four
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
EARLY JUNE, 1999
For the third night in a row that week, Ginny finds herself on the Quidditch pitch, on a stolen Firebolt. She’s grown use to the temperamental nature of a broom that she’s only ever read about in magazines; the slight kick before you push the broom to its limit, the way this particular broom favours a left turn naturally, the limits that Richards pushed. She’s in the middle of some endurance drills when a burst of wind interrupts her fifth lap of the pitch. Malfoy.
“What do you want?” She shouts, her voice twisted this high up.
“Race?” He hollers back, aligning his broom with hers. A good ten metres between them, thankfully. She nods, tightening her grip on the handle. He signals the count down, and the second his last finger goes down, she’s off, bent straight over her broom to be as aerodynamite as possible or something. Hermione explained it earlier, but right now she’s concentrating on beating Malfoy, catching the currents that will speed her along fastest, marking the points where she can cut to the inner edge of the pitch to gain the upper hand.
She’s already stretched and ready from her warm up, so the cool night air does nothing to freeze up her limbs. Malfoy, on the other hand, didn’t seem to take this into account and balks at a particularly cold breeze Ginny harnesses to speed along. She finishes half a lap ahead, whooping.
Hermione looks up from the stands with an almost approving smile, though it’s hard for the Golden Girl to be approving when she’s breaking school rules every night. Malfoy descends, apparently having given up. Ginny watches, a pinprick in the sky amongst stars, as he takes a seat a few rows away from Hermione. The witch visibly stiffens, unbeknownst to the wizard. As far as Ginny knows, he has not apologised for anything. Even after Harry and Hermione testified on his behalf, securing him probation at Hogwarts. The reason why he sits in the stands is because of the witch behind him, and he’s too much of an ungrateful half-ass to say anything.
Ginny flies down and grabs the Quaffle, determined to work on her Chaser skills. She might be playing Chaser this coming Saturday, preferably Seeker, so her extra training as a Beater and Keeper will be put on a back burner. Having family members who have played nearly every Quidditch position imaginable means she’s picked up a lot from the four roles without actually playing all of them. Working on her reflexes with the Quaffle is easy, she simply enchants it with a spell she saw in Seeker Weekly to dart in and out of her reach. Of course, it’s not as perfect as having someone actually throw it to her, but it’s not like Hermione is going to come throw Quaffles at her or like she’s going to ask Draco bloody Malfoy, who - Ginny does a double take, nearly getting whacked in the face by the spelled Quaffle.
He’s moved backwards. Closer to Hermione.
Her eyes narrow, but he’s not doing anything suspicious. Yet. Though his entire existence is arguably suspicious, Hermione hasn’t noticed his change of place, entranced in her book. Returning to her drills, Ginny works through the set of exercises the Gryffindor Quidditch team had practiced before the war, though her passing will have to wait for game day. It’s more important that she dodges the invisible players and Bludgers and perfects the throw that will be too quick for the opposing Keeper to defend. An hour later, her arm aches, so she sets the Quaffle down and releases the Snitch.
Closing her eyes, Ginny allows the golden ball to flit away and hide itself. Ten seconds, she breathes in and out, calming her shaky breathing. Calm is not a word Quidditch is often associated with; probably why none of the magazines or books she’d scoured in the library after classes had gone into much depth about tactics other than brutal force, speed, and aim. Two of which she had nearly honed to perfection, the third a goal for the future. What mattered more to her as of now was her mental game. Tomorrow would be their first unofficial practice for the Slytherin-Gryffindor pairing, a true test of their abilities to…cooperate, is the best way she can put it. Malfoy muttered something earlier about being part of the Slytherin conglomerate, alongside Vaisey, and Harper, both regular idiots. On the Gryffindor side of things, she’d have Demelza Robins, Jimmy Peakes, and Ritchie Coote. Having played with all of them at some point, she’d have good fluency with at least half the team.
As a result, keeping her temper is more than crucial. She’s more than aware of her lasting impression on Hogwarts, a fun, but fiery, flirty piece of shit as quoted from one of her ex-boyfriends. Regardless, she’s found it harder to keep a lid on her outbursts recently. Being back at Hogwarts has only reminded her of all the time she spent with her brothers here, and it’s difficult to round a corner without remembering that Percy tripped on the staircase here, or that Ron walked into the wall over there, or even worse, Fred’s body laid on those bricks.
For a second, the Firebolt wavers under her control, jerking unnaturally. Shaking her head, Ginny launches off the field and searches in earnest for the Snitch to keep her mind from sneaking back to the past. It’s infinitely more difficult at night, waiting for a glint of gold to attract her attention. The main two strategies, strategies she forces her brain to go over again and again instead of revisiting her memories again and again, are typically defensive and offensive. The defensive Seeker strategy will find her using tactics to trick the opposing Seeker and prolonging the inevitable chase of the Snitch. A game of cat and mouse, Seeker and Seeker. The offensive strategy is usually ruled by desperation, when the points margin is slim. Everything goes out of the window in this case, but here is where she wishes to refine the so called strategy.
Everything about Quidditch she’s learnt since birth has been rough. Fantastic, yes, but brutish. The game is missing an edge to it that she’s desperate to refine. She releases a tight breath that smokes into a cloud in the night air. Fred and George used to pretend they were smoking cigars when they were younger, hosting a men’s lounge hundreds of feet up in the sky. They let Ginny join whenever she stole a spare broom, huffing out pathetic little puffs they always applauded. She’s about to rid herself of the memory when the Snitch does it for her, snatching her attention from behind a goal.
Dragging her into the distraction that only Quidditch can offer, and pulling her under.
—
“Seeker.” Harper calls immediately, shouldering past both Ginny and Malfoy’s opinions literally and physically.
“I’d actually—”
The words are barely out of her mouth when Vaisey, a Slytherin, interrupts her. “Did anyone ask for your opinion? Just because you’re Potter’s bitch doesn’t mean you can go around saying whatever you like.”
Harper adds on gleefully, “And if you please, refer to me as Captain from now on.”
If only she could shoot lasers out of her eyes. That was a Muggle comic thing, she knew, but perhaps she could convince Hermione to come up with a similar spell. Vaisey, taking in her silence, smirks. Oh, now he thinks he’s right? Just as she’s about to open her mouth and suggest otherwise, a small, cold hand grasps her wrist. Demelza Robins.
So she shuts her mouth, lets the rage build. Simmer. Die down. Her brothers used that expression a lot, likening her fury to a fire. Die down. She volunteers for Chaser, alongside Demelza and Malfoy, who does not volunteer but would rather not play with Peakes or Coote as Beater and would never bow down low enough for Keeper. That’s what she gathered from his cold introduction, anyways. They began with a ‘team drill’ as arranged by Harper, who seemed to think of himself as their captain thanks to his earlier, unwanted display of testosterone. Flying with Demelza on her right, Ginny finds herself chatting to her fellow year-mate. Demelza, who’s usually quiet especially in their dorms, opens up a lot on the Quidditch pitch.
“I thought it strange that they would put us together,” Demelza gestures to the mismatched group of faded green and red robes. Ginny has chosen black for today. “I guess this is Hogwart’s idea of amending house disputes.”
“I think it goes a little deeper than house disputes.” Ginny says, eyes landing on Malfoy’s left arm.
Demelza shrugs as they finish their fifth lap, a little out of breath. Ginny’s not sweating that much. “We’ll see if this all works out by today.”
Harper is trying to put them through a series of drills only a team that’s existed for longer than half an hour would be able to do. Did he swagger into this practice with all of this queued up in his mind? When his drills aren’t working, he decides to shuffle around some players. As in, assign Demelza and Malfoy as Beaters, Vaisey, Ginny, and Coote as Chasers, Peakes as Keeper, and of course, himself as Seeker. This kind of behaviour is what she’d expected from Malfoy; unwaveringly arrogant, self-righteous, and while the blond was all those things, they were very much tamed in others’ presence. Perhaps it been his trial that had dampened the necessary Malfoy arrogance, publicised across every newspaper in Britain.
Vaisey and Coote are deadweight as Chasers, barely able to grapple the concept of catching the Quaffle rather than batting it away in Vaisey’s case or, according to Coote, ‘having nothing to do with the bloody thing at all.’ It doesn’t help that Vaisey and Coote are bickering through all of this, the latter who clearly has no respect for the ex (or so he claims) supporter of the Dark Lord, not that she doesn’t share similar sentiment. Having to shut down their arguments every five minutes is getting exhausting.
“Cut it out, Vaisey. We’ve got better things to do,” she addresses the Slytherin with a cold tone, turning to Harper. “Maybe we should try something else.”
“That’s not how this works,” Harper rolls his eyes. Actually rolls his eyes. “Vaisey, any thoughts?”
“Perhaps we should shut the mouthy bitch and her opinions up.”
Splinters come away embedded in her palms. Vaisey looks at her, a challenging smirk and a raised brow. If they play like this on Saturday (she can’t see them improving very much) she might as well perform a jig in front of the scouts and hope for the best. However, if she already has Vaisey and Harper against her for offering some common sense, the scouts will read as her an uncooperative player if she riles them up further. A not team-player in a league of teams. Her left hand is bleeding, she realises dimly. Something is blocking the rage, where it should be. Something that has blocked everything else. Die down.
“The scouts on Saturday will be eating out of my palm. I hope a few of them have got the sense of what loyal blood offers to the game.” Harper’s comment stings. Ginny Weasley, fun, feisty, flirty, uncontrollable, Potter’s mouthy bitch and blood traitor.
If she’s anything from that list, she is most definitely not somebody else’s.
She suffers through another hour of a barely-functioning team Peakes misses his lunge for the Quaffle in front of the hoops for the fiftieth time, and the earlier fire is gone. Dead. Peakes looks to her, desperately and almost expectantly when Harper roars at him for being a fucking useless twat. There’s no voice in her chest.
The following practices, she’s quiet. Demelza stops talking to her during warm up. She scores every goal on her own with some of Coote’s cooperation. He’s come to the conclusion that his Beater days come in use for shielding Ginny as she rockets up the field for their half-pitch games. Vaisey, on the other hand, is as much of a show off and a cheat as he was during the House Cup, taking every opportunity from her to practice. It’s infuriating. But the fury is lost somewhere. Ginny leaves training early the help Hermione finalise her first draft of A.H.E.R. It’s a long, complicated process, but they spend a lot of time gathering statements from Hogwarts elves; many of which came to the wizarding school of their own accord post-war, freed from their masters in a rather suspicious wave of missing socks. McGonagall’s leadership of Hogwarts has amended certain procedures regarding the elves, with Hermione’s recommendation of course. The success of Hogwarts is listed early on in the A.H.E.R proposal.
“Mmm,” Ginny chewed appreciatively on a caramel-apple cookie, giving Kit, her favourite elf, a double thumbs up with the cookie balanced precariously in her mouth. “I’m sorry we have to go through this again Kit, but I need to make sure your statement about Rabastan Lestrange is as accurate as possible.”
“I understands, miss.” Kit says, despite the many times Ginny has insisted that she doesn’t have to call her miss. When Ginny opens the notebook - another Muggle invention - Kit’s long fingers tremble as she reaches for another egg The elves have been familiar with the book. Two copies exist, enchanted by Hermione so edits made in one are reflected in the other. The front section has their constantly evolving draft, the back section contains all their scribbled notes. To be fair, it’s mostly Hermione amending all of Ginny’s mistakes, but it’s something else to drown herself in. Something she cares about.
“Your parents were previously elves for the main Lestrange Estate. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“You were then transferred to Rabastan’s personal estate as soon as he was granted ownership by his parents. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“During your period with Rabatan Lestrange, you suffered…ten broken appendages, including those of fingers, toes, arms and legs. You were subsequently experienced two of the Unforgivable curses, the Imperius and the Cruciatus, on multiple occasions. Furthermore, you were often times left with these injuries to treat them by yourselves in inhospitable circumstances,” a pause, as she takes in everything she just read. The experience of one elf, amongst thousands that Hermione goes through. Rabastan was put on trial last year. He lives in Azkaban now. It doesn’t feel like enough. “Yes?”
An egg slips through Kit’s bent fingers, splattering itself on the stone counter next to Ginny’s thigh. The yolk falls completely off the counter, and it isn’t until Kit snaps her shaking fingers and disappears the mess that the elf replies, “Yes.”
“Miss Weasley has a Quidditch game tomorrow, yes?” Kit’s big eyes stare up at Ginny. They’ve switched roles. It’s near impossible to tear her eyes away from Kit’s.
“Yes.”
“Woulds you likes special breakfast?”
“There’s no need, Kit.”
The elf twirls her finger in the air and the dough mixes itself at an alarmingly high speed, splattering caramelly-apple goodness on her face. Kit’s yelps of apology follow Ginny has she returns to her dorm room, the notebook clasped tightly in one hand.