A/N: If you’ve been following this story, I promise you aren’t having a strange case of deja vu. After I finished writing the fifth chapter, I realized that the last scene of chapter four really belonged at the beginning of chapter five. So I moved it and slightly reworked the end of chapter 4. Apologies for any confusion! Special thanks to TimeShifter for the beta, and Zip for being a sounding board.

Chapter Text

Fifth Year

Going home to the Burrow for the summer is like time travel, returning somewhere they expect her to be exactly as she was even though she’s seen things, done things that can’t ever be taken back. Ginny’s not a little girl anymore, no matter how appealing it might be to pretend. Dolores Umbridge and a dark night in the Department of Mysteries sometimes feel like the least of it.

It’s even worse than Umbridge’s class, back to being wandless and spell-less, only now she knows, knows first hand what is out there.

Her parents either don’t understand this, or simply don’t want to believe it. As if something like housework could possibly matter when people are dying and taking sides and not even Hogwarts feels completely safe.

She can’t really hide in numbers any more either. It’s just Mum and Dad and Ron and her, a parenting ratio she’s rarely faced.

Ron walks through their nearly empty house like nothing has changed, even as the scars on his arms tell a different story. She wants to ask how he can do that, just go on like the world hasn’t changed, like they are still children.

He’s annoyed by Mum’s hovering, just as much as ever, but never does anything more than roll his eyes or sneak out of the house just to avoid her.

Ginny is the one bristling with heat, her mouth getting ahead of her cool in a way she didn’t dare allow at school. Dad’s not around much, and Ron is smart enough to avoid it. It just leaves Mum in her path, so different from Antonia and Smita and Burbage, bustling around her little house as if any of this matters. As if perfect biscuits and knitting could have helped Ginny in the Ministry, could have helped her deal with the fact that people like Umbridge are real.

It’s why every answer out of Ginny’s mouth erupts with a sarcastic twist, a barb pressed home with ruthless accuracy. She sees the way her mother tries to pretend it doesn’t bother her, this sudden brittleness between them, and the attempt only makes Ginny angrier.

She’s pissed off at her mother and can’t even say why.

It only takes a week for the storm to reach the breaking point. Ginny doesn’t even remember what she said exactly, just the look on Mum’s face, the terrible silence at the table after.

“Ginny,” Mum says, voice betraying a calm that is a thousand times more shattering than her familiar bellow. “I would like you to leave this table.”

Ginny glares over her half-eaten meal, and barely resists the urge to sweep the plate to the floor. Dad’s face is set, his eyes not on her, but on Mum. She thinks he must be holding her hand under the table.

Ron’s staring at her like she’s a stranger.

Ginny stands up without a word and walks out to the front porch. She storms up and down the creaking boards, her breath rushing in and out like she’s just finished a race. She has the craziest urge to slam her fist into the porch column.

Would probably bring the whole giant mess of a house down, she thinks viciously, as if she didn’t love every worn and familiar inch of this place. What the hell is wrong with her?

It’s her father who finally joins her, sitting her down on the steps and taking her hand in his. He ignores it when she tries to tug away, to snap something stupid like, “I’m nearly fifteen, Dad.” Not a child any more. Just acting like one.

Her classmates would heap scorn down on her for it.

It’s only once she’s calmed, once they’ve sat unmoving for who knows how long that he starts telling her quietly about a girl named Molly Prewett. A girl with fire and spirit and a stinging hex that no one ever forgot. A girl who could have gone anywhere and done anything, a woman who lived through war only to see it come around a second time.

Ginny feels angry tears pressing at the back of her eyes.

Dad leans in closer, like imparting some great secret. “There’s a difference between not having power, and choosing not to use it.”

Ginny closes her eyes, forcing herself not to hold on tighter when his hand slips from hers.

He leaves her sitting out there to think about it, the sun dragging slowly down below the trees lining the pasture.

Hours later when she slinks back inside, there’s a plate with a perfect warming charm waiting for her on the table.

She sits and eats.

Ginny spends the next two days watching her mother as she moves through the seemingly mundane routines of her life—the swish of her arm with each little spell, the tension of muscles and restraint in the snap of her wrist. She imagines herself a stranger and takes a second, third, fiftieth look at Molly Prewett Weasley.

Ginny considers that subtlety is its own sort of power, one not easily mastered.

Blowing out a long breath, Ginny follows her mother outside into the overgrown yard.

Together, they peg up the laundry.

* * *

“English food,” Fleur says, her perfect pert nose crinkling with distaste, “it is so heavy.”

From across the table, Ginny wonders if she’s just imagining that she can hear the grinding of Mum’s teeth. Dad makes no comment, and Ron just looks at Fleur the way he always does, like he’s staring at the sun and even though it’s burning his eyes, he can’t look away. It’s been a lot quieter around here with Ron almost constantly struck dumb.

From the other end of the table, Hermione glares at Fleur.

Ginny mostly wants to shrug. She isn’t particularly moved by Fleur’s thoughtless remark, just one prick among hundreds since Bill dropped her off with a kiss and his half-careless curse breaker smile.

Dad makes a bumbling attempt at restarting the conversation, telling a convoluted tale about a Muggle fire hydrant bewitched to chase dogs down the street that he already told them yesterday.

Fleur sighs, fork clanging listlessly against her plate.

* * *

And so summer settles over the Burrow. The weather is much more temperate this year, but that doesn’t mean it lacks in discomfort. Fleur’s arrival only a few days after Ginny and her mum tentatively reached a sort of unspoken truce only added yet another layer of tension to the already volatile situation. Ginny isn’t exactly happy to see Mum so worked up, but every time Mum is pushed to the edge of losing her temper by something Fleur says or does, the petulant part of Ginny wants to smirk and point out the irony of the situation in her most acerbic tone.

She doesn’t though, because she’s trying dammit.

Of course, a lot of things are more difficult this summer than they should be.

Biting her lip, Ginny stares down at the piece of parchment in front of her. So far all it says is ‘Dear Smita’ with nothing but creamy emptiness below. She has no idea where all her words went.

Determinedly, she picks up her abandoned quill. It hovers unused for a beat too long, a bead of ink dripping onto the surface. Ginny stares down at it, only realizing after a few long dragging seconds that she’s waiting for it to sink in and disappear.

She swipes at the glistening blob with her thumb, smudging it across the parchment where it dries and stains. Better.

Just a letter.

Smita is back in St. Mungo’s after an unexpected relapse. Apparently the curse she’d been hit with in the Department of Mysteries was even more serious than originally thought. She is going to be fine, or so her last letter assured Ginny. So Ginny reminds herself at least ten times a day. Smita just has to take a rigorous series of daily potions for a while. And maybe a little less often for longer than that.

Like maybe for the rest of her life.

Ginny’s quill presses down, a circle of ink expanding larger and larger.

“I hate her,” Hermione announces as she storms into the room, the door closing with a resounding whoomp behind her.

Ginny looks up, not bothering to ask who. Hermione has been bristling at Fleur’s every word and look since the moment her parents dropped her off this morning. A lot like Mum. But hate is a strong word.

“Why?” Ginny asks.

Hermione spears her with a look like she’s completely insane.

Maybe she is. Fleur just doesn’t get on her nerves the way she seems to get on everyone else’s. She feels familiar, to be honest. More familiar than Hermione some days.

Hermione is muttering something about Veelas and hair and the stupid French as she gets ready for bed.

“Because she’s beautiful?” Ginny guesses, remembering that Hermione’s glares have been equally shared between Fleur and Ron. Stupid befuddled Ron.

The deepening scowl on Hermione’s face tells Ginny she’s hit the mark.

“It’s not really something she got to choose,” Ginny reminds her.

Hermione snorts. “She never lets any of us forget it either though, does she?”

Ginny doesn’t bother responding to that. For a clever girl, sometimes Hermione could be thicker than a tome.

Turning back down to the ruined parchment, Ginny balls it up and tosses it away with a sigh.

* * *

When Ginny goes downstairs the next morning, Harry is sitting at the breakfast table. Ginny has long since gotten used to the way Ron’s friends inevitably appear. It’s almost like having triplets for older siblings, and the three of them are still far less trouble than the twins.

Fleur is sitting next to him, beaming and chatting brightly about Gabrielle while she butters some toast for him. Mum stands a few steps behind, looking put out that she can’t butter Harry’s toast herself.

Forgetting herself for a moment, Ginny snorts with amusement, everyone’s attention swinging to her.

“Good morning,” Ginny says, taking a seat opposite Fleur. “Hi, Harry.”

He seems a bit surprised for a moment, staring at her. Still shaking off the effects of Fleur first thing in the morning, she imagines. “Hi, Ginny,” he says, eyes sliding away from her.

Ginny frowns, taking in the slump of his shoulders and the poorly slapped on smile he has returned to Fleur. Sirius, she thinks, her mind unwillingly going back to that strange room, to whispers and shadows and Smita crumpled on the floor.

She is going to be fine.

Ginny’s heart is beating fast now though, a rush building in her ears. Mum drops a plate down in front of her, snapping her attention back. She focuses gratefully on the toast and eggs, forcing a slow breath out.

“Thanks, Mum,” she says, her voice still a little strange to her ears.

Mum doesn’t necessarily seem to notice though, her frown temporarily easing at her daughter’s unusual politeness. Not that she looks any less wary. There have been far too many angry words between them. “You’re welcome, dear.”

Ginny nods, looking up from her plate to find Harry watching her.

Before she can say anything, Ron thunders down the steps, Hermione close on his heels. “Harry, mate! When did you get here?”

They embrace, beating each other on the backs like they’re trying to see who will wince first. Hermione follows, her hug more controlled but no less eager. When she pulls back, Ginny can tell she’s looking at Harry closely, gauging his mood and his health.

“Later,” Harry says in an undertone to his friends before they can ask any questions of him.

They eat in heavy silence until Harry casually mentions their OWL results arriving today, and then there is just Hermione burning up all the air with her ceaseless worry.

Predictably, the owls wing their way in and all three have done well enough. Hermione nearly better than both boys combined, but that isn’t really a surprise to anyone. In a whirlwind, all three disappear upstairs.

Fleur, sitting forgotten at the table, watches them go.

Ginny considers her unfinished letter upstairs.

“Would you like to walk down to the village?” Ginny asks Fleur.

Mum shoots Ginny a grateful look, like she’s just thrown herself in front of a curse for the benefit of all. Ginny presses her lips together against a scathing remark fighting to be free.

“I suppose,” Fleur sniffs, getting gracefully to her feet. “There is nothing else to do.”

“Great,” Ginny says, teeth aching a bit with the pressure of holding her temper. She really just needs to get out of the house for a while.

Outside, Ginny breathes deep, feeling the tension leave her body as her pace lengthens, the Burrow left behind. It’s a beautiful morning, the sun just beginning to beat back the cool shadows. Fleur keeps up without a word, though Ginny likes to think she looks a little relieved to be outside as well.

After a while, Ginny slows her pace, giving them both a chance to actually take in their surroundings. She holds a hand out over the tall grasses lining the path, feeling the rough tickle against her palm.

“Is there nothing at all to do here?” Fleur sighs. “Other than look at cows and drink tea?” Ginny has the bizarre thought that if Fleur were a little less elegant, she would have kicked petulantly at a stone.

“No, not really,” Ginny says. There are, in fact, plenty of other things to do, but Ginny suspects there is something more at play here than simple boredom. She isn’t sure why, but for some reason Fleur is a tempting puzzle. Far less dangerous that Mum or Smita…

Ginny presses her lips together.

Fleur lapses back into silence rather than respond, almost peevishly, as if she’s annoyed she hasn’t managed to start a fight.

"Tell me about your home,” Ginny says after they pass another few minutes in silence.

“My home?” Fleur echoes, voice brusque. Ginny wonders if she’s imagining the slight edge of wariness. Like she’s looking for a trap.

“Where you grew up.” Ginny sweeps an arm around them, indicating the trees and the pastures and the smell of dirt and hay. “Was it like this?”

“Oh, no,” Fleur says, hair glinting almost blindingly in the sun with the shake of her head. “My home is…soft and green and full of flowers in neat straight rows. There is a lazy, wide green river, shaded by the chestnut trees, and the village children have boats to row in the summers. There is one long lane through the village with shops on each side, and on the weekend mornings the market spills down the street. We buy delicate sweets and sit by the river and Gabrielle points to the birds and knows all their names.”

Fleur snaps her mouth shut as if something has crawled into her throat, or she’s realized just how much she has said and how quickly.

Ginny is still catching up, shifting carefully through all the particulars. “It sounds…” Familiar. Comfortable. Not lonely. “Lovely,” she eventually decides on. “I’d like to see it someday.”

Fleur turns to her with one eyebrow raised as if she suspects Ginny of humoring her. Or more likely, just thinking that even if Ginny did visit, she wouldn’t really be able to appreciate it. But Ginny also remembers the way Fleur was with Harry this morning, chatting away, but more like clinging to him like a lifeline.

Ginny takes a long moment to look at Fleur, really look at her. Not the shine of her hair or the perfection of her features, but rather for any sign of the girl underneath. To her credit, Fleur looks straight back with something almost like relief tangled into her aloofness.

It makes Ginny wonder how many people actually bother to look for Fleur and not just the Veela. If that is how Bill loves her.

For the first time it occurs to Ginny how brave Fleur is, even being here. Coming to a foreign place, falling in love with someone, letting him dump her alone in the countryside with his large family. She considers that actively making them dislike her may seem a better strategy than letting them decide to dislike her on their own.

No, that doesn’t quite sit right. It isn’t all an act. There may be fear or loneliness twisting her words, but this is who Fleur is. And Bill loves her. She thinks that’s more than enough reason for them to try a little harder to know her. To accept her.

“I’m glad you came to visit,” Ginny decides.

Fleur looks too surprised to answer.

Ginny turns and continues up the path.

Fleur catches up after a few steps, her fingers tweaking the end of Ginny’s ponytail. “Your hair,” she says, her voice a bit breathy. “It could actually be pretty with some help.”

Under this seeming insult, Ginny finally registers it—the way her fingers tug with the feel of I miss my sister.

Ginny turns to her and smiles. “I’ve never had a sister.”

Fleur nods as if this explains it.

* * *

“Mum,” Ginny asks the next morning after breakfast, moving to stand next to her at the sink. “Do you know any French recipes?”

Her mother’s hands tighten, face indignant as she turns to look at Ginny. “So now I’m supposed to cater to her?”

Ginny pauses to let the inevitable surge of annoyance fade. Then she touches her mother’s arm, voice soft and only slightly chastising. “Mum, she’s homesick.”

Mum blinks a few times, finally pressing her lips together as her natural compassion rises. “I think I might have a recipe for Vichyssoise somewhere,” she says, fingers drumming on the counter. “Can’t say it will be good enough for her.”

“Maybe not,” Ginny says. “But it’s worth it to try.”

Mum gives her a long look, like she’s trying to decide where this all fits in with Ginny’s bizarre moods this summer.

Ginny bites down on the inside of her cheek on the cutting retort she’d like to make. Give your mum half the chance you’re giving Fleur, she reminds herself. “Can I help make it?”

Mum nods.

Later that night, the whole table seems to hold its breath as Fleur takes a sip of Mum’s soup, only Harry looking on as if unsure of what exactly is happening around him.

“It is not quite right,” Fleur eventually says.

Mum tenses, Ron’s eyes going wide as if he’s got front row seats for the fight of the year. Mum seems to take a moment to breathe though, her shoulders eventually dropping. “Perhaps there are some other recipes you could share with me?” she asks, voice not quite warm, but not nearly as brittle.

Fleur shrugs. “I suppose.”

Ginny wonders if she’s the only one who notices that Fleur finishes every last drop of the soup.

* * *

Growing up in a small house with six siblings, you learn to seek out and ruthlessly protect any opportunities for solitude. The Burrow is not nearly as full as it has been in years past, but Ginny still rises early each morning, just for a chance to breathe and be. Inevitably, she ends up out at the paddock, an old broom from the shed in hand.

Nothing centers her like time spent on a broom.

The trees around the paddock are nearly thirty feet tall, providing good cover from any Muggle eyes. There are rudimentary goals rigged up at either end that have been there for as long as Ginny can remember. It’s not exactly regulation, but it works well enough.

Ron has never been an early riser, so she usually has the space all to herself. About a week into Harry’s stay however, he starts bringing his broom down about a half hour after Ginny. He finally looks rested and well fed, and it’s enough to make Ginny wonder just what his Muggle relations do to him each summer. Or maybe he is just finally starting to climb back out of the loss of Sirius.

Ginny doesn’t know and doesn’t bother to ask, far too aware of the way Harry looks at her these days. Like she’s some wild animal that he’s just waiting to turn on him and attack. It’s almost enough to make her think that night in the infirmary never happened.

When they do talk, it’s about Quidditch—which drills are best, the merits of certain techniques.

It’s the language they best understand.

* * *

“What did you do to your hair?” Mum shrieks when Ginny appears one morning at the table for breakfast.

Ginny lifts a hand to her shortened locks. Fleur had been true to her word, suggesting removing some of the heavy length, adding some soft layers here and there. Ginny never before realized just how much extra weight she’s been lugging around.

“I would have thought that was obvious,” Ginny says, forgetting her pledge not to talk back to her mum. But honestly, it’s just hair. She hadn’t realized that is one of the things she’s supposed to ask permission about.

“But it was so nice and long! How could you--,” Mum says, really beginning to work herself into a lather, the dishes in the sink starting to rattle.

Hermione jumps in, her voice high, “I think it looks nice, Ginny.”

Ron grimaces around a mouth full of sausages when Hermione elbows him. “Yeah,” he sputters. “Real nice.” As if he cares at all about his sister’s hair.

Ginny rolls her eyes. “Fleur helped me do it last night. And I really like it.” She sits down as if that is the end of it.

Mum harrumphs, turning back to the stove. Hermione, for her part, suddenly looks like she’s not as keen on the haircut now that she knows Fleur had a hand in it.

Merlin, Ginny thinks in exasperation, the people around me.

Ginny looks at Harry sitting next to her. “And you?” she asks, still heated with annoyance. “Apparently everyone gets to have an opinion.”

Harry looks up from his plate with something bordering on horror at being dragged into this particular conversation. She might feel bad if she weren’t in such a perverse mood.

“It’s uh…,” he sputters. “Ni--.”

“Don’t you dare say nice,” Ginny says.

Harry glances around the table in alarm, but Ron just shrugs unhelpfully. Ron is a lot of things, but he’s in no way stupid enough to put himself in the middle of this.

Ginny props her chin up on her hand, beginning to enjoy Harry’s panic. “My mother thinks I shouldn’t have cut it.”

Harry’s face scrunches up like he’s thinking really hard, really fast. “Well, it’s, uh, your hair, isn’t it?” he says, darting a wary glance at Mum, like he’s trying to decide which of them to be most afraid of.

She beams at him. “Why, yes it is. Thank you, Harry.”

He blows out a breath, as if he’s managed to dodge a nasty curse.

Mum drops a plate down in front of Ginny. “You’ve made your point. Now leave the poor boy alone and eat your breakfast.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ginny says, giving her a little salute.

Mum mutters under her breath as she walks away.

Next to her, Harry looks like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible while still managing to shovel food in his mouth.

Ginny sighs, reaching across him for the butter. “Sorry about that.”

He shakes his head, nudging the dish closer to her. “S’okay.”

She smiles at him. “Just part of staying at the Burrow. You have to deal with the Weasleys and all our insanity.”

He glances around the kitchen, something passing behind his eyes. “Small price to pay.”

Ginny digs into her food, deciding that there are layers there she would never be able to pick apart, even if she wanted to try.

“Must you eat like that?” Hermione complains to Ron, the ensuing snipe fest easily filling the silence of the breakfast table.

“I do like it,” Harry says quietly after a while, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Your hair.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Yeah?”

He nods, glancing over her hair. “It’s kind of…” His hand flaps. “Floaty.”

“Floaty?” Ginny repeats, trying valiantly not to laugh.

His face tinges the slightest pink. “Like you just finished playing Quidditch or something.” He frowns then, like he’s realizing that might sound like an insult.

She takes mercy on him, smiling widely at him. “Much better than ‘nice’.”

Fleur comes down the stairs then, clapping her hands when she sees Ginny. “So pretty!” she coos. Her fingers are in Ginny’s hair even before she takes a seat, tugging this way and that. “But you did not brush it quite right. I will have to show you again or you will look a fright!”

* * *

It’s been two weeks since Ginny received Smita’s last letter, and she’s still working on writing a response.

Almost by default she starts out by asking how Smita is feeling, if she’s getting better, but guilt starts welling in Ginny’s stomach and the words are just all wrong.

I shouldn’t have dragged you along with us that night. I shouldn’t have taken you to the DA in the first place.

I should have been able to do something….

She wads the parchment up and throws it in the trash.

She tries a different approach, thinking to describe Fleur, but she seems to defy explanation. She gets down a couple of paragraphs about Ron and Hermione and Harry only to burn the parchment when she’s done.

Smita’s never been to The Parlor and Quidditch has never really interested her, so Ginny’s thoughts on those parts of her life are out. She doesn’t particularly want to ask about Tobias.

The visits of Order members with increasingly grim tales of Muggle disappearances and strange attacks don’t seem like the right thing to tell a girl ailing in a hospital. Tom always did like his games.

She tells herself she can’t be sure who is reading her correspondence these days and siphons the ink back up from the page.

She considers trying to write about the anger she brought home from Hogwarts. The way one moment everything is fine—she’s laughing, she’s calm, and then all of a sudden it all wells up unexpectedly. It’s still nearly always only ever directed at Mum. It’s almost as if every time her mum says anything, or even does anything, she’s filled with this crushing feeling of annoyance.

Ginny’s trying though, her father’s gentle chastisement never far from the back of her mind. At the very least, Ginny keeps her mouth shut and tries very hard to just do as she’s told with minimum stomping and eye rolling. It’s hard though, even with her practice at controlling her emotions from last year. It’s harder to be a glacier here where she used to be a child, that child who knew nothing, knew nothing and lived a charmed life because of it.

So it’s “Yes, Mum” all the time and it’s better than the yelling and the hurt in Mum’s eyes that only made Ginny angrier, but there are still moments of tension no one can escape.

She tries writing about that to Smita, but every time she reads it back over she ends up embarassed by how much she sounds like a snotty, petulant child.

Another letter left sitting unfinished.

* * *

Early one afternoon, Ron gets it in his head that they should play two a side Quidditch. The only problem is that there are only three of them. The obvious solution seems to be getting Hermione to join them. Ron’s been badgering her all week, getting more and more obnoxious the more Hermione tries to demur.

“Don’t make Hermione do that,” Ginny sighs.

Ron looks up from where he’s harassing Hermione with an extra broom from the old shed. She wonders if he is really so dense that he can’t see the panic on Hermione’s face at the thought.

“You and the twins played as three all the time,” Ginny reminds him. His ears tinge red and Ginny inwardly smiles, knowing that playing with the twins had really just consisted of a rather nasty game of keep away.

Harry looks confused. “Didn’t you play with them, Ginny?”

She notices he doesn’t bother asking why Percy never played with them.

“Of course not,” Ron says dismissively. “We had no idea she was any good.” He frowns then, turning to look at her. “Come to think of it, how did you manage to get so good?”

Ginny smiles. Little did her brothers know that she’s been stealing their brooms and secretly practicing since she was six. “A Slytherin never tells,” she says, tapping the side of her nose.

Ron rolls his eyes and calls her something profane, but Ginny is more surprised by Harry’s reaction, finding him watching her with that inscrutable look in his eyes again. Yet instead of looking disturbed, he almost looks…relieved. Like he’s glad to hear she knows how to keep her mouth shut.

Ginny blinks, thinking back over the things they talked about last year, his voice brittle—Could you kill if you had to? She considers that she may be carrying around more of his secrets than she realized.

“Hermione,” Ron says again, shaking the broom. “We need a fourth!”

“Hold on,” Ginny says, heading back up towards the Burrow. “I have a better idea.”

A short search leads Ginny out to the small front garden, where Fleur sits reading a book in the shade of an apple tree. “How are you on a broom?”

Fleur looks up with interest. “As good as I need to be,” she says, a sly smile curving her lips.

Ginny hooks a thumb over her shoulder. “Want to help me make the boys look stupid?”

Fleur laughs. “How hard could that be?”

Fleur isn’t particularly skilled on a broom, but she’s cunning and a little ruthless, both of which Ginny would expect of a Triwizard champion. Fleur chooses her targets wisely, zooming into Ron’s eye line from odd, unexpected angles, rendering him mute and useless just long enough for Ginny to get by him. Harry seems to be made of slightly sterner stuff, but one on one, they are fairly well matched. Ginny just has a better arm and far more comfort with goal shooting. He’s quick though, and makes unexpected moves that catch Ginny off guard.

The match ends in a hopeless tie, the four of them breathless and laughing as they tumble back on the grass below.

“I suppose,” Fleur admits begrudgingly, “it is not completely terrible here.”

Ginny laughs up into the deep blue summer sky.

* * *

The summer settles into a comfortable routine, and for a while it almost feels like the golden days of summers before, like the specter of Tom and Umbridge and Sirius’ death just can’t reach them.

Ginny gives up trying to write a letter to Smita. It feels like everything is too impossible to write about. All that’s left is the weather. She refuses to stoop that low.

Everything will be fine when they both get back to Hogwarts. Ginny’s sure of it.

One Sunday morning near the end of the summer, the Burrow is once again full of family. Bill is back visiting Fleur like he does most weekends, this time with the news that their new place is almost ready for them to move into. The twins are also here for Sunday brunch. Despite Bill’s far too long hair and the way Fleur hangs on his arm, Mum seems happy enough to have such a crowd in the house again.

They’ve all just finished eating when a quartet of Hogwarts owls wing their way into the kitchen, school letters attached to their legs.

A small grey owl with a white face and yellow eyes flaps down in Ginny’s plate. She feeds him a little egg before unknotting the missive from his leg. She opens the envelope below the lip of the table, already feeling the weight of something extra in her envelope, but not daring to hope.

Mum catches sight of it and practically shrieks. “A prefect badge?”

Ginny doesn’t bother trying to explain that most Slytherin actively avoid getting a prefect badge, that the last thing she needs is that complication in her life. Instead she takes a breath and opens her hand.

A gold Quidditch Captain’s badge sits on her palm.

Mum does a credible job of hiding her flicker of disappointment, coming over and hugging Ginny tight. “How wonderful, sweetheart. Four prefects and two captains in the family!”

Across the table, Harry holds up his matching Captain’s badge.

George and Fred look between Harry and Ginny. “We have got to make it to that first match.”

* * *

They all travel to Diagon Alley the next day, despite Mum’s worries that it is no longer safe. Ollivander’s disappearance has shaken a lot of people. Ginny’s just glad she already has her wand, wondering what all the new students will do this year.

Even having heard the stories, none of them are ready for the way people scuttle from store to store, for the reality of the charred black hole that used to be the wand shop. Florean’s is dark and silent.

By unspoken agreement, they all gather their books and supplies as quickly as possible in the noticeably quieter shops.

Passing in front of the Quidditch Supply Store, Ginny eyes the sleek, expensive new brooms in the window. Getting a captain’s badge is reason enough for her to finally get her own broom.

“Shall we go inside?” Mum asks, one hand in her pocket as if she’s weighing the contents of her money pouch.

“Actually,” Ginny says, surprising herself as much as anyone. “There’s a broom at school that works fine for me.”

“We can afford it, sweetie,” Mum says, trying not to look embarrassed. Harry conspicuously shuffles a few steps further away, the way he always does when the topic of money comes up.

“I know,” Ginny says, and she really does. She knows they would scrape and scrimp and make it happen. It’s not about that. “It would just really mean a lot to me to get this particular broom. Do you think we could buy that one?”

Mum is still frowning at her.

“Please,” Ginny says, swallowing everything else down. She really doesn’t want to have to explain that the school broom is a reminder of sorts, of what it takes to be great, of the paths she doesn’t want to go down again. She’s let herself be blinded by a fancy broom before.

Never again.

Luckily Mum doesn’t ask, eventually nodding her ascent. “I’ll write to Madam Hooch.”

Ginny smiles, taking her mum’s hands and squeezing them. “Thank you.”

“Whatever makes you happy, dear,” Mum says with that my-daughter-is-beyond-reasoning-or-understanding look in her eye that has become pretty commonplace this summer.

Ron is the one to outright call her mental.

Ginny just gives him a sugary sweet smile that makes Ron pale a shade.

Turning for the twins’ shop, they head further down towards Gringotts. There seems to be more activity at this end, Ginny seeing several familiar faces, including one tall figure more familiar than most.

“Antonia?” Ginny asks, stopping to approach her.

The girl turns, deep emerald robes swirling about her ankles. “Ginny,” she says with a smile. She glances at Ginny’s family still heading down the alley, and if her gaze pauses at all on Harry (The Chosen One, the papers say), Ginny can’t tell. “Having a nice summer?”

Ginny shrugs. “More or less,” she says.

Antonia laughs as if she understands exactly what the ‘less’ means.

“Ginny?” Mum calls, finally having noticed she’s lost her youngest.

The rest of her family shuffles into the twins’ shop, Mum coming back to collect her.

“Mum, this is Antonia. She’s--.” Ginny breaks off awkwardly. Antonia has been such an important part of her life the last few years, but she’s still not sure she has the right to call her a friend exactly. More like mentor, but would Mum have any idea what she meant by that?

Antonia doesn’t miss a beat, holding out a hand to Mum and smiling pleasantly at her. “I’m her housemate at school.”

“Oh,” Mum says, and Ginny knows she’s mentally thinking, A Slytherin. She awkwardly takes Antonia’s hand, shaking it. “It’s so nice to meet you. I haven’t gotten to meet many of Ginny’s friends.”

There’s far too many awkward places to go there. That Ginny doesn’t have many friends, that her friends might as well be from a different planet being in Slytherin, that Ginny is hiding things from her mum.

Ginny clears her throat. “Getting your school supplies?” she asks, trying to push past the inevitable clumsiness of her mum.

Antonia shakes her head. “Just taking a quick break from work. My family runs a bookshop.”

“Really?” Ginny says, automatically glancing back towards Flourish and Blotts.

Antonia shakes her head. “In Knockturn Alley.”

“Oh,” Ginny says before she can think better of it, the surprise clear in her voice.

“Well,” Antonia says, lips pressing together. “I have to get back. See you in a few weeks?”

Ginny watches her disappear down Knockturn Alley, once again feeling like she’d flubbed an important exam.

“Come along,” Mum says, steering Ginny back towards the twins’ blindingly bright shop. Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes is a lot like loud noise poured directly into your eye sockets.

It’s brilliant.

Fred and George are waiting from them at the front of the shop with Ron, Hermione, and Harry. They squire them around the shop, stopping here and there to show off particular products.

“Our new WonderWitch line,” George says as they near a section of the shop that is gratuitously pink.

“Subtle,” Ginny says.

A lot of the girls are squealing over pigmy puffs and love potions. Ginny notices Hermione looking a little too fascinated herself.

“It’s just really interesting magic!” she claims.

Ginny rolls her eyes and wanders off through the rest of the shop. She walks down long, crowded aisles, pausing now and again to say hello to people from school, mostly former-DA members. There’s no sign of Smita or Tobias.

She distracts herself from this by exploring the endless shelves of things dreamt up by her brothers. She considers grabbing another pair of extendible ears. Those are always handy. She peers at the headless hats for a while, thinking of all the uses for hiding your identity. Again though, a good spell would be just as effective and far less conspicuous. Not that discreet is something her brothers understand.

Near the back, there is a small section that is noticeably quieter.

“Are these Muggle magic tricks?” Ginny asks when one of the twins follows her in.

“Yeah,” Fred says. “Not huge sellers, but there is definitely a niche market. Mostly for weirdoes like Dad.”’

Ginny smiles, thinking she knows another weirdo who would love them. She picks up a Miraphorus Magic Set.

She reaches into her pocket for a few sickles preciously hoarded, but Fred just waves her away. “An early birthday present,” he says when she protests.

She gives him a kiss on the cheek and calls him a softie.

He just laughs and makes her promise to tell Ron he made her pay for it.

She’s happy to see the twins doing so well at something they clearly love. The shop is an oasis of light and laughter and color in what is quickly becoming a really dark place. She can’t be sure if she should admire that or just worry.

Either way, she hugs both of her brothers very tight before she leaves, finding both of her pockets suspiciously full of skiving pills and dangerous looking candies when she gets home. She takes this as a sign of their faith in her sneakiness, and a reminder not to let Filch get too comfortable.

And if Ron suspiciously turns into a canary at supper, she certainly has nothing at all to do with it.

* * *

Hogwarts letters and trips to Diagon Alley are, as always, a clear signal of the end of summer. Everything subtly shifts as they prepare to head back to their studies, to see friends, to get out from under the sharp eyes of their parents.

But Ginny feels like something more than the simple ending of summer has shifted at the Burrow. Things have taken a decided turn to strange.

Ginny was paying attention more than enough to notice that Ron, Hermione, and Harry had disappeared from the twin’s shop for long enough that no weak excuse of just being lost in the store can explain. Added to that, Ron and Hermione are back to sharing those not-at-all-subtle looks of concern every time Harry’s back is turned. As for Harry, he’s got this intense look in his eye that Ginny doesn’t particularly like.

Honestly though, she rarely has a clue what those three are really up to and she has her own problems to worry about.

Like how to explain to Smita why she hasn’t written.

Things don’t really improve when they finally leave for the Hogwarts Express. Ministry cars and stiff-looking Aurors, all of it obviously revolving around an increasingly irritated Harry. Ginny considers that if she finds it hard to go from being a person at school to a child at home, how much the worse to go from a long summer being a person at the Burrow to a Chosen One—protected and stifled to within an inch of his already frayed temper.

Ginny does her best to just be efficient and stay out of the way as much as possible, even if she does take the time to trip Ron into the dirt for still staring at Fleur like the star-struck idiot he is. She shares a wry smile with Fleur over the sprawled body of Ron.

Fleur laughs and promises to write.

Of course, the mention of a letter just makes Ginny’s thoughts start to spiral, something tense and awful in her stomach. She at once can’t wait to see Smita and dreads it.

With all the special treatment, they get to the Hogwarts Express early. Ginny walks the length of the train, but doesn’t see Smita anywhere, eventually settling in a compartment with Caroline and Astoria. They share general pleasantries that Ginny doesn’t pay much attention to.

It’s nearly time for the train to depart when Ginny finally catches sight of Smita in the hallway. She pushes to her feet, waving her hand to catch her attention. Smita nods, pulling open the door. She barely gets a step inside when Tobias appears as well, his hand reaching for her elbow.

“Hi,” Ginny says, voice faltering.

This close, Ginny can see how pale Smita is, the dark smudges under her eyes. She’s thinner too, Ginny thinks.

Smita gives her a fleeting smile. “Hi.”

They spend a moment shuffling around the space, Ginny ending up sitting next to Caroline and across from Smita and Tobias. It’s still close enough to hear Tobias when he leans into Smita and says, “Are you comfortable?”

Smita gives him a look that makes Ginny turn her attention out the window.

“How was your summer?” Ginny asks as the train starts moving, desperate for anything to say. She regrets it almost immediately. She knows how Smita’s summer was—potions, hospital, and illness.

Tobias jumps in, giving an animated recounting of his summer, clearly full of three lies for every truth. Astoria and Caroline just roll their eyes and lower their heads together to talk about other things.

“You?” he asks after he’s exhausted the topic.

Ginny pauses, feeling the press of a million things needing to be said. “Oh, you know. Mostly Quidditch drills and chores and my brother’s fiancé.”

Smita looks up with interest. “One of your brothers is getting married?”

Ginny nods, just about to explain Fleur when a scared looking second year appears in the doorway. “Ginny Weasley?” he asks, voice trembling.

“Yes?” Ginny says, giving him an impatient look. She doesn’t like to be interrupted just as things are starting to be less awkward.

The boy’s eyes widen, and he practically shoves a note at her before darting back out of the compartment.

“Nice to see you’re still terrifying small children,” Tobias says.

Ginny sends him a profane gesture and unfolds the note.

Miss Weasley,

Would you do me the pleasure of joining me for a spot of lunch in compartment C?

Sincerely,

Professor H. E. F. Slughorn

She stares down at the note in annoyance. She’s had barely enough time to even get over the awkwardness, let alone try to explain anything real to Smita. Then again, she doesn’t particularly feel like doing that in front of Tobias anyway.

He’s like a limpet, never moving even an inch from her side.

“What is it?” Smita asks.

Ginny wordlessly hands the note to her.

Tobias reads it over her shoulder, letting out a long whistle. “Moving up in the world, are we, Miss Weasley?”

“Must be the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,” Smita says, handing the note back.

Ginny shrugs, frowning down at the note. “But why would he want to see me?”

“Only one way to find out,” Tobias says.

Ginny sighs, knowing he’s right. Besides which, it’s not like she can really say no to a professor. “I guess I’ll be back after lunch.” She looks at Smita, trying to convey…something, and Smita stares back with that endlessly calm look of hers.

Out in the halls, she passes Antonia’s compartment on the way, a few other girls from The Parlor sitting inside. Ginny waves, Antonia giving her a rather cool nod in return.

All in all, a really great train ride so far.

Near Slughorn’s compartment—and how exactly did he manage to get an entire section to himself, she wonders—Ginny bumps into Harry and Neville.

“Hi, Neville,” she says, giving him a smile. “Have a nice summer?”

He’s the first person today to look genuinely pleased to see her. “Hi, Ginny. It was all right. You?”

She shrugs. “You know. Had to put up with this lot,” she says, gesturing at Harry.

Harry rolls his eyes.

Glancing down, she sees notes in their hands. She’s relieved to know it’s not just her, holding her own up for them to see. “Any idea what this about?”

Harry nods. “Apparently Professor Slughorn likes to…collect promising students.”

She raises an eyebrow, not particularly liking the sound of that. Too much like catching bugs and pinning their wings to a board.

“Not sure why he’s asked me then,” Neville says.

Harry frowns, looking discomforted by Neville’s trademark self-deprecation.

Ginny links her arm through Neville’s. “Well, clearly it just means he’s smarter than the last DADA teacher we had.”

Neville gives her a bashful smile. “Most people would be.”

Ginny laughs appreciatively. “Come on,” she says, tugging Neville’s arm. “Maybe we can at least get some good food out of this.”

They walk into the compartment to find that the entire space has been festooned with rich fabrics and comfortable chairs. Slughorn himself looks like the kind of man to enjoy comforts, pretty much exactly as Harry described him. He beams happily at them, urging them into chairs. One quick sweep of the room confirms that Ginny is the only girl. She finds this more than a little surprising, considering the level of ambition and talent she’s seen in The Parlor.

Despite what Ginny told Neville, Professor Slughorn’s taste in ‘promising students’ turns out to be dubious. There’s arrogant Cormac McLaggen and slimy Blaise Zabini, who seems to regard Ginny with the same level of distaste she feels for him, though he saves his real vitriol for Neville and Harry.

The only point in Slughorn’s favor is that he seems put out when he realizes that despite his family connections, Marcus Belby is a dull-witted bore. Maybe Slughorn isn’t completely hopeless after all.

As Slughorn’s interrogations of each student progresses, it becomes abundantly clear that everyone here has famous family members, Neville included. And Harry, well, he’s Harry. The Chosen One. By the time Slughorn gets around to turning his attention to her, Ginny’s really wondering what the hell she’s doing here.

“And you, Miss Weasley,” he says, turning a smile on her that would almost be friendly if it weren’t so predatory. “From what I hear, you are poised to be the next Gwenog Jones!” He leans in a little closer, patting the back of her hand. “I would be happy to introduce you. I get free tickets to every game, you know.”

Ginny isn’t sure the food is worth this.

Luckily the lunch doesn’t last long, the students needing to get back to their compartments and changed into their robes before they arrive.

“Yes, yes,” Slughorn says as he ushers them out. “I will send you letters soon for our first dinner!” Though the way he doesn’t say goodbye to all of them tells Ginny that at least she probably won’t have to suffer through Belby’s presence anymore.

Cormac is still talking Harry’s ear off about Quidditch as they head down the hallway, Neville and Ginny following behind.

They reach Harry and Neville’s compartment first. Luna sits inside reading.

“Hi, Luna,” Ginny says.

“You’ve cut your hair,” Luna says by way of greeting. “I hope you were careful where you put the trimmings.”

“Of course,” Ginny says with a smile, knowing Luna probably isn’t just talking about the risk of Polyjuice potions.

Luna nods, turning her attention back to her book.

Harry is still standing in the doorway, his attention riveted to something down the hall. Ginny leans out just in time to see Blaise disappear into the next car.

Harry shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m just going to…” he says, clearly distracted. His eyes land on Ginny almost as if he’s forgotten she was there. “Walk Ginny back to her compartment.” He nods to himself as if this makes perfect sense.

It doesn’t make any sense at all.

Clearly it doesn’t strike Neville as odd though, because he just waves and goes inside, leaving them alone out in the hall.

“Come on,” Harry says, taking Ginny by the arm. “This way.”

“I do happen to remember where my own compartment is, Harry,” she says, tugging her arm free.

“Right,” he says, looking sheepish, but no less determined. “Let’s go. Don’t want to be late.”

He starts walking down the hall at a fast clip. Ginny just barely refrains from asking him if he’s completely lost his bloody mind, quickening her step to catch up.

The students in the next few compartments are mostly Ravenclaw, eventually giving way to more Slytherin. They near the compartment with Blaise and Draco and their cronies inside, and Harry’s feet slow.

“I thought you were walking me to my compartment?” Ginny says, the pieces beginning to click into place. She doesn’t particularly appreciate him using her to spy on Draco.

Harry blinks at her. “Oh, yeah. Of course.”

He’s a really terrible liar.

To his credit, he does walk with her down into the next car where Smita and Tobias are still sitting like they are glued to each other.

“Here we are,” Harry says, patting her on her shoulder and immediately heading back the way he came without so much as a backward glance or a goodbye.

Boys, she thinks, shaking her head.

Steeling herself with a deep breath, she goes back into the compartment.

* * *

The rest of the train ride mostly consists of Tobias making an ass of himself and Ginny failing miserably to find anything of real substance to say. It’s almost a relief when the train comes to a stop.

On her way off the train, she notices Draco lingering alone in his compartment. Which is strange enough, considering he always has cronies around him. He looks up, their eyes connecting. His hand moves to his forearm, the same place he inked her so many years before.

She waits for him to notice the gold badge on her robes, for him to care or be annoyed, but he just looks away like he doesn’t have time for her.

His indifference is probably more than she can hope for at this point.

She turns and walks away.

Outside, the security at the gate is noticeably heavier, including Dementors around the fence line. Ginny’s hand tightens around her wand in her pocket. Even though she can cast a Patronus now, she’d still dearly love to never see a Dementor again as long as she lives.

The worst shock is still to come as she heads for the waiting carriages, glancing around to see where Smita and Tobias have disappeared to.

Ignorance is kind of blissful, she thinks, staring at the skeletal forms of the thestrals hooked up to the carriages.

Luna appears at her side. “Come along,” she says, gently guiding Ginny to the carriage. “They’re really quite nice.”

Even if they are, Ginny would still prefer they had remained invisible.

* * *

The feast is the usual utter chaos of Sortings and reunions and piles of food.

Harry is noticeably late. Mostly because when he walks in, his robes and face are covered in blood. Her eyes narrow as she hears Draco crowing over something at the other end of the table, Harry’s name clear in the taunts.

Walk her back to her compartment, her arse. She catches Harry’s eye, crossing her arms over her chest to make her disapproval clear. Frankly, whatever happened to him, it seems like maybe he at least partially deserved it.

He scowls and looks away.

The rest of the feast continues without incident. The only interesting bit is when Dumbledore introduces Slughorn as the new Potions teacher. Not Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. That is to be Severus Snape. Up on the dais, Snape looks like Christmas has come early, which is disturbing on many levels.

“This should be interesting,” Tobias comments around a mouthful of treacle tart.

No doubt.

* * *

The high spirits of reunions follow them back to the common room, the space full of voices and antics and the chaos of unpacking. It’s late by the time everything settles down, the other girls in their room quieting.

Ginny feels like she may finally, at last, get her chance.

She sits down on the edge of Smita’s bed, incredibly relieved to finally have a moment together to talk. It’s time to try to explain, to justify the lack of letters.

Ginny has barely sat down when Smita pushes to her feet. “I have to go to the infirmary,” she says.

Ginny looks up in dismay. “What?”

Smita gazes back at her. “To take my potion.”

Ginny grimaces, wondering if she is ever going to stop feeling guilty. “Oh. Okay.”

Smita gives her a tight smile.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Ginny blurts, getting to her feet.

“No, it might take a while.” At the door, Smita pauses to look back at her. “But thanks for offering.”

Ginny moves back to her own bed. She lies there, staring at the old familiar hangings, telling herself that she will stay up all night if she has to.

She’s asleep long before Smita returns.

* * *

Lessons start the next morning. They get to begin with Defense Against the Dark Arts, the first students to experience Professor Snape teaching his supposed favorite subject at long last. It’s a new subject and a new classroom, but Ginny still doesn’t expect any great transformation.

Then Snape starts with an impassioned speech about the Dark Arts, the subtlety required for circumventing and undermining attacks against your person. It’s not that he wasn’t like this in Potions, but it seems clear that he loves this subject. Ginny has the absurd thought that it feels a bit like seeing the real Snape for the first time.

Then he has to go and completely ruin everything by saying the most dreaded words of any class: “Put everything away but a quill.”

Many of them had clearly hoped to actually do something in DADA this year.

He walks down the length of the classroom. “Your education in Defense Against the Dark Arts thus far has been patchy at best. You have been saddled with a coward, a monster, and a traitor among other things.”

Ginny wonders which category Umbridge falls under.

“Catching you all up will be a nearly impossible task, but one I take seriously. And you shall as well.” He stops to sweep the classroom with a gaze that makes clear he will not accept any less.

“Aren’t you worried about the curse, sir?” someone asks from the back.

Snape raises a cool eyebrow at the outburst, but surprisingly doesn’t punish the student. Or not surprisingly, considering every student in this room is from Slytherin. Unlike Potions, they don’t share class time with Gryffindor house for DADA. Ginny hadn’t considered what a difference that may make.

Snape moves to stand behind his desk at the front of the room. “Frankly, I’m more worried about all of you failing your OWLs and making me look foolish. Which is why we will start by establishing what you know and what you don’t.” His expression makes it clear he expects far more of the latter.

He pulls out a huge stack of papers. It’s a written test, the longest by far that Ginny has ever seen. The class collectively groans.

Snape seems unmoved. “You have one hour.”

Ginny glances over at Smita to share a look of commiseration, but she’s looking the other way at Tobias sneering at his paper.

Ginny focuses down on her test.

She knows just about everything on the first three pages. She recognizes a few things past that, at least well enough to know that they are not OWL level concepts. Ginny considers how much of her knowledge she really wants to share, lest someone want to know where she learned it.

Gnawing on the end of her quill as she considers, she glances up just in time to find Snape watching her. Almost like he knows what she’s thinking.

Ginny shakes her head, laughing at herself for being so fanciful. She focuses back on her test.

* * *

The rest of Ginny’s lessons that day includes a coma-inducing History of Magic, where it appeared Binns may have kept lecturing all summer without even realizing they were gone. After lunch is double Potions, where Slughorn proves that he doesn’t just play favorites in private. He fawns a bit over Ginny and spends the rest of the class with his eyes alert for any hidden potential. Like every other professor though, he piles enough homework on them to last a month.

It’s only the first day, and Ginny feels like falling asleep in her pudding.

At dinner she purposely seeks out Thompson. She’s not going to keep him in limbo the same way Bletchley had done with her. Plus, she’ll need his help. (This only has a little bit to do with the fact that she walks into the Great Hall only to stop at the sight of Tobias putting things on Smita’s plate like she’s an invalid.)

Ginny sits down across from Thompson with a groan. “How is this much homework on the first day even legal?”

He glances up from his plate. “OWL year is a killer,” he says sympathetically.

“I imagine NEWT year is even harder,” she says, giving him a speculative look. For all she can read him on the pitch, sometimes she has absolutely no idea what he is thinking off of it.

He shrugs. “It is what it is.”

She peers at him another long moment before realizing she’s never going to find out what she wants without straight out asking. “But you’ll still have time for Quidditch, right?”

He pauses, something unreadable in his eyes. “Of course, if there’s a place for me.”

Ginny breathes out, her shoulder relaxing. “Good.” She’s going to need at least one person on her side if she has any hope of pulling this captain thing off. Draco and his cronies no doubt are going to make it difficult enough on her. She pulls some of the dishes towards herself and starts loading up.

Once dinner is done, Smita is nowhere to be found. And neither is Tobias. Not in the Great Hall, and not in the common room either.

Switching tactics, Ginny scans the common room for any other familiar faces, but none of the members of The Parlor are out there. She glances over at the entrance, wondering if she’s supposed to knock or something, or if she would even be welcome. She’s been to The Parlor a handful of times now, but always in the company of Antonia.

She sits in a chair with a clear view of The Parlor entrance and waits. About fifteen minutes later, Millicent crosses the common room.

Not the perfect choice, but then again, Ginny has been working very hard to be more friendly to Millicent.

“Hi, Millicent,” she says, falling in step next to her.

She barely grunts in response, which is a step up from the open suspicion and hostility the greeting engendered the year before.

“Have a nice summer?”

Millicent gives Ginny a look that seems almost designed to remind her that they aren’t friends, and her summer isn’t any of her business.

Right, Ginny thinks.

Millicent pulls the door open, and Ginny was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she didn’t notice if she did anything special to get the door open. Blast.

“You coming down?” Millicent asks, looking back at Ginny as if she’s lost her mind.

“Oh. Yes. Of course,” Ginny says, scrambling to follow her downstairs.

Other than the couple of girls who graduated last spring, everyone is there. And no one looks surprised to see her.

Antonia looks up from her spot on a settee, and Ginny lifts her chin, refusing to look like an interloper waiting to get kicked out.

The corner of Antonia’s mouth twitches, something wry and knowing layered in there, before she turns back to her book.

Ginny breathes out and crosses over to say hello to the Carrow twins.

By the time she gets back up to the dorms, the curtains are drawn tight around Smita’s bed, the room silent.

* * *

Ginny nearly misses breakfast the next morning when she oversleeps. Bridget and Helena clearly didn’t care enough to wake her. Not surprising considering Ginny has never been their favorite person. That just leaves Smita. Knowing she has to get up really early to go to the infirmary doesn’t make Ginny feel particularly better.

All in all, by the time Ginny slides into her seat next to Tobias in Muggle Studies, she’s not in the happiest of moods.

She glances around. “Where’s Smita?”

Tobias gives her a strange look. “She had to drop Muggle Studies for Care of Magical Creatures, remember?”

“Oh, right,” Ginny says like it isn’t the first she has ever heard of this. But the truth is that Smita never breathed a word of it to her.

Tobias narrows his eyes, looking like he’s about to say something else, but Ginny turns away from him, pretending to dig around in her bag for something. It’s a weak subterfuge at best, but she just doesn’t want him to explain. She shouldn’t have to learn things about her best friend from someone else.

They don’t talk for the rest of the lesson.

The next class is Charms, and without giving it much thought, Ginny crosses over to sit with Luna.

She doesn’t look at Smita or Tobias.

* * *

If there’s ever been one thing in Ginny’s life that she can always count on to center her, it’s Quidditch. When she’s not in class or in The Parlor, she throws her every extra minute into organizing the trials.

The second Saturday of the term, Ginny stands on the pitch with nearly a dozen hopefuls. She’s so intent on calling out drills, watching each player intently as they fly, that she forgets to be nervous. She does notice the glaring absences of certain players and knows she’s not the only one.

Draco hasn’t so much as looked at Ginny this year other than that one strange moment on the train. It seems he’s found something else to fill his time. It’s confirmed when he doesn’t show up for the trials, even his interest in lazing on the pitch suddenly gone.

Ginny had braced herself for dealing with Crabbe and Goyle, thinks she will be perfectly capable of giving them a fair shake. But she doesn’t end up having to put herself to the test, Draco’s little cronies deciding they have better things to do as well.

It’s not really a relief, she tells herself. She doesn’t have much time to think on it, to be honest, because now she has an entire team to build from scratch and it’s at once liberating and terrifying. The only returning player she has is Thompson.

Luckily she already knows who the third Chaser should be, and the trials merely confirm that. Vaisey improved a lot the year before, so much so that he already seems better than Warrington. The only other person with any promise as a Chaser is Urquhart. Ginny supposes by some measures he might be better than Thompson. He’s quicker, sure, but he’s also an arrogant arse, and this is a team, not a solo act. Thompson already knows all the plays and she needs at least someone on the team who knows what they are doing.

In tandem with the Chasers, she’s able to see that Martin and Gilbert are still the two Keepers with the most promise. In the end, Martin manages to save slightly more goals, Gilbert clearly letting his nerves get in the way. Another decision rather easily made.

The selection of Beaters is anything but easy. Usually with Beaters you want a matched pair. Not every team has the benefit of a Fred and George though. Even Crabbe and Goyle had been like two sides of a really dense coin. Physically, most of the candidates Ginny has to pick from are somewhat similar.

She looks at the beefy sixth year Tristam Bassenthwaite. He’s a bit of a thug, but not a malicious one. He flings his body around with a concentrated sort of frenzied joy and both his power and accuracy with a bat are promising. Precedent tells Ginny she should pick Bassenthwaite and then find someone else that matches him as well as she can.

But being a Beater is about more than sheer size and ruthlessness. They have to work like a seamless pair, anticipate each other’s moves. That doesn’t always just mean being the same size. She’d read in a book Tobias gave her last year about the joining of opposites. Point and counterpoint.

She keeps cycling back to the smaller third year Graham Pritchard. He has a flinty look to his eye that Ginny likes. A quieter presence to balance the boisterous Bassenthwaite. Graham is younger too, with less experience, but maybe also not so set in his ways. On paper, it seems a ridiculous pair. It’s a bit of a risk—a calculated one certainly, but Ginny’s never particularly been one for the easy path.

By the time the trials are done and she’s dismissed all the players, she’s still mulling over her options. She wanders up to the Great Hall for lunch with everyone else, but spends the entire time scribbling down thoughts and ideas into a small notebook.

After lunch, she walks back down to the pitch to watch the Ravenclaw trials. The other captains had watched her trials this morning. It’s simply logical to know exactly what they will be up against.

Sitting down in the stands, she flips through her notes, a decision beginning to form.

A while later, Harry appears, his hands shoved almost casually in his pockets.

“Malfoy’s not playing this year, huh?” he says, overly casual, like he’s trying to look like he doesn’t particularly care when it is patently clear that he does.

Ginny looks up from her notes. It’s the first time they’ve talked since his disgusting display back on the train and the first thing he wants to do is ask her about Draco? “Here to walk me back to my common room?”

Harry grimaces. “No.”

She puts a hand on her chest, eyes fluttering. “But what if I get lost?”

He closes his eyes for a moment, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Okay. You’ve made your point.”

She huffs, turning back to her notes. “Good.”

He shifts on his feet for a moment, like he’s trying to decide just how unwelcome he is. He’s been an idiot to be sure, but as Ron’s sister, she’s more than used to boys being idiots.

“Oh, sit down,” she says with exasperation. Looking up at him is cricking her neck.

“What?”

She rolls her eyes. “You are here to watch the trials, right?”

“Oh,” he says, plopping down next to her. “Yeah.”

Ginny graciously swallows back her laughter. “Your trials are next Saturday,” she says, since he clearly wants to talk about something but is too ridiculous to come out with anything.

“Yes,” he says, looking relieved.

Ginny looks back at her notes, doodling in the margins. “Think Ron will make it?”

Harry sighs. “I hope so.”

It’s hard. She knows that technically Urquhart may be better than Thompson, but starting a whole new team from scratch is overwhelming. Knowing there is at least one person who is already up to speed is a huge relief.

“You seem to have an abundance of Chasers to pick from,” he says, almost as if he understands her struggle.

She nods. “You can have Urquhart,” she jokes.

He leans into her, peering at her notebook. Ginny has to master to urge to slap her hand over the names. Goodness knows it will be common knowledge soon enough.

“Sibazaki, huh?” he says, looking at her Seeker choice.

Ginny instantly bristles. “I know she’s not the obvious choice.”

“No,” Harry agrees. “She isn’t.” His lips twist wryly. “I was really hoping you’d overlook her.”

It shouldn’t matter what Harry thinks, but for some reason she finds it strangely comforting. That someone else agrees that little Reiko Sibazaki has potential. “Scared of a little competition?” she teases.

Harry smiles, shaking his head. “Let’s be honest. Anyone would have to be an improvement over Malfoy.” He frowns then, like he’s thought of something bothersome.

“I don’t know, by the way,” Ginny says.

Harry turns to look at her in question.

“Why Draco isn’t playing,” she clarifies.

“Oh,” he says, something hard in his expression that she doesn’t particularly like.

“Why does it matter?” she asks, more curious than anything. She isn’t blind. She knows very well that Draco and Harry have always had an abiding hatred for one another. But Harry seems almost overly keen.

Harry considers her a long moment, his mouth opening, only to shut again, as if he’s changed his mind about something. “I suppose it doesn’t,” he eventually says.

She’s almost certain he’s lying.

Down on the pitch, the trials start. They watch the other team run through drills and quietly debate the merits of various players.

“Cho is still the obvious choice,” Ginny observes.

Harry doesn’t say anything, but his face does some sort of weird grimace.

One of the potential Beaters nearly brains himself with his own bat, and Ginny grimaces.

“Clearly the perfect choice,” Harry says.

Ginny huffs. “Certainly would make our lives easier,” she agrees.

One thing becomes perfectly clear as the trials continue—Ravenclaw is going to be a fast team.

Ginny and Harry share a look, knowing they both have their work cut out for them.

* * *

The next week, Snape takes great joy in telling all of them how miserable their tests were. He doesn’t seem to care that it was one they didn’t get to study for, or that it came after a long summer with no classes. Instead he institutes a condensed remedial crash course, with a promise of another test at the end of the month.

“And this one I will not be so sanguine about,” he warns them.

Like everyone else, Ginny received a failing grade on the test, even if she may have gotten some parts wrong on purpose. Still, Snape somehow seems to know that Ginny, Smita, and Tobias are much further ahead of the rest of the class. He never singles them out, but neither does he look surprised when they are able to do a spell the rest of the class flubs.

One day during a chaotic practicum class, Snape approaches her.

“I hear you can produce a Patronus,” he says, and she understands with certainty that he knows the part she played in the DA.

“Not a corporeal one, sir,” she says, realizing there is no point in lying. “I never quite managed that.”

“I see,” he says, lips twitching. He moves on to the next student before she can be stupid enough to ask what exactly he thinks he sees.

Potions is also proving to be interesting, but for completely different reasons. Smita has always been competent, but her new ease in Potions is something far more. Ginny isn’t the only one to notice, Slughorn coming over to peer into her glistening cauldron.

Smita blinks, looking a little vacant. “Ginny taught me everything I know,” she lies through her teeth.

Ginny turns to look at her in surprise, but Smita just stares innocently back at her.

“Not just a Quidditch phenom then, Miss Weasley?” Slughorn says, actually clapping his hands with glee.

Ginny gives Slughorn a strained smile, knowing nothing she could say would make a difference. Slughorn loves nothing more than to be proven correct about his ‘collections’.

“Better you than me,” Smita mutters under her breath as Slughorn moves on to the next desk.

“You are hanging out with Tobias way too much,” Ginny complains.

Smita gives her a look she can’t quite interpret and turns back to her cauldron.

* * *

Saturday morning, Ginny watches the Gryffindor trials. Her first clue that something is amiss is the sheer amount of people waiting on the pitch. For the Slytherin trials she’s had the fairly good turnout of sixteen people.

There have to be at least forty people there for the Gryffindor trials.

Harry walks out onto the pitch, coming to a confused stop when he sees the crowd. Ginny realizes what this all about almost the same time Harry seems to, his cheeks burning red, an equal mix of embarrassment and anger.

It’s an utter mad house, full of giggling girls and people more interested in The Chosen One than Quidditch.

Harry seems in no way equipped to deal with this, ineffectually trying to gain control of the crowd. At one point he glances over in her direction, panic clear on his face, and Ginny just laughs.

It takes him a while to get rid of the girls who aren’t even in Gryffindor, shooing them back up into the stands. She hears more than one whisper behind her about love potions and the Chosen One. Ginny rolls her eyes.

The rest of the trials run without much incidence besides Cormac McLaggen uncharacteristically losing focus and letting a perfectly easy shot through the goal. It’s a relief though, because it means that Ron gets to keep his position as Keeper. Ginny’s glad for her brother and for Harry.

After lunch are the Hufflepuff trials. Harry comes to sit by her again, warily eying some of the girls still sitting in the stands behind them.

“You should watch who goes near your pumpkin juice,” Ginny says helpfully.

Harry sighs.

It’s late by the time Ginny makes it up to the castle. Shoveling some food in her mouth, she goes up to the library to knock out one of her essays.

When she finally drags herself back up to the dorms, it’s dark and silent. She pauses by Smita’s bed, but doesn’t hear anything other than soft steady breathing.

She turns for her own bed.

* * *

The end of the third week of school, Slughorn hosts his first dinner party for what people are calling the Slug Club. Ginny objects to that name on many levels.

She still doesn’t really feel like she can say no though, so when the appointed time comes, she braces herself for an evening of awkwardness and promptly arrives at Slughorn’s rooms. Unsurprisingly, they are large and well packed with comfortable-looking furniture and shelves of photographs and fine objects, like one giant showroom. A long table set with linens and candles and china sits to one side.

The first person she sees is Hermione. Ginny isn’t surprised to see she’s been added to the group. It’s not like Slughorn could fail to notice the smartest witch of the age when she’s right in front of him. Even he isn’t that dense.

Hermione looks very relieved to see Ginny. “I’m glad you’re here. I hated coming alone!”

“No Harry?” Ginny asks. Slughorn must be crestfallen to not have his crowning jewel here.

Hermione shakes his head. “Detention with Professor Snape.”

Ginny raises an eyebrow at that, but Hermione just waves it away. “Still can’t keep his mouth shut around him.”

Ginny snorts. Glancing around the room, she notices a few other absences from the original group on the train. Belby, which isn’t a surprise. And Neville, which is.

“No Neville either?” Ginny asks.

Hermione shakes her head. “I don’t think he was invited.”

Ginny grimaces. She knows how nervous Neville can get under pressure. Social pressure that is, not real pressure. She remembers far too well how much he kept it together in the Department of Mysteries. Slughorn clearly hadn’t been able to see the difference.

The door opens, and Ginny is surprised to see Antonia walk in with a tall boy in Ravenclaw robes. Not because Antonia isn’t worth watching. Ginny has always thought so. This just doesn’t seem like the sort of thing Antonia would be interested in.

Slughorn appears then, ushering a fourth year Ravenclaw towards them. “Miss Weasley, Miss Granger, so nice of you to come. Do you know Melinda Bobbin?”

Melinda Bobbin, it turns out, is charming, in much the same way a hippogriff is charming right before it eats you. Ginny stays just long enough to be polite and then carefully gives the Ravenclaw a wide berth, moving around the room to greet Antonia.

“Smart move,” the handsome Ravenclaw standing with Antonia observes as Ginny joins them.

Ginny gives him a look of confusion.

“Melinda,” he clarifies. “She’s brilliantly ruthless.” He says this like a compliment. One thing you have to admire about Ravenclaws, they never play dumb.

“And you’re not?” she asks, finding something about him inexplicably disarming.

He gives her a one sided smile that only renders him more handsome. “I’m ruthlessly brilliant. It’s quite a different thing all together.”

She isn’t entirely sure he isn’t teasing her.

He holds out a hand. “Lucas.”

Ginny takes it. “Ginny.”

He nods. “Yes. Antonia’s little project,” he says.

Antonia’s serene expression doesn’t slip. “That’s your problem, Lucas. You see everything as a project.”

He shrugs. “Not sure how that’s a problem. What is life but one endless experiment?”

Antonia gives him an indulgent smile Ginny has rarely ever seen her use on anyone. “Some of us just call them friends.”

At that pronouncement, the dinner chime sounds, and they all find seats at the table.

* * *

Ginny hadn’t been relieved exactly when neither Crabbe nor Goyle showed up for tryouts. If they’d proven to be the best candidates, she could have worked with them. She knows how to put the team first. But they’d chosen not to come, and her Beaters are just fine if not better, so she doesn’t give it much thought.

Only then the two thugs start spreading it around that the only reason they hadn’t tried out was because they didn’t want to be on a losing team. And with Ginny as captain, how could they be anything but losers?

It’s stupid and childish and most people well know Ginny’s skill on the Quidditch pitch. That doesn’t stop it from working its way under her skin.

She may be a good Chaser, but what does she really know about being captain?

Their first practice does not exactly go brilliantly. Which, fine. They’re a new team after all.

But then the second and third and fourth aren’t any better.

She snaps at Reiko. Calls Vaisey an idiot. They just are not gelling.

Thompson really looks like he wants to say something, and sure enough, he lingers after practice. “You’re scaring Reiko,” he accuses, like he can handle her being awful at being captain, but not upsetting Reiko.

“Reiko’s fine,” she says.

He shakes his head. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

“How terrifying you are.”

She starts to laugh, assuming he’s taking the mickey, but then she sees his face and knows he’s serious. “What in Merlin’s name are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Ginny Weasley,” he says, tone endlessly patient. “Heir of Slytherin, Quidditch captain, cunning and ruthless Parlor Girl.”

Ginny automatically shakes her head. No one remembers the Chamber of Secrets debacle, surely. Plenty of people have been Quidditch captain without being feared. And as for The Parlor… Theodora had been terrifying. Antonia too, in her own way. But Ginny is nothing like either of them. She’s just a bumbling girl who rarely has any idea what she is doing. Can’t Thompson see that?

He’s still staring at her intently, as if waiting for her to work it all out for herself.

“You don’t look scared of me,” she says dismissively, trying to get him to realize just how wrong he is.

His lips purse with something that looks almost like disappointment. “Then you aren’t looking carefully enough.”

Before she can respond to that, he turns and walks off.

Ginny is left standing in the middle of the pitch, very aware of the agitated hum of her broom under her hand, like it’s reacting to the rumble of feelings building up in side of her. Hopping up on it, she streaks up into the sky.

She flies hard and fast and recklessly until she can feel sweat on her neck, her fingers going numb from her grip on the handle.

Glancing down, she notices a lone figure standing in the middle of the pitch, watching her progress. With one last tight, fast ring around the stands, Ginny pulls up and lands on the grass.

She takes a deep breath, trying to rein in her still thundering thoughts before walking over to Harry. “I’m sorry,” she says as she nears him, forcing an apologetic smile as she wipes the sweat off her face. “It must be your pitch time by now.”

He waves away her concern. “I’m early.”

She nods, knowing he’s probably just being polite. Or possibly terrified, if Thompson is right. “I’ll just get out of your way.”

He’s frowning at her, his hand reaching awkwardly out as if to stop her. “Are you okay?”

She intends to say yes, to just lie and move past him, but she’s stopping and confessing before she’s even aware of the intent. “I’m messing this all up.”

Harry looks as surprised by the confession as she is to have said it, but doesn’t give her a disdainful look or automatically dismiss her worry like she’s being silly. Instead he gives her an intent, serious look and says, “You mean Quidditch?”

She nods. “Being captain. I’m just…I’m terrible. Someone’s made a really big mistake.”

Harry shakes his head. “You’ve always been brilliant at Quidditch.”

She gives him a weak smile. “That doesn’t mean I know anything about leading a team.”

He nods as if conceding the point. “I doubt anyone does when they first start,” he says. “I know I don’t have a clue.”

“Reduced any of your players to tears?” she asks.

She sees a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “No. But Ron was pretty close once.”

She gives him a mirthless smile.

“What’s going on?” he asks, like he actually cares and isn’t just humoring her.

“They are all good players. It’s just not…” She gestures helplessly.

“Coming together?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

Harry gives her a bracing smile. “It’s early, and you have almost an entirely new squad.”

She nods, knowing these are the logical facts. It’s just a matter of what she’s supposed to do with them. She bites at one of her nails, running everything through her head for what feels like the millionth time. “I bet Flint never would have picked Bassenthwaite and Graham in the first place. And I know Bletchley probably would have--.”

“Stop,” Harry says, cutting her off.

She turns to him in surprise.

For once he doesn’t seem sheepish or thrown, leaning towards her, his hands gesturing intently. “You can’t do that. You can’t spend all your time thinking what Flint or Bletchley would have done. You aren’t them.”

She sighs. Isn’t that the problem?

“Look, I know it’s hard. I find myself wondering that sometimes too. But I’m captain now, not them. And I’ll never be able to be them as well as they were. But I can be me better than anyone.” He frowns, as if thinking back over what he had said. “If that makes any sense at all.”

Ginny wants to smile at his muddled explanation, but she can’t because it makes too much sense. “I have to do what Ginny would do,” she says, something beginning to work itself back into place in her stomach.

“Yes,” he says with a brilliant smile, clearly glad to see that she’s following. “You were picked to be Captain. So do it your way.”

“And if I don’t have a way?”

He pats her arm. “If anyone can figure it out, it’s you, Ginny.”

She’s bizarrely touched by his confidence. “Are you sure you should be helping out the enemy like this?” she jokes. He probably would have been better off letting her crash and burn.

His smiles slips, his eyes intent on her for a moment. “You aren’t my enemy.”

They stare at each other, and Ginny has the bizarre thought that Harry doesn’t seem terrified of her, no matter how closely she looks. She lightly punches him in the shoulder. “Maybe not, but I’m still going to crush you in the first match.”

Harry blinks, recovering quickly with a big smile. “In your dreams.”

“Oi,” someone bellows behind them. They turn to see Ron walk onto the pitch. “No talking to the enemy.”

Harry and Ginny look at each other and burst into laughter.

“What are you two berks laughing about?” Ron asks.

“Oh, just your face,” Ginny says carelessly.

Ron makes a rude gesture.

Ginny shakes her head, turning back to Harry. “Thank you,” she says.

He shrugs. “Anytime.”

She hefts her broom and makes to leave the pitch, only to pause. “Ron?”

“Yeah?” he asks, looking back over his shoulder at her.

“Am I terrifying?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Absolutely.”

For some reason she can’t explain, that makes her smile.

* * *

Determined to fix things, Ginny decides to start with Reiko. She still doesn’t know how to be captain, but she can start by acknowledging that what she’s been doing so far isn’t working. Mainly, pretending she knows exactly what she’s doing and not being willing to show any weakness.

She wonders if a little honesty might go a long way.

Spying the younger girl in the common room, Ginny walks over to her. “Rieko?”

Sure enough, when Reiko jerks around to look at her, there is definitely fear in her eyes. “Yes?” she asks, her whole body seeming to straighten in attention.

Ginny bites back any irritation, keeping her face neutral. “Do you have a little time?”

Reiko’s eyes widen. “Right now?”

“Yeah,” Ginny says. “If that’s okay.”

Reiko nods, jumping to her feet. “Of course. Do I need my broom?”

Ginny shakes her head. “I thought maybe we could walk down to the lake.”

If anything, this just makes Reiko look even more discomforted. “Oh, okay.”

They don’t really say anything as Ginny leads her out of the castle. Ginny’s just trying to work her mind around what to say.

Reiko is the first one to snap, breaking the heavy silence. “I know I’m not improving as fast as you’d like,” she blurts, hands wringing in front of her. “But if I could just have one more chance—.”

Ginny holds an arm out to stop her, frowning at the panic on her face. “Reiko. What are you talking about?”

“You’re kicking me off the squad, aren’t you?” she asks, looking miserable.

Ginny sighs, feeling stupid not to have considered how Reiko might take this sudden attempt at a heart to heart. “No, Reiko. I am not kicking you off the squad.”

“Oh,” she says, looking nonplussed. “Then what?”

Ginny shakes her head and starts down towards the lake again. “Apparently I’m screwing this up as much as I’ve screwed everything up.”

Reiko jogs a little to catch up, looking at Ginny a little like she’s just sprouted a second head. “What do you mean?”

“Look. I’ve never been captain before, and honestly, I have no idea what I’m doing. I think maybe I’ve been taking that out on you and it really isn’t fair. I brought you out here to tell you that I’m sorry,” Ginny says. “I hope you’ll be able to forgive me.”

Reiko looks horrified. “I’m the one who’s been messing up!”

Ginny wants to grimace. “No, you haven’t. You’re learning. You’ve had a lot thrown at you really fast and you’re doing a great job.”

“Really?” Reiko says, looking so heartbreakingly hopeful.

“Really,” Ginny says, thinking she should be sure to say so more often. She’s just not used to considering the effect her words have on others. But maybe that’s a big part of being a leader.

Down at the edge of the lake, Ginny turns to look at Reiko straight on. “I was hoping… Maybe we can learn together?”

Reiko stares back at her for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. I think we could do that.”

It’s a start.

* * *

The door to the Transfiguration classroom opens with a bang, sixth year students pouring out into the hall. Ginny moves into a slightly better position to watch, careful to still be mostly out of the way. She catches sight of her brother first, his red hair easy to spot in the crowd. He’s currently arguing with Hermione about something, Harry trailing slightly behind.

He glances over, smiling slightly when he notices her. She holds his gaze and cants her head to the door behind her, an unspoken question. His eyes widen a bit as he glances around, but he nods in response. Ginny only lingers long enough to see him say something to Ron and Hermione before stepping into the empty classroom behind her.

“Ginny?” he says, stepping inside and glancing around the room.

“Here,” she says.

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

She waves a hand. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

“Okay.” He looks a little confused, and she can’t really blame him for that. It’s not like she seeks him out very often. If ever.

“Look,” Ginny says. “I know I have no right to ask you this, and you should totally feel free to say no.”

Harry raises an eyebrow at her. “Say no to what?”

She starts pacing across the front of the room. “The thing is, I’m a good Chaser. I’ve spent a lot of time studying the position. And I’m pretty comfortable with the role of Keeper too because of that. And Beaters too, more or less.” She pulls a face. “But the thing is…I don’t really know anything about the Seeker position.” She stops, turning to look at him. “And I thought…Harry.”

He still looks a bit confused, but far more relaxed, a smile playing at his lips. “You want my help with understanding the Seeker position.”

“Yes,” she says. “I thought maybe you could recommend a book or something, or maybe some famous games to study.”

“A book?” he asks, like that is the craziest thing he’s ever heard.

“Yeah, you know, pages with words bound together?” she asks, miming a book opening with her hands.

He ignores her sarcasm (a sure sign that he has been hanging out with the Weasley clan far too much). “I never really studied it like that,” he says.

She frowns. “You didn’t?”

Harry shakes his head like it had never occurred to him. “Wood just gave me some basic pointers. The rest is just…instinct, I guess.”

“Oh,” Ginny says, not sure what to do with that. “Then I guess I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“Maybe there’s some other way I can help.”

“Like what?” she asks. Instinct isn’t really something you can share.

He looks thoughtful for a moment. “Well, I could answer any questions you have. Or talk to Reiko.”

He’s being very helpful. Almost too helpful. “Why would you do that?” she asks, peering suspiciously at him.

Harry look amused. “Are you trying to talk me out of it?”

“No,” she draws out. “It’s just…”

“What?”

She blows out a breath. “It doesn’t really serve your interests.”

He stares back at her like this is something he hadn’t even considered. “It doesn’t?”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s one thing not to be enemies, Harry. It’s another to ignore the fact that we are going to play against each other in a few weeks.”

Harry shrugs. “Ron says I have a helping people thing.” He says that like it’s something he’s completely comfortable with. Helping other people even when it costs him something.

“Somedays,” Ginny says, shaking her head, “you Gryffindor are completely unfathomable to me.”

Harry laughs. “Believe me, the feeling is mutual.”

She pokes her tongue out at him, but refuses to be derailed from the real topic at hand. “So what are we talking about here? A couple of pointers?”

“Sure,” he says. “Why don’t we all meet down at the pitch sometime?”

That is far beyond anything Ginny had expected. “Seriously?”

He shrugs. “Maybe Thursday before breakfast?”

That early there would be no one around to see, and this sign that Harry isn’t completely unaware of the implications of what he’s doing makes her feel slightly less uncomfortable.

“Okay,” Ginny says.

"Great,” he says, moving towards the door. “I’ve gotta go before Ron and Hermione wonder if I got lost.”

“Sure,” Ginny says.

She watches him walk away, but still can’t quite shake the feeling that she’s taking advantage of him somehow.

"Harry,” she says, thinking fast.

He stops, turning back to look at her. “Yeah?”

“Tell Demelza she might find Sun Tzu’s Art of War an interesting read. I have a copy if she’d like to borrow it.” Katie Bell may be the Gryffindor Chaser with experience, but Demelza is the one with real potential. “And tell her to stop leading with her shoulder. It makes it way too obvious where she plans to shoot.”

Harry’s surprise morphs into something flinty and thoughtful that Ginny is frankly much more comfortable with. He nods. “I’ll be sure to do that. See you Thursday?”

“Yeah,” she says, watching him leave.

Now she just has to convince Reiko.

* * *

Getting Reiko out of bed and down to the pitch at the crack of dawn turns out to be the easy part. She’s disgustingly eager to eat, breathe, and sleep Quidditch, which is just another thing Ginny likes about her. The challenge comes when she catches sight of just who is waiting for them, broom in hand.

“Why is Harry Potter here?” she asks, voice automatically hostile as if she assumes he is spying on them.

“I asked him to come,” Ginny says.

Reiko’s eyes widen like Ginny has just told her she is going to wrestle a troll. “Why in Merlin’s name would you do that?”

Ginny wills herself to be patient and points out the obvious. “He’s a really great Seeker."

Reiko crosses her arms over her chest. “Bully for him.”

“Reiko,” Ginny says, voice chastising. “If you want to be a great Seeker, this is your chance. I can’t help you on my own.”

Reiko is still frowning. “How do we know he won’t just mess with me? You know, give me bad advice?”

Ginny smiles. “He’s a Gryffindor,” she reminds her. “It would probably never even occur to him to lie.” Or at least he never would have said yes in the first place.

“True,” Reiko admits, finally looking a little mollified.

“Come on. He’s doing me a big favor. So listen well and be nice.”

Reiko nods, but still looks a bit like she’s being led to the gallows.

To be honest, Ginny still isn’t sure herself why Harry agreed to do this. But watching him with Reiko, the way he looks so comfortable talking about something he clearly loves, it reminds her of the DA. She wonders if maybe Harry is missing it too.

He really is a great teacher. He’s patient and never condescending, and even Reiko seems grudgingly willing to admit that she learned a lot in the short half hour they spend together.

“Thanks, Harry,” Reiko says when they’re done, shaking his hand.

“Sure,” Harry says, smiling at her.

Reiko heads up towards the castle, pausing when Ginny doesn’t immediately follow.

“I’ll catch up with you,” Ginny says, waving her on.

“Sure,” Reiko says, looking between the two of them. “See you later.”

Once Reiko is gone, Ginny turns and smiles at Harry. “That was…really great. Thanks so much for doing this.”

Harry’s staring down at his feet, suddenly looking awkward. “No problem,” he says.

She touches his arm. “Seriously. It means a lot.” On impulse, she leans in and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. She pulls back, giving him an embarrassed smile. “See you later.”

She moves as if to go back up the castle, but his hand on her arm stops her. “Ginny.”

“Yeah?” she asks, turning back to look at him. There’s an expression on his face that inexplicably makes her want to squirm. She forces herself to stand still and wait.

Then he swallows, his hand dropping from her arm, and it’s like the expression had never been there at all. “Maybe I could run some ideas by you for helping Demelza sometime?”

She forces herself not to frown at him in confusion, instead conjuring up a neutral smile. “Of course. Anytime. ”

Harry shoves his hands in his pocket. “Great.”

“Bye,” Ginny says, trying to shake the feeling that she’s not so much walking up to the castle as fleeing.

* * *

By early October, Quidditch practices finally start coming together and Ginny isn’t the only one to notice.

Thompson sidles up to her as they walk off the pitch, nudging her with his elbow. “I’m glad you finally figured it out.”

She glances sideways at him. “Figured out what?”

“That you’re brilliant at Quidditch and the perfect choice for captain.”

Ginny still isn’t so certain. But she’s trying. Harry had been right after all, she’s much better off trying to find her own way to do this than chasing the impossible aim of being like her predecessors. If she’s going to crash and burn, she wants to do it as herself.

Thompson is still watching her face, shaking his head as if he can read her thoughts. “You just get too stuck in your head sometimes.”

With that observation, he makes for the castle, leaving her staring after him.

In the evenings, Ginny makes a habit of catching Caroline and Astoria as they leave the Great Hall after dinner. With a little effort, Astoria is happy to talk about her music, but Caroline is quiet as always. It’s enough to make Ginny wonder what happened to that eager first year girl who had looked at Ginny like she was a Quidditch hero.

Back in the common room, Ginny follows then down into The Parlor for the rest of the evening. When Ginny isn’t talking to the other girls, she’s almost obsessively reading up on strategy, studying books on all of the Quidditch positions, paying close attention to the Seeker position to build upon what she learned from Harry. Usually by the time she goes back upstairs, the common room is empty, her dorm room still and dark.

“You know,” Antonia says one evening. “The Parlor means many things to many people, but most don’t just use it as a place to hide.”

Ginny looks up from her book. “I’m not--.”

Antonia cuts her off with an eloquent look. Go ahead and fool yourself, it seems to say, but don’t assume I’m that stupid.

Ginny sighs, sinking back into her chair. There is a reason she is down here all the time these days.

And it has nothing to do with Quidditch.

* * *

Charms is barely controlled chaos as always, the room surprisingly loud with the sounds of complaining crows considering they are supposed to be mastering silencing charms.

She looks out the window. The leaves are starting to turn, and Ginny sits there thinking that it’s been four weeks and she still hasn’t had a serious conversation with Smita. Ginny glances across the room where Smita is sitting with Tobias and Terry Boot.

“Have you ever just known you’ve screwed something up, but didn’t know what to do about it?” Ginny asks.

Across from her, Luna twitches her wand, the crow in front of them going mute halfway through a caw. The crow stomps its foot, trying again, its mouth open and neck straining, but nothing coming out. Ginny can relate.

Luna remains concentrated on the task for so long, Ginny begins to assume she isn’t going get an answer.

Then Luna sort of owlishly blinks over at Ginny. “If you already know what you did wrong, why don’t you just fix it?”

With another jab of her wand, the spell lifts.

The crow screeches at Ginny in a way that feels accusatory.

“Oh, shut up,” she mutters.

* * *

It takes three more days for Ginny to gather her nerve. But on Sunday morning she marches straight up to Smita at breakfast and says, “Will you walk down to the lake with me?”

Smita looks surprised, fork stopping halfway to her mouth.

“Just the two of us,” Ginny clarifies, sliding a look at Tobias when he opens his mouth. He snaps it back shut, not looking so much offended as wary.

Smita is still staring rather contemplatively at her half-eaten meal.

“Please,” Ginny says, because having come this far, she doesn’t really care how pathetic she looks.

“Okay,” Smita says, carefully folding her napkin in even thirds. “Twenty minutes?”

Ginny nods. “I’ll meet you by the main entrance.”

Less than half an hour later, they are walking down to the lake together, and it’s even more awkward than Ginny thought it would be. Gathering her nerve, she knows there is only one way to do this.

“What have you been up to?” Ginny asks in a rush.

Smita shrugs, and for a moment Ginny thinks she’s just going to foist her off with some vague answer about homework. But instead she takes a deep breath and blurts, “I’m helping Madam Pomfrey,” as if this is something she has been holding back for far too long.

This is not what Ginny expected to hear. “What?”

Smita nods, her cheeks burning slightly red. “I spent a lot of time at St. Mungo’s over the summer.”

Ginny is more than aware of that, the tight feeling in her chest again.

Smita pushes on, her words gaining in momentum. “I learned a lot, at first because I just wanted to know what was happening and later because I was bored. But I was surprised how interesting it all is.” She shakes her head, as if she finds herself a little ridiculous. “I just feel like I finally found my thing, you know?”

Those are probably the most words Ginny has every heard Smita say at once, and that, more than anything, is telling.

Ginny hasn’t been able to see past the marks of illness on Smita. How has she missed the obvious light in her eyes? How alive she looks? Or was she just being dumb, assuming this was all about Tobias?

Smita’s never been a bad student, nor a particularly great student. Just rather indifferent except the few cases where it served her interests. But now Ginny sees it, that spark that marks a passion.

It explains a lot. Why she dropped Muggle Studies, where she spends all her free time, her sudden aptitude for potions. Ginny stops, turning to look at Smita straight on.

“I wanted to tell you,” Smita says.

Ginny knows she never gave her the chance. “I am so sorry I never wrote.”

Smita looks away. “Why didn’t you?"

Ginny shakes her head. “I just didn’t know what to say.” She thinks at the very least, Smita deserves the whole truth. “I couldn’t find a g