six
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
EARLY JUNE, 1999
It’s raining after the match.
Ginny is very much aware that she looks ridiculous; lying down drenched in the middle of the pitch whilst rain continues to hammer down on her flying gear and Quidditch robes, not to mention the mud splattering her clothes from a bit of immature pitch destruction Madame Hooch will inevitably find later. The steady plink, plonk has kept some kind of rhythm in her mind, a ceaseless beat whilst she organises her thoughts.
Hermione is much better at this than she is.
Plink, plonk.
They lost the match.
Plink, plonk.
Harper didn’t even try to apologise afterwards. Said he deserved at least a shot at it, that Chaser was his second position after Seeker.
Plink, plonk.
Vaisey called her a blood traitor and spat on the ground after the teams had shaken hands. He’d refused to touch her. So had Harper.
Plink, plonk.
Demelza had given her a sad sort of look, patting her on the back. She’d said it’s just a game, Ginny, don’t worry.
Plink, plonk.
Malfoy had just looked at her and retreated like the bloody coward he is. Why hadn’t he said something earlier? Why hadn’t he stopped the other Slytherins from their ridiculousness? Why hadn’t she?
No plink, plonk, she realises dimly, recognises that Impervius has been cast over her. When she opens her eyes, it’s still through rain-blurred vision. A mop of dark hair. For a second, her heart soars. Harry. And then it twists in on itself when the caster squats down next to her with a smirk.
Theodore Harris.
Her brain can’t even begin to come to terms with the fact that a Montrose Magpie is in the middle of Hogwarts keeping her sheltered from the rain. Not to mention she’s covered in mud and her curly hair must be looking rather wet-rattish. She gets up, hoisting her stolen broom over one shoulder. Hooch hadn’t bothered to collect the Irish-donated broom, only clucking sadly at Ginny’s solo-pitch-lying-down.
Harris traipses after her, seemingly a fan of silence until he says, “You’re good.”
She huffs, opens the door to the locker room and storms inside. Well aware that she’s tracking mud and grass into the room, she waves her wand behind her and clears up the mess with a flick of nonverbal magic. She’s always been better angry. Ripping the door to her locker open, she tears off her muddy equipment and stuffs it in, grabbing her bag of clothes and her shower things.
“Usually people take the compliment with a word of thanks.” He adds, leaning on the locker next to her. She takes him in properly for the first time, all six feet, dark hair and impish smile of him. How annoying. Then she shuts the door to the female showers and turns on the hot water, sighing as steam fills the room. Discarding her clothes in a pile she Scourgifies quickly, she returns to the hot, soapy shower and rids herself of a good three hour’s worth of mopey mud and dirt. When she steps out wearing a sweater and a pair of Muggle jeans that Hermione took her shopping for, her hair dried with a quick spell, Harris is sitting on one of the benches inspecting her broom.
“Tough match.”
“I know.”
“I’m Teddy Harris.”
“I know.”
“You’re Ginny Weasley.”
“I know.” She raises a brow, immensely unimpressed. Perhaps she would have been more impressed a week ago.
“Sister of Ron Weasley, friends with Hermione Granger and…Harry Potter.”
“I know.”
“Merlin, you’re impossible.”
“This is our first conversation.”
“Ah, so you do know other words.”
“I can’t be ‘impossible’ from an exchange that barely counts as a conversation.”
“We could have a proper conversation. Over drinks.” he flashes a smile she can only describe as charming and a little bit smarmy, nothing like the lopsided, bashful grin she holds close. Or used to. Or does? “The conversation might turn to Quidditch. The Magpies are looking out for talent.”
“And they sent you?” As treasured of a player Harris is, typically they don’t send an actual player to scout out potential trainees.
“Well, that might have to be explained to them later.”
“Why did you come here?”
“Why did you come to our game?”
To watch. Harris’ smile grows as the unspoken answer hangs in the air.
“I saw you afterwards, leaving. You could have said hello. I wanted to, at least, and now I have.”
“You tracked me down to say hello?” She scoffs, crossing her arms. “Have you heard of owls? They’re quite convenient.”
“It’s harder to have drinks through owls,” he pauses, gauging her expression. Can he tell she’s on the verge of smacking him with her broom? “Will you?”
“If it makes you shut up.”
“So yes,” he grins, “I’ll owl you the details.”
She huffs, waving a hand over her shoulder, and hopes it properly conveys her indifference as she leaves the changing rooms.
“You’re good, Weasley!”
A smile crosses her face as she yells, “I know!”
—
Hermione is unnervingly excited about the fact that Ginny is having drinks with a Quidditch player. “So you do have a type.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She stops picking at her food.
“Quidditch players.”
“Rot. Utter rot.”
“I’m not ashamed to admit that as well.” sniffs the Golden Girl, clearly hoping to elicit a yes from Ginny.
“I don’t have a type,” she mutters instead, “Besides, if he can get me talking to an actual scout, I think it will be worthwhile.”
“Hm. I better let Harry know.” When Ginny chokes on her porridge, Hermione amends her statement with a crafty smile. “Harry and Ron. They’ll both be very pleased to hear you’re, ah, making friends with the League crowd.”
Ginny swallows her porridge and gives her best friend a glower that is simply brushed aside. Of course, it doesn’t help that an unfamiliar, rather preenish owl arrives (it drops the letter and starts picking at its impeccable feathers) and makes itself at home on the breakfast table. McGongall had kept the Great Hall’s original design of the four house tables for the major events of the school year, but for the other meals, smaller tables that allowed the houses to intermingle had been established. Unity, or something.
Untying the letter with a piece of toast stuck in her mouth, Ginny wishes she hadn’t the second she spies the sender. Of bloody course. In her attempts to hide the contents from Hermione, she ducks under the table and opens the letter.
Ginny,
Three Broomsticks, 7.
Yours,
Teddy.
“He signed it yours?” Hermione shrieks.
Ginny bangs her head on the underside of the table at Hermione’s voice, probably earning herself a large lump that will have to be attended to by Pomfrey. “Stop spying on me!”
“What’s going on here?” asks a very much unwanted voice. Malfoy. “Why is Weasley under the table?”
“She’s going out with Teddy Harris.”
“You know who that is?”
Hermione very much did not until Ginny showed her some of the latest Quidditch magazines, but when Ginny resurfaces, the witch is nodding with utmost confidence. Blast her sudden interest in Ginny’s dating life (not that she can say much without being a hypocrite; she acts just like this when she goes through Hermione’s copious fan mail). “I do. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be off studying for O.W.Ls?”
“You’re causing a commotion.”
“A commotion that’s none of your business, you twat.” Ginny says, chewing on her toast. He means today, at 7pm, surely? Is Harris a day drinker? The seventh years are allowed to go wherever they please during the weekends as long as it’s run through their House Head beforehand. How on earth will she explain a date with Teddy Harris, Magpies player, with a straight face to Hagrid?
“When did Harris have time to meet you?”
“He was watching yesterday.”
“And he didn’t talk to me?” Malfoy seems rather affronted at this, which makes things funnier, as is the norm with his offence. Ginny’s face must have shown her skepticism, because he follows up with, “I sat next to him at the last Quidditch World Cup.”
“Of course you did.” Hermione mutters, not out of earshot. The Slytherin hears the comment but tactfully does not rib Hermione about it, because as Ginny knows all too well, it will lead to a heated discussion about the events following the World Cup without treading on the numerous hidden bombs in their vocabulary. As most conversations between the two of them go, the civility dies down as Hermione’s jibes eventually result in a shouting match that dances around the war without ever actually mentioning the topic.
It’s obvious that Malfoy wants to apologise for his prior behaviour but is horrifyingly incapable of doing so, so his next best attempt at it is appearing wherever he isn’t wanted (which is most places as a not-so beloved student) and butting in, hoping this attempt will succeed. Of course, he should also be trying to thank her for testifying in his favour at his trial, but alas. Once a poncy prick, always a poncy prick. That’s what Ginny thinks, anyway. Her opinion was not in high demand as a child, and the only thing that made her imposed silence bearable was watching everything go down without a word.
That being said, her primary observation is that Draco Malfoy is horrid at making friends.
“When is this date?”
“Tonight, seven o’clock at the Three Broomsticks.”
“Hmm. Your home ground. Interesting.”
“Are you analysing my da—”
“Aha! So you do admit it’s a date.” Hermione laughs triumphantly. A glimmer of what any person who knows Hermione Granger on a superficial level would say is intelligence appears in the Gryffindor’s brown eyes. Yet Ginny knows it is anything but intelligence and instead her best friend’s attempts to give her a heart attack. If anything, she’s happy Hermione finds it relaxing to mess with her like this because after years of worrying over her idiot brother and Potter, she can unwind. “Perhaps I should come with you.”
“What, sit at the table next to me? Serve us drinks?”
“No, in disguise. I’ll be in the Three Broomsticks at a different table, just to make sure nothing goes wrong.”
“On your own?” The question slips out and she regrets it. Immediately.
“Did you still want to meet Harris?” Hermione looks up at Malfoy, who smirks.
“Yes, rather.”
“Then it’s settled. Seven sharp.” Hermione addresses the last part to Malfoy, who nods and stalks off to who knows where. Probably to stand in some shadows and wallow.
“I hate you sometimes.”
“This is so fun. Harry and Ron were rubbish at this sort of thing. I was never really close enough with Parvati or Lavender.”
Silence settles over them at Lavender’s name. Then Hermione sucks in a breath and says, “Werewolves will be my next project. Reformations of the previous acts, rights, compensation. That sort of thing.”
“Don’t you get exhausted fighting for everybody?”
A sad, tired smile follows such a light hearted conversation. “Then who will?”
“How are you going to do it without…” Ginny waves her hands, wanting to say resources, more people, funding, and coming up with nothing.
“There are others who are of similar opinion. I’ve been corresponding with them, exchanging ideas. I haven’t exactly told them, but I’m planning on setting up an NGO.” Hermione continues, “A non-governmental organisation that will function on its own, outside of the Ministry with external funding and volunteers.”
Hermione pushes around her baked beans, as if arranging the insides of her brain.“I would have taken all my existing plans to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, but Shacklebolt has got enough on his hands. Restoring England after Voldemort means that the priority is the security of the state and setting up basic services again. Even with magic, it takes time. Non-wizarding, magical citizens will be cast aside, even if he doesn’t mean it. Hopefully it works out in the end.”
Ginny takes this all in, mouth agape. Hermione is nothing short of astonishing, everyone knows that. Perhaps it’s her ability to continue fighting when everyone else is complacent to sit back that drives her to come up with ideas like this. Her NGO. Werewolves, elves. Maybe it’s a requirement of the Golden Trio, as they’ve been nicknamed, to fight every last battle to its end.
“Mione, you are an extraordinary witch. They will agree with you, there’s no doubt, and even if they don’t, I’ll make sure they will in the end.” She hopes the fierceness in her tone is encouraging above all. She’s not usually one for verbal encouragement. Hermione’s short, teary laugh is enough to make her fling her arms around her best friend and hug her tight, because she knows what Hermione is doing.
She’s helping everyone else before she helps herself.
Hermione’s arms tighten around Ginny like she can feel the same desperate, self-destructive mission in her bones.
They’re both drowning, and it’s so, so, dark when they can't come up for air.