, when the sun shines in summer it’s baking hot and don’t tell me that just a couple of degrees in the tilt away from the sun makes that much of a difference!

Okay, so maybe it does, but there has to be more to it than that, because every now and then there will be a mild day, even in winter.  But not today, hell no.

I thought I was going to freeze to death before we reached the village.  Lisa and Neville and I spent as long as we could in each shop before dashing to the next, finally ending up in the Three Broomsticks just in time to watch Hermione give Rita Skeeter a dressing down.  Way to go Hermione!

We all warmed up a little over tankards of hot Butterbeer.  I got so absorbed with what was happening at Hagrid’s house that I’m afraid I must have become somewhat distant with Neville and Lisa.  They were chatting away unconcernedly, but I couldn’t concentrate.  All I could see was poor Hagrid’s great shaggy head and tear-streaked face (he was blocking Neville out entirely).  Hagrid feels things so.  It was tearing Harry apart to see Hagrid so worked up, and it spurred Harry to swallow his pride and decide to take Cedric’s advice on how to work out that egg’s clue.

About time if you ask me.  He’s been procrastinating.  But if you will, ignoring the egg, refusing to take Cedric’s hint, has been Harry’s way of rebelling against this entire Triwizard fiasco.  HE DIDN’T ASK FOR THIS!  He didn’t ask for it, but it’s happening to him anyway.  Everything does seem to happen to him, just like Hagrid said.  But of course it does!  He’s Harry Potter!

18 January 1995

Ginny Weasley lay awake in her four-poster, the hangings were drawn tight, blocking out all light, but they couldn’t block out the giggles coming from Mandy’s side of the room.

“And then his hands were under my shirt!  Good thing I wore the lace one!  God, Laura, I though I was going to die when he actually slipped his hand under the lace!”

Laura murmured something Ginny couldn’t hear.

“Nooo!” squealed Mandy, causing Ginny to wince.  “I didn’t touch him, do you think he wanted me to?  Cause I could feel it, it was all hot and hard against my leg, he had me pinned you see.”

Ginny sighed and climbed out of bed.  She wrapped herself in her robe and padded down to the common room.  There wouldn’t be any rest for any of the girls in the third year Gryffindor dorm until Mandy had worked this latest milestone out of her system.

Ginny grinned, remembering the week before Christmas when Mandy had kept them all awake recounting her and Andrew’s first open-mouthed kiss, asking each of them in turn if they’d ever done that with a boy.

When she’d asked Ginny, Ginny had merely raised her eyebrows and had asked her if she’d used the ‘Liquid Tongue’ or ‘Probe Tongue’ technique.  That had shut Mandy up.  She’d been extra nasty to Ginny all the next day, causing Ginny to seek retaliation by charming the back of Mandy’s black Hogwarts robes to read (printed in neat, white block letters); ANDREW KIRKE STICKS HIS TONGUE IN MY MOUTH. 

It had taken Mandy all day to figure out why everyone snickered as they passed her in the hall.  Even Laura Marchbanks, Mandy’s best friend, hadn’t bothered in alerting her to the message on her back.

“That your handiwork, little sis?  George had asked approvingly as Mandy had sashayed up between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables for supper that night, a wave of laughter and catcalls following in her wake.

When Ginny had said yes, he’d hooted with laughter before showing her how to make the words flash on and off like a neon sign.

“Attracts more attention,” he’d said, demonstrating on Fred by causing ‘Master of Mayhem’ to appear over Fred’s head in an eye-popping orange.

“Of course insults are best when they . . .erm . . .catch you unawares,” he’d added, and had proceeded to explain how one could set up perfectly ordinary objects to suddenly start insulting one’s intended victim, and how it was particularly effective if one caused them to pop up in unexpected places, “Toilets are best,” and catch the victim unawares.

“We did it to Marcus Flint’s books a couple of years back,” said George, grinning broadly.  “Every time he’d open them they’d shout insults at him.  Rude ones too.  Got him in loads of trouble with the teachers.”

“Let me guess, you made it sound like his voice.”

“Right in one, sister of mine.”

“Did anyone ever figure out it was you two?” Ginny had asked interestedly.

“Course not.  Flint suspected of course, but there’s no way he could prove it!”

No, Ginny thought, as she pulled up a chair by the fire in the nearly deserted common room.  No one ever seemed to be able to actually catch Fred and George doing anything really bad, although I know for a fact that they have.  They have the innocent faces down pat, and watertight alibis, but the quality of their work is unmistakable.  If you know what you’re looking for (as I do) it is perfectly clear when something was done by the masters of mayhem, and when it’s being attempted by mayhem master wanabees.

There were still several people about, mostly older students.  Fred and Angelina were talking animatedly on the other side of the fire while George and Lee Jordan were in the middle of a game of Wizard’s Chess.  Alicia Spinnet was draped across the sofa, intent on a Muggle romance novel whose cover boasted a buxom, her hair all wild and curly, which seemed to be nearly bursting out of her corset.  A couple of seventh years, Jenna Michaels and Keith Ackerly, were necking in the shadows by the boy’s staircase.

Better hope Jake doesn’t catch them.

The thought had not been her own.  Jake Parsons, she knew, was the head boy, a Gryffindor, whose room was just off the common room.  According to Hogwarts, a History, the Head Boy and Head Girl each got their own rooms.  For convenience sake the rooms are centrally located off the third floor corridor.  Each room, however, also has a ‘back’ door, which is programmed by the headmaster at the beginning of the year to open into the common room of the Head Boy or Girl’s specific House.  That way they were still able to be a part of their House, but were available to the rest of the school should the need arise.

But if that thought hadn’t been hers, it must have been Harry’s.  Ginny closed her eyes, concentrating.  Yes, he was here, tiptoeing across the common room towards the portrait hole.  She grinned as she felt him glance in her direction.  God what she wouldn’t give to see his face if she were to reach out and yank off his cloak right . . .about . . .now . . .

Ginny held her hands in check as Harry passed her chair with barely a foot to spare.  He was off to solve the egg’s clue after all: rule-breaking with a purpose.  He was on his way to the Prefect’s bathroom.  That was one of the reasons she’d gone to bed so early, so she could concentrate on the clue, maybe help Harry figure it out.  Okay, okay, so she wouldn’t be averse to catching a glimpse of him without his clothes on.

She’d see Harry’s body before, usually when he took a shower or was changing.  She usually tried to turn her mind to something else then, it felt too much like voyeurism to watch him every time, still, every now and then she just couldn’t resist . . .and he was going to the prefect’s bathroom . . .which was supposed to have lots of mirror in it . . .and while she’d seen his body from his own perspective, she’d never seen him face-on naked . . ..

Ginny was still grinning to herself when Ron (who had opened the portrait for Harry from the outside) plopped into the chair next to her.

“Watcha doin?” he asked.

Ginny shrugged.  “Couldn’t sleep, Mandy’s reached another sexual milestone.”

Ron stared at her. “Come again?”

“Another milestone in her relationship with Andrew Kirke.”

“He’s a third year, isn’t he?  Are you telling me that Andrew and Mandy went . . .er . . .all the way?”

“Not yet.  Tonight she’s going on about how he had his hands under her shirt.”

Ron’s jaw dropped.  He gaped at Ginny for a moment before he got a grip on himself and closed his mouth.  Before he could bring himself to say anything, Ginny dropped another bombshell.

“Have you ever had your hands under a girl’s shirt?”

Ron spluttered incoherently for a full minute before finally managing to think of something to say.  “Aren’t you a bit young to be thinking of stuff like that Ginevra?”

“I’m barely a year younger than you, Ronald,” she said, emphasizing his full name, which she knew he detested.  “And don’t even try to tell me than you never think about ‘stuff like that,’ I’ve seen the magazines you keep under the floorboard by the fish tank.”

Ron gaped at her.

George, who to all appearances seemed to be absorbed in his game, glanced up over Lee’s head and dropped her a broad wink.

“Yeah, well,” said Ron, turning a truly stunning shade of scarlet, “I’m still older, aren’t I?  And I’m a guy.”

“What has that got to do with anything?” said Ginny scathingly.

Ron shrugged and looked away, his scarlet face clashing horribly with his hair.  He took a deep breath and tried again.  “Look, Ginny, you haven’t . . .you know . . .with a guy . . .have you?”  His face was now positively glowing.

Ginny hesitated for a full thirty seconds, relishing the look of discomfort on Ron’s face.

“No.”

A look of relief washed over his face.  “That’s good Ginny, that’s really good.  I didn’t think you would, I mean, you’re only thirteen after all.”

“Fourteen in June,” Ginny corrected him.

“Yeah, but-”

“Laura Marchbanks is only thirteen.”

“Bully on Laura Marchbanks.”

“Well, she and Jack Sloper had sex for the first time the night of the Yule Ball.  Jack took her up to the Astronomy tower.”

Ron, who had just taken a swallow of Fred’s Butterbeer, choked, spraying it across the hearthrug.

“I’m sorry, Ronnikins, was that too much information for your virgin ears?” asked Ginny sweetly.

Ron mopped his face with his sleeve and glared at Ginny, too incensed to speak.

“God, now I’m going to have nightmares,” said Ron, shuddering.  “Andrew Kirke naked.”

“Did you say something about seeing Andrew Kirke naked?” asked Alicia interestedly, looking up from her novel. 

“What?” Ron looked around at her, flustered.

“He’s awfully cute,” said Alicia shrugging, I wouldn’t mind seeing him naked.

“He’s thirteen, Alicia,” said Lee with a disgusted look.

“You were thirteen once yourself, ducky,” said Alicia coolly, one eyebrow raised.  Lee blushed to the roots of his hair.  “So, is he as . . .erm . . .built as everyone keeps saying?” Alicia said, addressing Ron again.

“What are you — no!  I’d never look at Kirk’s privates.”

“You’ve been looking at Andrew Kirke’s privates?” said Fred with a wicked grin.  “Has rowing with little Miss Prim turned you off of birds then, little bro?”

“What?  No!” howled Ron.  “What are you lot on about?  I HAVE NO INTEREST IN SEEING ANDREW KIRKE NAKED!” he roared, and the entire room dissolved into hysterical laughter.

 “Evil you are Ginny,” said George, placing Lee in check with a clever move by his knight as Ron stumped up the steps, still fuming.  “That was priceless!”

“It was easier than I thought it would be,” said Ginny, grinning broadly.

“Mistress of Mayhem,” said George, offering a hand, which she shook gravely.  “You’ve truly earned the title.”

“I learned it from the best,” said Ginny airily.

Ten minutes later the common room had emptied out (all except for the necking couple, who had moved to a sofa and were going at it with an enthusiasm that Ginny found amusing).  And Harry . . .?  Harry was playing with the taps in the Prefects bathroom, chuckling at the different colored bubbles and jets of foam that proceeded from each. 

Ginny watched, amused, as he twiddled the taps, filling the bathtub (more like a small pool actually) to its fullest capacity.  Too bad she’d never be a prefect.  Ginny watched, entranced, as the clouds of scented steam billowed up from the surface of the bath.  In fact, she nearly missed the very thing that she had been hoping for.

Feeling slightly voyeuristic, Ginny watched as Harry put a thick towel, the egg and the map beside the pool and began shrugging out of his robe and pajamas.  Just as she’d hoped, one whole wall was nothing but mirrors, and Harry was facing it.  She really should try to think of something else . . .concentrate on something else . . .

Harry stepped out of his pajama bottoms and straightened up, facing the mirrors.  He paused in fact, cocking his head sideways and observing himself critically. 

Still skinny, thought Harry.

Not as skinny as you used to be!  Ginny shot back.

Still short.

But you did have to buy new robes last year, so you’ve grown some at least!

Yeah, but Cedric, Krum, even Fleur, they’re all taller than me!  Harry obviously thought that he was talking to himself again.

You’re only fourteen though!

Yeah, I am, aren’t I?  Too young, really, to be a champion.

But you are a champion, like it or not! Just do your best.

What if my best isn’t good enough?

Give yourself a swift kick in the arse and get on with it.

Ginny watched as a grin stole across Harry’s face, transforming him from ‘moody teenage git’ to ‘teenage heart throb’ in an instant, and she felt her knees weaken in response.  It was the damned eyes.  Even the opportunity to see him in the altogether paled in comparison to being impaled by those eyes.

Myrtle came as a rather nasty shock, her sly look at Harry when she mentioned having watched Diggory as he figured out the clue, made Ginny feel truly dreadful.  To think that she had resorted to the same level as Myrtle, spying on Harry without his knowing. 

She tried to reason with herself, that it was different, with herself stuck in Harry’s head as it were, and while it made her feel a little better, she still couldn’t help but feel ashamed.

Mer-people though, thought Ginny, they’re dangerous, if the stories are true.

Harry picked up on that thought too; she could tell by the way his eyes flicked to the mermaid on her rock in the painting.  How to explain that real mer-people were not the whimsical creatures, as the paintings and pictures of them usually portrayed them.  Before she could think of a way to broach the subject, Harry was out of the tub, back in his pajamas (having kept his back firmly on the pool and it’s mirrors because of Myrtle) and was standing in the hall outside the Prefect’s bathroom, panting slightly under the heavy cloak and noticing that Peeves wasn’t the only thing moving around on the Marauder’s Map. The idiot was going to go see what Mr. Crouch was doing in Snape’s office. 

Are you completely insane?Ginny couldn’t help herself.  Hadn’t he learned anything about poking his nose in where it didn’t belong?  It shouldn’t have surprised her as much as it did when he responded almost immediately, she was after all, the voice in his head wasn’t she?  Not that he ever paid it much attention, mind.

It’s the middle of the night.  Everyone’s asleep.  Besides, no one will see me, I’ll be under the cloak!

But they could walk into you!

Who?  I told you, everyone’s asleep!

Whoever’s in Snape’s office, for one.

Look, Gin, it’s me who wants to do the seeing.  I’ll steer well clear of them I promise.

Ginny froze, hardly daring to breath.  Harry responding to her mental promptings wasn’t exactly new, but he’d called her by her name!  How could he possibly know?

Harry, however, didn’t seem to realize that there was anything amiss.  He was creeping along the corridor under the cloak, intent on making as little noise as possible

He knows. 

Ginny felt as if something were constricting her chest.

He knows but he isn’t aware that he knows.

The tightness eased somewhat, but a sudden pain in her leg brought her back to reality in a snap.

Not her leg, Harry’s leg.  Stupid git, he’d been so wrapped up in what Crouch might be doing sneaking around Snape’s office that he had forgotten to jump the trick step.  She winced as the egg bounced from step to step, finally cracking open on the landing and spilling out not yolk, but an ear splitting screeching and wailing that reverberated off the stone walls as if they were in some sort of bizarre bell.  And not only the egg, but the map as well was now out of reach.

Summon the damn thing! Summon both of them!

Harry tugged at the leg, too mortified at his predicament to hear her, or to understand her if he did.  Harry!

“Peeves!”  It was Filch and, oh no, Mrs. Norris! 

The noise shut off as Filch closed the egg, talking to himself and his wretched cat.

Nasty bit of work, that, thought Ginny as Mrs. Norris’s lamp-like eyes fastened on the spot where Harry stood.  Her whiskers twitched, her ears.

She can hear you!

Harry immediately stopped breathing through his nose, opening his mouth to deaden the sound of his breath.

Stupid git, thought Ginny, watching Mrs. Norris’s nose twitch.  He listened to me that time, why couldn’t he have summoned the damn egg . . .and the map?  Now he was stuck.  Even if he could hear her, he wouldn’t be able to summon either of them; it would be a dead giveaway for two stationary items to go floating away up the stairs.

I could summon them.  Ginny stared intently at the egg cradled in Filch’s arm.  Her wand was upstairs on the bedside table.  Could she make it in time?  Who was that? Snape!  Shit.  Could things get any worse?  Harry’s fear was so intense, coursing through his body with such iciness that Ginny completely forgot about attempting to summon the egg, or about where her body actually was until a hand grasped her shoulder.

Ginny shrieked, and felt Harry twitch as if he’d been goosed. 

“It’s just me!” said Lisa, taking Ginny by both shoulders and shaking her slightly.  “You’re having a dream, Ginny, snap out of it!”

“Lisa?  Lisa, I-”

Clunk.  Clunk. Clunk.

Moody.

“What about Moody?  Ginny, is this starting up all over again?  The stuff that happened last year?”  Lisa’s voice was anxious.  Ginny couldn’t rightly forget how worried Lisa had been when Ginny, overwhelmed by seeing things from Harry and his doppelganger at the same time, had sunk into a sort of torpor the evening that Harry and Hermione had gone back in time with the Timeturner.

“I’m okay, Lisa, really, I just-”

“You said that last time!” said Lisa accusingly.

“I-”

“At least come upstairs, please?  I hate to think of you having wired dreams all alone here in the dark.”

Ginny stared at Lisa’s shadowy face for a full minute before throwing her arms around her and giving her a huge hug.

“Ginny, what?” asked Lisa, startled.

“It’s just — nice — to have someone looking out for me,” said Ginny sincerely.  How could she explain to Lisa that everything was fine, that she could take care of herself, at least in this incidence?  Better not to fight it.

“You’re a good friend, Li, you know that, don’t you?”

“I try!” said Lisa, smiling broadly and giving Ginny a hand up. “You ever going to be able to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing anyone can do anything about I’m afraid,” said Ginny, smiling and following the taller girl upstairs.  She was aware of the fact that Moody had sent Snape packing, that Harry had the egg again, but not the map.  Moody had stepped in and had rescued Harry from Snape, but had confiscated the map.  Why would he take the map?  Couldn’t his eye see through walls and stuff?  How far, exactly, could it actually see?  And if it could see through Invisibility cloaks . . .surely he could have seen for himself who was in Snape’s office?

Come to think of it, what had Moody been doing a full three floors below his office, which was on the third floor?  If he had been in his office, if, by some chance the egg really had woken him up, why hadn’t he come down the steps?  It was definitely something to think about.