seven
HOGSMEADE
EARLY JUNE, 1999
A DATE?
(NO, AN ATTEMPT FOR A QUIDDITCH CONTRACT)
Taming her curls had been no easy feat, but Ginny eventually settled on a compromise - soft waves against her cream sweater and black skirt. Now she stands a few shops away from the Three Broomsticks with Hermione by her side. Malfoy is nowhere to be seen, thank Merlin.
“How do I look?” She turns to Hermione, expectant. Her friend smiles broadly, revealing a perfect set of teeth. She still remembers when Hermione had gotten her teeth fixed in her third year, and the absolute shock that had overcome Lavender and Parvati when the bushy-haired girl had returned.
“You look great. Don’t worry, you’ll charm your way to…you know what.” Hermione’s words are less than reassuring, even though her tone suggests something less sinister, it reminds Ginny of her true intentions. Sure, Harris isn’t an eyesore, but her main goal right now remains flying for the league. Proving to her mother it’s possible. Ignoring the weirdness between her and Harry. Distracting herself.
“Yes, well, let’s hope that doesn’t take too long.”
The small clock tower in Hogsmeade strikes seven, night sky gently settling in around them.
“Harris went in five minutes ago.” Announces a flat voice.
“You have got to stop doing that,” Ginny seethes, turning to glare at Malfoy. His pale features are even pinker than normal in the night cold, and instead of painting him to be slightly less frigid and poncy than normal, it only heightens his sharpness. It doesn’t help that she hadn’t noticed Harris’ arrival. “Bloody idiot.”
“I’m a Seeker. I tend to observe most things.”
“I’m also a Seeker but that doesn’t make me an entitled git,” she mumbles, hugging Hermione quickly. She marches off, boots stomping in the snow to leave her Malfoy-rooted anger at the door of the Three Broomsticks. Madame Rosmerta’s business had re-opened quite quickly following the Battle of Hogwarts. As was the tendency of the wizarding world, things never slowed down. Not even to mourn. The Broomsticks had remained a socialising spot while the school was rebuilt, and continued its weekend traditions as the prime spot for outings. Inside, the bar’s activity is in full swing and sitting at a very visible table, just in front of where she’d snogged an awful lot of boys, is Teddy Harris.
His head snaps up the second her eyes land on him, as if sensing her wary gaze. Hair combed back neatly, eyes trained on her approach, a smirk she doesn’t know how to interpret appears a second before she slides onto the stool in front of him.
“Harris,” She notes his Butterbetter with a raised brow, “Apparating home tonight are we?”
“Just because it lacks the ability to make you Splinch like Firewhiskey doesn’t mean it’s not a good drink.” He winks, lifting the bottle to his lips. “Are you a fan of Troll vodka? I’m sure Rosmerta could cough some up from behind the bar.”
“You’re on first name basis with Madame Rosmerta?” Ginny tries not to snort - how undignified sneers Malfoy’s voice, but Hermione’s imaginary happy hum swats the prat’s commentary away.
“She’s a lovely woman,” is all he says, snapping at one of the servers to bring Ginny a drink. Thank Merlin it’s not Troll vodka, Ginny grasps the glass, trying not to recall the last time she’d tried the unusually strong alcohol. It had been Fred’s last birthday. “So, Ginny Weasley.”
“So, Teddy Harris.”
“You’re a fan of the Montrose Magpies?”
“Sure.” she says, sipping her Butterbeer.
“Don’t lie. If you came to watch for the Harpies, I wouldn’t be offended.”
“Then yes, I was there for the Harpies.”
“Shame. I would’ve invited you to the Magpies’ afterparty if you’d been on the right side.” He flashes her a grin, then elaborates, “The winning side.”
She tries to resist rolling her eyes, but the temptation is too strong - he’s exactly how she imagined, but at least they’re on the right track. The Quidditch track. “Next time, then.”
“We have another pre-season match down in Wembley this week, against Puddlemere. But you probably know that, don’t you?”
She does, in fact, know that, but decides not to push the undertone of challenge in his comment. “It’ll be a tough match. Seeker Weekly has been going on and on about Benjy Williams.”
“The Magpies have me,” Harris shrugged, completely serious, “I can score faster than Williams can catch the Snitch.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Then what are Damon and Gideon doing about Griffiths?”
“Griffiths?” He looks genuinely surprised when Ginny mentions the Harpies player. “What about her?”
“She hasn’t played any of the Harpies’ pre-season matches. She hasn’t been seen at any of the practices, or scrimmages. And she met with Puddlemere’s manager. Shouldn’t you know this?” She laughs at his wide-eyed shock. Clearly, his self-absorption has got him stuck way too far up his own arse if he can’t even pay attention to the other teams. If Griffiths is shaking him up this badly, then perhaps she shouldn’t mention how much of a threat Oliver Wood is, even if he’s just on the bench for United (though she suspects he’ll be put on soon).
“Fucking Merlin,” he shakes his head, “I don’t even know if the others — oh, Renfield is going to shit himself.”
“I’m guessing they’ll bring her out to test her against the Magpies. She probably hasn’t played against anyone other than the United reserves and her own team in scrums, so there’s your advantage. She might be a bit full of herself though, getting signed by Puddlemere. The Harpies couldn’t pay enough to make her stay on.”
“Is that why they’re having such a shit season, then?”
Ginny opens her mouth to argue, then closes it. She’s just provided him with a rather useful tidbit of Quidditch knowledge most wouldn’t have the time to piece together. No point risking it. “Maybe. I can’t see Griffiths staying on for any other reason. She got traded a few times, but this is a first for her, being handpicked.”
“What in Merlin’s name are you doing in that school? Are you planning to become a strategist after you graduate?”
“My final exams are in a few weeks. After that, I guess it depends on my results, but I’d like to do something involving Quidditch.”
“Would you consider playing?” Harris takes a sip from his pint glass, cocking his head. “Reserves, probably. Imagine, Ginny Weasley flies for the Hokeypoke Harpies. Or if you’re smart, the Magnificent Magpies.”
“If my team isn’t so dysfunctional, then yes.” She winces at the memory of her most recent game, though game is a bit of a stretch. Disaster describes it better. His dig at the Harpies stings. A lot of of the fans and teams refer to the all-female with a range of names, but Hokeypoke is on the calmer end of nicknames that she’s heard.
Harris laughs, “I can assure you the Magpies are a bit more put-together than the other teams. Look, why don’t you come to this week’s game, see if you’d like to meet the Magpies crowd. Bring a few of your friends, if you’d like.” The Magpies Crowd shoots a bout of joy through her veins. She’s a step away from meeting the exact people she needs to slip into the Quidditch world. But with her exams closing in, can she really forefeit her studying for a Quidditch game? She’s imagining her mother’s reprimanding words when the door to the Three Broomsticks flies open and two familiar people stumble in.
Hermione’s use of the word disguise seems to be an over exaggeration because it appears the two have simply swapped fashion styles - Malfoy is wearing one of Hermione’s patterned sweaters, Hermione is wearing a black turtleneck that half-drowns her. Harris catches her stare, eyes trained on the blond.
“Say, isn’t that Draco Malfoy?”
“Oh yes, it is.” Ginny says through gritted teeth. She hopes her eyes are conveying the get out message clear enough to the two, but they doddle on to the bar and ask for drinks.
“Is he here with Hermione Granger?” Harris is properly shocked now at the sight of the ex-Death Eater and the Golden Girl ordering drinks together.
“Er—yes. We’re in the same year.”
“Are you good friends with Granger? She’s quite famous now, isn’t she?”
“Hermione is my best friend,” Ginny smiles, “I don’t think I could have gotten this far without her. People harp on about her brains and all, but underneath it, she’s genuinely the most caring person I know. It’s probably what I admire about her most.”
“Is she a fan of Quidditch?”
She breaks out into a laugh, “Oh Godric, no. Well, I suppose she doesn’t mind watching if she’s got something to do. I tried putting her on a broom once and that went south quickly.”
“That’s a shame. I would have invited her this week. Lots of famous faces around is good for ah, morale, you know?”
“Sure.” She says quietly, staring into her Butterbeer.
“She was with you at our game, right? That’s how I recognised you — I saw her first — I mean, how could you miss Hermione Granger?”
“Yeah.”
“Actually, I think I may have watched the last World Cup with Malfoy. He’s an alright bloke now, yeah?”
Ginny shrugs. “His presence is slightly tolerable.”
He shakes his head like he can’t quite believe what he’s just witnessed, and to be fair, if Ginny hadn’t been around the two’s bickering, she would have done the same. Thank Merlin’s tits Harris isn’t facing the bar completely, because Hermione Granger - the brightest witch of her age, war heroine, Golden Girl, future saver of many species - is making extremely ridiculous facial expressions directed towards Ginny. Expressions worthy of the second years they sweep past in the corridors. Ginny’s about to make a fart-face back at her when Harris starts talking again.
“I should invite him this week, shouldn’t I?” He muses, apparently forgetting to check whether or not she was attending as well. “Would be good for press and all.”
“He’s an ex-Death Eater.”
“Skeeter Says thinks otherwise.” Harris raises his Butterbeer to his lips with a smile. Behind him, Hermione attempts to waggle her eyebrows and fails. Ginny snorts into her Butterbeer as Malfoy mimics the witch’s expression with slightly more class. Godric, are they really bonding over my attempts at a Quidditch contract?
“I didn’t take you for someone who read gossip rags.”
“Oh, I do,” he nodded his head vigorously, “Can’t get enough of them. How else am I supposed to find out what’s going on?”
The same guy who couldn’t piece together how much of a threat Griffiths was begins reciting Skeeter’s latest Malfoy appraisal, his tone completely genuine, “Apparently he’s going around donating pots of money wherever he pleases, showing up at charity events and whatnot. Can’t suppose it would be difficult with the Malfoy assets. Maybe he’d consider sponsoring the Magpies.”
“I’m not the one you need to convince of his greatness,” Ginny says, “My opinion of him won’t change much. He has plenty of apologies to make, and I’m not on the receiving end of one.”
“Would Harry Potter be one of those people?” It’s a completely innocuous question that she believes at first, but he’s poised, waiting for an answer with bated breath. Her disappointment is hidden well, she knows, because she’s had to do the same with so many others who follow Harris’ line of thought.
Ginny knows she’s the sister of Ron Weasley, hero, part of the Golden trio, knows she’s the best friend of Hermione Granger, heroine, the brightest witch of her age, and knows, knows most of all because it hurts, that she’s Harry Potter little friend as Skeeter has called her repeatedly, and that’s it. Not a member of Dumbledore’s Army, Quidditch player, master of the Bat-Bogey Hex, leader of the resistance against the Carrows, or a survivor of Tom Riddle’s possession. None of that matters. Really, in the face of her friends’ achievements, does it even measure up to what they’ve done?
“Erm, probably, yeah.”
Harris leans in conspiratorially. “What’s the deal with you and Potter, anyway?”
All alarms possible go off, though she maintains a very calm, very serene, and not at all enraged expression. Hermione, thank Merlin, seems to sense Ginny’s panic and whispers something to Malfoy, whose face scrunches up in disgust. Hermione hits him on the shoulder - actually hits him, and he concedes.
Draco Malfoy falls off his bar stool with a deafening thump. All heads, including Harris’, turn in unison.
“Oh no!” Hermione says, nudging his body with her foot, “He’s fainted!”
Despite her announcing this with a considerable amount of cheer, the bar room sweeps to Malfoy’s side in earnest, old and young ladies alike attempting to awaken the most definitely unconscious man from the floor. A particularly passionate senior swats a young blonde girl with her handbag, clocking her round the head to pat Malfoy’s cheek back to life. Ginny can see his very much not unconscious face twisted in a grimace as another elderly fan of his is closing in on him for resuscitation. Ginny jumps off her chair, offering Harris an apologetic smile.
“I’m sorry, I have to go deal with this. Classmates and all. I’ll be there for the Puddlemere match this week!”
“Oh, do try and speak to Malfoy and Granger about—”
She’s off before he can finish his sentence, helping Hermione drag the mammoth of a man out the door (Malfoy is still acting like a dying fish). As soon as they’re well hidden from the Three Broomsticks, Malfoy springs to his feet with an extremely revolted look and dusts the dirt off his pants. Hermione presses her hand to her mouth to stop her giggles with much politeness in comparison to the snort of laughter that escapes Ginny.
“Oh my goodness,” Hermione swipes tears from her eyes, “I think that lady hit me on the head with her bag twice. Twice!”
“Did you see—” Ginny gasps in-between laughs, “—the woman about to give Malfoy the Dementor’s Kiss?”
“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” Malfoy rolls his eyes, “Are you going to thank me or not, Weaselette?”
She’s not unfamiliar with Malfoy’s use of the term Weasel - in their past school days, it had been used to mock Ron aplenty and that same kindness had been extended to her - but now it owns a more playful air. More so that she feels fine responding with, “I think I shall meet with more egotistical Quidditch players if it means you’ll pursue a career in the arts, ferret.”
“It wasn’t even my idea in the first place. It was hers!” Malfoy exclaims loudly, pointing at Hermione.
The witch shrugs with a glimmer of a smile, “It worked rather well, didn’t it?”
“I can’t believe the brightest witch of our age is using her brain to come up with ridiculous antics that involve my demise.” Malfoy complains, to no one’s surprise. Ginny’s mouth is hanging open not because of his whiny nature, but because he’d just complimented Hermione Granger. And Hermione seems to realise this too, so the both of them stand there, mouths agape while the ferret prattles on about what good Hermione could actually do with her smarts.
“Why are you staring at me like that? It’s most uncomfortable.” Remarks Malfoy, only just having spied their disbelief. “Was I not dramatic enough in there?”
“Oh no, you were plenty dramatic. It’s just—” Ginny shoots Hermione a look. The curly-haired witch shakes her head ever so slightly. “—er, Harris remembered you from the World Cup.”
“Did he? I mean, yes, I’m not surprised he did.”
“He remembers you well enough to invite you to the Puddlemere match this weekend. You too, Mione.”
Malfoy seems to contemplate Harris’ proposal with utmost sincerity.
“We have N.E.W.Ts to study for!” Hermione exclaims, “We can’t go.”
Nodding her head vigorously, Ginny links her arm with Hermione’s. “We can’t miss our studying. Very important.”
Hermione launches into an explanation of her study planner - a relic that has reemerged from before the war, a sliver of their life before the chaos and its consequences - offering to make one for Ginny (she declines, claiming her heart tells her when to study much to Hermione’s disbelief), and after a moment of silence, offers to make one for Malfoy. He stares at Hermione, his features betraying nothing, and once again, Ginny feels as if she’s watching one of those Muggle telly shows. A bystander to a story where two characters are blinded by very different things.
“I would appreciate that.” Malfoy says slowly, and the ghost of a smile lingers on Hermione’s face for just a second.