It had been tough, she wasn’t going to lie—tough, and nerve-wracking, and she was sure the after-taste of Mandrake leaf was going to cling to her palate for the rest of her life. The magical exercises, the guided meditations that she’d gone through, and the mental training had all been exhausting and absolutely draining. But she was here, after nearly a year of preparation, on the cusp of a breakthrough and she’d be damned if she was going to stop now, no matter what the consequences might be. St. Mungo’s was on stand-by in case something went terribly wrong, but Ginny was convinced she wouldn’t need them. She knew she could do this and she could pull it off without a hitch. She had that excited feeling of anticipation welling up in her stomach; a sensation she was all too familiar with. It was the same one she used to feel before a Quidditch match, the same one she had gotten when she was accepted into the Auror training program, and it was the same feeling that had flooded her body on her wedding day. She was determined to join the very small ranks of Animagi because she had a job to do and she was going to do it so bloody well.
She squared her shoulders and threw a glance at the mirrored glass window spanning the entirety of one wall of the small white room. The last of her coworkers trickled from the room, each patting her on the shoulder with a half-whispered “Good luck” as they left her, standing dead center. She rolled her head, feeling each individual crack and pop before facing the window head-on. She flashed a small smile, thinking of her husband, who was probably driving everyone on the other side of the glass absolutely mad with his fretting, though they wouldn’t recognize it as such. He had to be pitching a fit over not being allowed into the room with her. She was sure her boss was itching to throw him out — her superior had a tendency to assume that Draco was all too prone to throwing tantrums — and at the very least, she was expecting him to have been hexed at least twice before this was all over. She knew it wasn’t a lack of faith in her that was causing him to fret like a mother hen or that he doubted her in the slightest, but she knew that he hated not being in control of a situation. Helpless was not a good look on him.
It didn’t help that the Ministry always brought out his rebellious streak. She could see him now, using his great height to tower over the rest of the room and demanding a full accounting of all the safety measures that had been taken on her behalf and refusing to think that they were in any way good enough.
That always brought a smile to Ginny’s face. She found his stubborn contrariness maddening and exasperating, but it was somehow endearing to know that it was on her behalf.
Closing her eyes, she let those thoughts slip away, forcefully tucking away the ones that wouldn’t leave on their own — like the memory of his face and the slight wrinkle of worry marring his forehead this morning as he’d pulled her in for a heated kiss just down the street from the Ministry building. She could still remember the vivid contrast between the warmth of his breath and the icy wind as he’d forcefully whispered “Be safe” against her neck. The memory sent shivers down her spine. But she couldn’t think about that now, couldn’t afford the lapse in concentration, so she pictured herself locking the memory away in a safe place.
Instead, she concentrated on cataloging her own traits: red hair, brown eyes, pert nose that curved up just a little at the tip. Fierce, despite her size. Sneaky and clever — she’d proven that enough during the course of her marriage, not to mention life with the twins. “Subversively, deceptively cute”, Draco often said. Curious. Deeply devoted to those she loved. Feisty. Unafraid of a challenge. Bolder than she should be, at times. Playful, always ready to laugh.
She thought briefly of her Patronus—the great white horse she was so familiar with—so free, with fine-boned delicate limbs and a well defined, distinguished face. She was suddenly glad that her supervisor had insisted that she enchant her clothing to be a part of the transformation earlier, as she knew that the current thinking said that she would take on the same form as her Patronus. She didn’t relish the thought of turning back into herself but completely starkers in front of the waiting audience. She huffed a laugh and brought her mind around again, picturing herself as a blood-bay Arabian this time, all long limbs and dramatic coloring. She gathered herself, reaching deep within to grasp at her magic, feeling the way it twisted and writhed inside, sensing a certain inherent mischievous quality to it.
One last deep breath.
She surrendered herself to the magic, closing her eyes and whispering the incantation. A queer feeling was beginning under her skin as memories began flashing through her mind, completely of their own accord. Fred and George, sending her to sneak biscuits from the kitchen. Bellatrix, wand slashing through the air, but her own courage rising regardless and throwing off the fear in the face of death. Draco, dear Draco, smirking and tousling her hair as he dubbed her “the least of the Weasels”.
A sudden shift — and shrinking , surely that couldn’t be right! — a tightness to her face, a disturbing popping noise, and then she was laying face down on the floor, completely disoriented. It vaguely registered that there were whiskers attached to her nose now and she wiggled them experimentally as she picked herself up onto all fours. Huh. Her face was terribly close to the ground, and she felt, well, small. Smaller than usual, anyway. That was odd. So her Animagus form definitely wasn’t a horse then, a detached part of her mind observed. She wriggled around, trying to see her back half, and then she remembered the mirrored glass. She scampered over clumsily, not used to the effort that it took to coordinate four limbs at once. When she caught sight of her own face, her little jaw dropped comically, exposing a line of wickedly sharp, tiny teeth.
“This has to be some kind of joke,” she attempted to say, but all that came out was an indignant squeak followed by insensible chattering. This couldn’t be true — she couldn’t be a weasel, of all things! But her reflection stared right back at her.
Well, at least she was a cute weasel, some part of her observed, taking in the rounded little ears perched upon her head, her dark chestnut coloring — just darker than her natural hair color — the creamy white stripe that ran from her chin all the way to her belly, and her inquisitive dark eyes. And then the mirror suddenly disappeared, to be replaced by a huge pair of terribly expensive Italian leather loafers. And then the mirror was back in its place and the lock on the door clicked into place, leaving her alone with the man who loved to torment her the most.
Oh, no. Nononono no . She was never going to live this down now! She was going to die of abject humiliation every time he brought it up, and oh, was this ever too good of ammunition to resist popping out with, probably at every introduction at every dinner party for the rest of her life! She could just hear it now, the way he’d oh so glibly bring it up: “Have you met my wife? She’s a weasel — I mean Weasley, I believe you know the family.” Oh, and he was going to make such bad cracks about the Burrow now!
She felt a firm hand scooping her up, pulling her into the air, and she was struck by a certain sense of overwhelmed powerlessness. Ginny found herself abruptly grateful for the fur covering every inch of her body. At least her humiliated blush wouldn’t be showing now. But that didn’t stop her from chittering angrily as her husband brought her to his eye level.
The deeply indented dimple in his left cheek meant that he was trying — and very hard, at that — not to burst into laughter. His wicked, crooked smirk was still fighting against his attempts to straighten his lips into a neutral expression. Ginny sighed, going limp. If he was going to take the mickey, it was better just to get it over with, at least until they got out of her workspace.
She eyed Draco warily as he ran one thumb over the plush fur covering her head and fingered her left paw, his eyes going soft now. Her head cocked to the left and her forehead wrinkled briefly in question. Draco gave a soft huff of laughter. “It’s so strange seeing your expressions on an animal. Though I do appreciate that you kept this,” he explained, tapping her paw. She looked down sharply, surprised to see a white ring of fur on the toe — or was it finger? — where her wedding ring had been. A part of her heart melted into sappy goop at the thought that he hadn’t immediately gotten in a jab at her expense, though he was most certainly thinking of one.
And then the door flew open. Her boss stood in the door frame, glaring pointedly at Draco. “Are you quite finished assessing your wife’s condition?” he growled out. Draco wasn’t in the least intimidated by the man’s gruff tone.
“No, I don’t think I am, actually. I’ll be staying with her for the rest of the assessment, medical and otherwise,” he drawled. Ginny lightly bit down on his finger in warning. If he managed to get her fired by smarting off to the wrong person…
Ginny’s boss waved the rest of his contingent inside. A steel top table appeared from the tip of someone’s wand and Draco reluctantly handed her over to a white-robed aide for the appropriate poking, prodding, and otherwise unpleasant meddling. Draco smirked at Ginny from across the room as the Registrar for the Office of Animagi Registration grumbled unpleasantly to himself. “Goes against all the current research, not matching her Patronus,” he sniffed haughtily. “She’s an aberration, but I’m afraid that won’t prevent her from registering with the office,” he added disdainfully.
He poked Ginny again with the end of his pencil. She bared her teeth at the writing instrument and chattered an angry warning. “Mark her species as Least Weasel.” A deeply amused chuckle echoed from Draco’s corner of the room. Ginny glared, which was terribly ineffectual, given her diminutive form.
The old man droned on. “Distinctive marking is a thin white band on the fourth toe of the left front paw,” he instructed his assistant, who snapped a photo and scribbled away diligently.
Hours later, after Ginny had popped back and forth between forms at least ten times (“Absolutely dizzying,” she would later admit) and had been prodded and examined to within an inch of her life, she was free to go. Draco was surprisingly quiet, only chuckling to himself now and again as he escorted her out of the office. This only made Ginny scowl more deeply. It was only when they had made it out to the surface streets that he pulled her close in a one-armed embrace, tucking her under his chin and kissing her hair softly.
“Proud of you,” he murmured, a laugh still hiding in the timbre of his voice.
“Oh, just say it. I know you’re dying to!” she cried, seizing the lapel of his coat and burying her face in his scarf so he couldn’t see the violently red blush staining her entire face.
He struggled to reign in his laughter as she burrowed into his chest. “Oh, so now I’m not allowed to be proud of my own wife? After all, there are only seven other witches or wizards who’ve managed to become registered Animagi and are still alive.” He chucked Ginny gently under the chin, forcing her to meet his eyes, before dropping his voice and whispering in her ear, “And if I’m remembering my Romans correctly, it was Pliny the Elder who wrote that the Least Weasel was the only animal who could kill a basilisk. Seems fitting, given what you’ve survived. “
And then he completely ruined the moment by leering and taking a sly tone, “But if you’re going to insist on thinking that I have an ulterior motive, maybe it’s just that I want you to be in a good mood when we get home. Celebrate with some champagne, go upstairs,” he paused dramatically, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe play a little ‘Pop goes the Weasel’?”
“You are never, ever allowed to use that line again,” Ginny laughed, pummeling his shoulder soundly.
Draco pulled Ginny back in close, kissing her soundly. A crooked, roguish smile appeared on his face. “That’s fine, I’ve got plenty more. A whole lifetime’s worth,” he promised, as Ginny melted against him.
Well, coming from him, maybe a lifetime of teasing wasn’t such a bad thing.