nine
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
JUNE, 1999
“Where have you been?” Hermione shrieks, shooting to her feet. Her hair is a halo of chocolate curls, the blush angry against her brown skin, and considering the situation it does make sense.
The situation to be more precise, is this:
Ginny has been out the night before their last N.E.W.T exam.
She can maybe walk in a straight line.
She can maybe cast a decent Bat-Bogey.
She is definitely in big trouble.
“Out,” she says, with a hiccup. “Oops.”
“Oops?” Hermione shrieks again, diving over stacks and stacks of DADA papers and notes to shake Ginny by the shoulders. “That’s all you have to say for yourself? Oops? I’ve been worried sick!”
“You sound like m’mum.” She mumbles, dropping her head onto Hermione’s shoulder.
“Is this a Weasley thing, making me worry endlessly?”
“Maybe.”
“Where were you? Who were you with? Why didn’t you tell me you were going out?” Hermione inhales sharply, waves her hands in the air as if she’s ridding the common room of her questions. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Hang on,” Ginny pulls her wand from the bun she’d stuffed it into at the bar, red curls falling past her shoulders. “Accio Pepper-Up.”
The bottle whizzes down the girl’s dormitory stairs and into her hands. She uncorks it, takes a long draught, and coughs a bit as the pepper goes straight to her head. It clears the Firewhiskey fog, at least. Remnants of the night come in fragments like wizarding photos - meeting him on the outskirts of Hogwarts after slipping past the boundaries, Apparating to wizarding pub, laughing about the latest gossip she didn’t give two shits about.
“I was in Dufftown, I think. With—” she pauses, reluctant to explain further, but Hermione will know if she’s lying. “Harris. Some of his Magpies friends, Quidditch crowd.”
“Quidditch crowd.” Hermione repeats slowly.
“He invited me to go last minute. I just wanted to...have fun, I guess. Exams have been stressful.” Ginny shrugs as the half-lie slips through her lips. They’ve been somewhat difficult; the only hard part is turning up on time after late nights out on the pitch or out of the castle itself.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” The questions comes out as a splutter, embarrassingly enough.
Hermione raises her shoulders, lets them drop. “I’m not your mother. You’re seventeen, you can make your own decisions. Even if they are a bit questionable. Teddy Harris, again?”
“What’s wrong with him?” Ginny huffs a laugh - he’s an egotistical prick, true. He’s desperate for famous names to surround himself with, also true. But he’s fun. She wants fun. And more than fun, she needs him for his connections. Tonight hasn’t been the first she’s spent weaving her way through the Quidditch community. Not the supporters; the players, their families, friends, the sponsors and high society supporters. The inner circle.
And it’s working.
Tonight she hasn’t had to subtly ask if she can go.
Tonight Harris asked, himself, if she wanted to head out for some drinks.
And she did. What’s the problem with that?
“I’ve done a bit of research on him.” Hermione says, hands going up defensively as Ginny snorts. Of course. Even if Hermione isn’t mothering her, one of her best friend’s strengths is her drive. Sometimes it’s aimed in the direction of bettering magical rights. Sometimes it’s researching Quidditch players. “He’s not afraid to risk his reputation, Gin. He throws it around as a shield and takes the hit. This last year he’s been involved in five separate scandals. He can’t stay off the front page of Seeker Weekly.”
“That’s what I’m counting on,” she replies quietly, “If I’m everywhere he is, someone will notice me.”
“What if it’s the wrong someone?”
“I’m not going to be put in danger because of a Quidditch player,” Ginny scoffs, incredulous.
“It’s just—you’ve been out a lot. Every night these past few weeks. You always come back late, and tonight is the first time you’ve told me what you’re actually doing.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Alright, as long as you know,” Hermione raises her hands in the air again, her stern nature slipping for a second. “As long as you’re safe.”
I do, and I am, Ginny sucks in a sharp breath and bids Hermione goodnight. The stairs creak underfoot as she enters the seventh year dorm room, getting ready for bed with her thoughts twisted and tangled. Her plan, so clear beforehand, is now murky and out of reach. She’d thought her chances with Phillips were low, as a scout with so many potential clients, she’d stuck the calling card in one of her textbooks and left it alone. Turned to Harris, and her second plan.
Get into the Quidditch circle. Worm her way into playing with them somehow, and land a contract, even if it is for reserves, even if it isn’t for the Magpies themselves.
“It’s working,” she mutters to herself furiously, punching her pillows into acceptable smushiness, like Fred used to. “Totally working.”
Hermione tries to be quiet when she enters the room, but Ginny picks up on her cautious movements easily. Senses meant for detecting wind currents, the path of Bludgers, the behaviour of players wasted on deliberating how mad her best friend is with her. Ginny screws up her eyes so tight colours begin to flash beneath the lids, and wills herself to sleep.
—
The next morning, Ginny slinks into their DADA exam with a slight headache tempered by another Pepper-Up potion. It’s split between a practical and a theoretical section to test the student’s overall capability, and she’s just snuck in time to join the back of the line for the practical, having finished the theoretical minutes before. Her wand, yew, fourteen inches, dragon heartstring and a miracle she hung onto desperately during the Battle of Hogwarts. Professor Brindlemore’s assistant, a teacher in training named Jordan, stands by the heavy oak doors to the room with a short parchment of names they’re flicking through. By the time Ginny gets to the front of the line and peeks at the sheet, she sees that Hermione was one of the first to complete the practical.
Jordan notices her rubbing her temples and offers Ginny a soft smile. “Rough night?”
“You could say that.” she chuckles hoarsely, presenting Jordan with her wand so they can check for any tampering or additional spells that might help in the exam.
“You’re clear. Good luck, Ginny.”
Ginny nods and clutches her wand, entering the classroom with no time to spare for anxiety. If she doesn’t pass her N.E.W.Ts, so what? So what, she thinks grimly to herself as Brindlemore rearranges the room quickly, is that even though half the Quidditch league barely have their OWLs, I’ll probably be turned away with a failed N.E.W.T.
“Miss Weasley,” Brindlemore turns around with a wide smile, a generally energetic woman who’s made Defense, an already favourite subject of Ginny’s, even more of a fun class. “We’ll start simply, shall we? A Shield Charm, verbal and non-verbal.”
“Around myself or another object?”
“Good question, Miss Weasley,” Brindlemore points to a training dummy standing a few metres away from Ginny. “The both of you.”
Ginny takes half a second to ready herself before casting Protego outloud, drawing a quick circle with a line in it to surround the space with a dome of protection. Brindlemore marks something down on her parchment and gestures for her to continue. Casting Finite wordlessly, Ginny considers Protego Maxima but decides to stick to the professor’s instructions, performing the non-verbal spell with ease. Being of the younger side of the members of Dumbledore’s Army, she’d worked twice as hard to keep up with the others, and after the Carrows had taken over Hogwarts, she’d redoubled her efforts with Neville to teach the younger students how to defend themselves and even more importantly, hide the fact that they knew what the Carrows deemed unnecessary.
“Nicely done. Let’s move on to a few others.” Brindlemore runs through the basic set of defensive shields and rebounds, harmless and not-so harmless jinxes and hexes, and some DADA charms before clearing the room briefly to create a make-shift duelling arena.
She’s never duelled her own professor before, unless attempting to chase after Snape or restraining the Carrows counted. Brindlemore sets out the rules clearly; nothing lethal, all non-verbal. It takes Ginny a few tries to learn Brindlemore’s preferred set of spells - the professor is all attack, no defence, and thanks to her Quidditch training the physical side of duelling is no problem at all. When she follows up her tricky combination of hexes with a simple Expelliarmus and the professor’s wand finally clatters to the floor, there’s some sense of pride resonating in her chest.
“Ha!” Brindlemore laughs good-naturedly, summoning her wand to her hand. “Bet you learnt that move from Potter, didn’t you?”
And suddenly, the pride has disappeared.
“Yeah.”
Brindlemore sets herself busy producing three metal cages of varying sizes. The first is covered completely, only letting out a shrieking noise she’s pretty sure comes from Nogtail, and Brindlemore confirms her answer with an encouraging smile. The second is a little more challenging, as she can see the dark creature, but seeing as it’s a Skrewt and there are different variations of the annoying little bastards deepening on how much Manticore and Fire Crab lineage they have, she probably has to determine which type of Skrewt it is. Without being able to determine whether the sparks resembled a Manticore or a Fire Crab more, she’ll have to rely on the markings on its belly, a trick she learned from Bill when he was studying magizoology before his tenure with dragons.
“May I?” Ginny motions with her wand, and Brindlemore nods. She levitates the cage to get a better look at the underbelly of the scuttling creature, and finds the swirling brown marks of its Manticore heritage.
The third cage is less of a cage than a trunk, not unlike the ones students lugged to and from school. Brindlemore’s excitement subdues slightly as she approaches the trunk, placing a hand on it with reluctance.
“Miss Weasley, you should understand that this part of the practical was not my idea. A third, different dark creature would have been in place for you to identity, but the Ministry feels for your age group, this is necessary. I do apologise in advance.” Brindlemore waves her wand, and the trunk unlocks.
Nothing happens.
But the professor is gone, and Ginny is alone in a room full of crumbling stone pieces blasted to bits. She walks over to the trunk slowly, heart beating wildly in her chest. The logical part of her brain knows what’s happening.
The Ministry of Magic has ordered all seventh-year students to face their fears by defeating a Boggart.
And Fred’s dead body is smiling at her from the bottom of the trunk.
She’s screaming before she can register anything else, pulling away from the trunk and screaming and tripping over her own shoes, and, oh, she’s screaming because she’s worked so hard to keep the blue eyes that mirror her own out of her mind but there he is, his rotting hands clawing out of the trunk, auburn hair thick with dirt and blood and his eyes, so once full of life, are glassy and void of life. There’s nothing to throw up in her stomach, so she’s dry heaving, crawling away from the apparition of her brother. When she looks back, it’s not Fred, it’s George, the difference so subtle it’s a reminder of how at first, when she’d stood on the staircase behind Fred and Percy, she’d thought it was George; George who had turned to make a silly comment to Percy, George who had died in the explosion.
Her wand is nothing more than a twig in her hand.
There’s no exit in this hell, only a cruel shadow of Hogwarts post-battle, only Percy’s body now, chasing after her, and when she glances back, she’s screaming again, because it’s Charlie, it’s Bill, it’s Ron, it’s her mother, her father, Hermione, Harry, and then it’s her own body raised from the dead, hair matted and smile crusted with blood, it flickers and it’s her younger self from her first year, possessed by Voldemort and the tears are running into each other, and it’s reaching out for her ankle and yanking her down to the floor and no matter how desperately she claws at the stone floor, she’s being dragged into the trunk and it’s so dark in there.
It’s so dark, she doesn’t even notice she’s not in Hogwarts anymore.
She’s at a funeral, and the portrait above the coffin the trunk keeps changing, and even though it’s Ginny lying there, even though she can see the rest of her family in the front row, the photos above are of her family and none of them include her, and the man making the speech has said everyone’s names except hers, and for a minute, she’s almost glad she’d dead and in a coffin because Fred is coming up and he’s alive, he’s smiling and he has her favourite flowers in one hand, but they’re wilting the next second and his hand is plunging into the coffin to snatch her by the shirt and instead of teeth, he’s smiling through fangs.
She yells, struggling uselessly against her dead brother until it hits her. He’s dead, isn’t he? Who is she really fighting? Ginny kicks him and the chest and digs around the trunk for her wand, coughing while she summons a memory, any happy memory and of course it’s a memory with Fred in it; him teaching her how to fly for the first time without their parent’s permission, George in the background flying alongside her to make sure she doesn’t topple off, Percy on the ground yelling for them to come down for dinner.
“Rid—” she stutters, only for Fred’s paralysing stare to latch back onto her. Before she knows it, she’s waving her wands and shooting out the first spells she can think of. “Bombarda! Alarte Ascenda! Glacius! Bombarda Maxima! Bom—rid—Riddikulus!”
The scene rips itself apart, warping in the air. She’s not in the trunk anymore, through hazy eyes she can see Fred’s body dragging itself next to her on the floor, smiling grimly in the rubble of the classroom.
Rubble that’s real, this time.
She can barely push herself up to raise her head, and even then the destruction of the DADA classroom makes her hang her head in embarrassment. Professor Brindlemore’s Protego flickers before disappearing, and she rushes over to Ginny, ignoring the Boggart next to her completely.
“Are you alright, Miss Weasley? What happened?”
“You didn’t—you didn’t see?” She whispers, her voice raw.
Brindlemore shakes her head. “You cast quite a powerful spell that prevented me from taking any action. I would have cast Riddikulus sooner if not for your wards.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault, Miss Weasley. I did not agree with the Ministry’s reasoning in the first place. Forcing you to face your fears after such a traumatic event…it’s unacceptable.” Brindlemore opens the door with a flick of her wand. “I’m going to fetch Madam Pomfrey. I won’t be long.”
Ginny says nothing, watching the professor as she runs from the room. She can feel his eyes trained on her back, waiting for her to turn around.
And when she does, she doesn’t have the courage to look into his eyes. Something has been torn from her, stolen again.
Her chest is empty, there’s no more fire, and her dead brother is in front of her, smiling through it all.