Snakes and Ladders
Ginny shattered when she heard about Em.
He was so kind to her she almost forgot he was a kid as well, not an adult she could trust. Then he was so funny she almost forgot he wasn’t just like her in every way, but older and smarter and whatever else. He would ask her questions no one else thought to ask, and he cared about the answers. Responded with things that made her think or feel more than she would’ve before. He took her seriously, and reminded her not to.
And now he’s lying unresponsive in a hospital bed. And she is petrified that she might have put him there.
The thought was so horrible and so scary she nearly passed out. She might have, once or twice. She was a wreck. Is a wreck.
She had to tell Arthur.
She could not abide the idea that Em- not Em. She couldn’t have hurt Em , and she couldn’t continue knowing she might have. Arthur- god, Arthur. That boy… he was so different now. Like part of him had been petrified with Em. He was only half as bright, half as funny, half as warm, half as present. He was half. It broke Ginny’s heart now to think of him giving her piggybacks and teaching her to fly and talking the boys out of teasing her too much. It would break Em’s heart, too. He would hate seeing Arthur like this. He would hate seeing Ginny like this. If it really was her, and she said nothing, it could be one of her brothers next, or Harry.
Telling anyone was terrifying, but she recognized that it was what she had to do. She was a Weasley. She was a Gryffindor. She was Em’s friend. She had a duty. She owed it to Em.
For some reason, it just made sense that she tell Arthur. She just knew he was the one who had to know. She had to tell Arthur Penn that she might have put Em in that hospital bed.
She had fought herself for weeks, until she felt she was going to tear apart. Every part of her screamed until she could take no more, and, shaking, she stationed herself outside of the second year Gryffindor’s Transfiguration class.
By the time he caught sight of her as they all filed out, she was shuddering like a leaf in the wind, tears banging against her eyelids to be let out. She thinks that might be why Arthur took her aside before the others could notice without asking any questions. Harry noticed, and because he was perfect, he pretended he didn’t and distracted Ron and Hermione while Arthur shepherded her off to a quieter space. After that it was hard to notice much of anything.
She could hear Arthur’s voice in theory, low and quiet and calm, but it was in fluctual obscurity. There was this dim mist that just filled her ears and eyes and lungs with cotton. It made it so hard to breathe.
She was there for a little while before she had the presence of mind to notice the distant voice was speaking in time, like the ticking of a clock, making a rhythm. A baseline. She grabbed hold of it. It would be good to know what was being said, she felt, and it was the only reliable thing in this mental blizzard she was stranded in.
So she strained her ears, begged her heartbeat to quieten, and prayed for the storm to abate. Gradually it became clearer, and she could understand.
“…Two… three… four… five… six. Out; One… two… three… four… five… six…”
Her hand was warm. She could feel the rhythm there too, beating in time under her palm. The soft, comforting thumping matched a swelling, an in and out like a tide. She blinked, trying to bring the counting further into focus. Eventually she recognized the thumping as a heartbeat; The swelling, breathing. She tried to match it. She thought that was what he wanted her to do.
In another long while, she blinked to find herself in a dark alcove with Arthur. The hall was quiet around them, their only company the braziers she could see flickering over the stones. Her hand was on Arthur’s chest as it rose and fell steadily. His heartbeat was unwavering and powerful, as reliable as the sunrise, and it made her feel safe. And she just about matched his breathing now.
“Ginny? If you’re with me, tell me five things you can see.”
Ginny blinked at the loss of the counting, but he still breathed in time. The heartbeat thudded on.
“Five things you can see right now from where you’re standing. Name them out loud for me.”
She looked around hesitantly. See. Five things she could see.
“The-“ she coughed, her voice coming out weak and raspy. “The… fires. In the...”
Arthur nodded in encouragement, so she swallowed and she looked around again.
“The stone. Uhh… archway. W-window…”
“That’s four. One more, Gin. Give me one more.”
She cast around desperately. “Your… you,” she landed on.
Arthur smiled at her and she felt a bit better. She’d done that right.
“Four things you can touch. Name me four things you can touch right now.”
Four things she could touch. Like, in theory? Or four things she was actively touching? She frowned.
“My robes. Uhm… Shirt. Your shirt. M’wand… my hair…”
“Excellent. Now listen for me. I need you to give me three things you can hear.”
She had to swallow again and take a few deep breaths to hear over her heartbeat, but it was slowing enough that it was a reasonable request in a moment.
“The fires in the braziers. My breathing. Your voice.”
“Two things you can smell.”
“…Ink. Parchment.”
“Now one thing you can taste.”
This one was harder, but she took a moment to think about it.
“Bile.”
“Brilliant. Well done,” Arthur coached. His eyes and voice were equally soft, and the shame started to sink in. “Keep your breaths deep and slow for me. I’m going to give you my water bottle,” he said, and he waited for her nod before he let go of her hand to do just that.
She coughed through the water, but it sliced through the fire burning her down cool and clean. Almost enough to make her feel like a person again. She handed it back, and that’s when the shame began to set in.
He must’ve seen it, because he shushed her before she opened her mouth.
“No apologies. May I give you a hug?”
She didn’t feel herself nod, but she did, and he pulled her in tight and strong as if to glue her crumbling pieces back together. It was remarkably effective.
As coherence returned to her, so too did reality.
She still had to tell him.
“Arthur-“
He pulled back, taking her by the shoulders and looking her right in the eyes. He spoke in a calm so deadly and final it felt like the fall of the axe.
“Ginny, I will find the person who did this.”
Ginny still hasn’t told him.
🫠🌪
A duelling club. Just what they need in the midst of this mess. Well, Arthur supposes it’s better than if they’d set it up when that whole house rivalry thing was going down. Still, what are they hoping to accomplish? Duels are an entirely different thing to self defence.
Whatever the case, the kids seem eager, so Arthur tags along to the first meeting in the Great Hall.
Gone are the long dining tables that were, until recently, segregated by house. The typical thousands of candles light the space, but they are significantly lower than usual tonight, providing the space a closer, cosier atmosphere than it usually boasts for the modest crowd. Quite a few people have come, but not half so many as usually eat here at mealtimes. The ceiling is velvety black tonight- it’s late enough that the stars are out in their full glory. Arthur nearly forgets himself in charting them before he has to snap himself back, remembering he is not at the prow of a ship tracking a route through the heavens or arguing with Merlin about the constellations, but here and now.
“I wonder who’ll be teaching us?” Hermione whispers as they edge into the chattering crowd.
“I’d say it’ll most likely be old Flitwick,” Draco drawls. “He was a duelling champ back in his prime.”
“As long as it’s not —” Arthur begins, but he ends on a groan: Gilderoy Lockhart struts grandly onto the stage as if to spite him, resplendent in robes of deep plum and accompanied by none other than Arthur’s second least favourite teacher. Maybe third.
“Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent!”
“Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little duelling club, to train you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions — for full details, see my published works.
“Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape,” said Lockhart, flashing a wide smile. “He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about duelling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don’t want any of you youngsters to worry — you’ll still have your Potions master when I’m through with him, never fear!”
“Wouldn’t it be good if they finished each other off?” Ron mutters into Harry’s ear.
Snape’s upper lip has curled. It might’ve been curled since before they turned up. Arthur is rather enjoying it.
Lockhart and Snape turn to face each other and bow, one a lot more respectfully than the other. They really are like night and day, with Lockhart’s manufactured radiance practically washing the stage in gold and Snape’s cold pallor equally refuting it. They raise their wands in the traditional way. Arthur’s never seen a real duel (where the loser dies) begin like that. The rules of duelling for sport are very different to the ones he knows.
“As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position,” Lockhart announces. “On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Harry murmurs, watching Snape baring his teeth.
Sure enough, Snape makes a proper fool out of Lockhart, and the git quickly realises that pursuing demonstration will just ensure further humiliation. Instead he pairs people up with instructions to disarm only. Arthur rolls his eyes- they haven’t even been taught the rules yet and they’re whipping wands out. How did this man earn a teaching degree?
“Scared, Potter?” Draco hisses with relish, grinning ear to ear, all up in Harry’s face. Neither of them seem to notice, but their intense staring into each other’s eyes has left them so close that Harry’s stormcloud of hair is cushioning Draco’s forehead. There will be a Draco-shaped imprint left in it when they separate.
“You wish,” Harry whispers back.
Like hell. Arthur raises his hand.
“Something wrong, Penn?” Snape drawls empirically, raising one dark eyebrow.
“Could we have a demonstration on blocking unfriendly spells, first?” he asks flatly. He’d usually play it innocent, but he is under no such obligation with Tim Burton over here. They’re on the same wavelength.
“A little nervous, are we, Arthur? Not to worry, I won’t let anything happen to you,” Lockhart leans in and winks jovially. Arthur blinks tiredly back.
Arthur meant that he wanted the competent teacher to show them how to defend themselves, but alas, Lockhart has to play the hero, and Snape, too Snape for his own good, is all too happy for an excuse to hex him. Or, in this case, toss a snake at him.
Sure. Why not.
Arthur has to give it to him, it’s pretty funny- or it would be, if the school wasn’t on high alert for an heir of Slytherin and a monster to match. Obviously a common garden snake isn’t running around petrifying people, but it’s still just not in good taste right now. Still, it’s not a complete travesty.
No, what’s a travesty is that Lockhart makes a mess of trying to get rid of the thing and Harry has to step in and talk it down.
Arthur more or less understands Parseltongue. Sal even taught him enough basic commands to get by with his little nightmare in the case of the shower incident repeating itself (which it did, more than once). It’s been a long time, but Arthur knows what Harry’s saying when he tells the snake to chill out. In Parseltongue.
Snape deals with the snake while everyone’s freaking out about that, and Arthur takes the opportunity to shunt his little posse the fuck out of there post-haste.
No sooner has he accomplished this than Ron’s pushed Harry into a chair, one of the many in the vacant classroom they’ve found for themselves.
“You’re a Parselmouth. Why didn’t you tell us?” he demands.
“I’m a what?”
“A Parselmouth!” Ron repeats. “You can talk to snakes!”
“I know,” Harry says. “I mean, I talk to Goldie all the time. And I accidentally set a boa constrictor on my cousin Dudley at the zoo once — long story — but it was telling me it had never seen Brazil and I sort of set it free without meaning to -– that was before I knew I was a wizard —”
“A boa constrictor told you it had never seen Brazil?” Ron repeats faintly.
”You knew this, I told you I was hearing voices-“
”Hearing snake and speaking snake are WILDLY DIFFERENT THINGS-“
“Okay, everybody relax. Harry, Parseltongue is a language spoken by snakes and their kin. It’s not a very common gift anymore, but it’s perfectly natural. It must be in your bloodline.”
“This is bad, Harry,” Hermione worries.
“What’s bad?” the poor boy refutes angrily. “What’s wrong with everyone? Listen, if I hadn’t told that snake not to attack Justin —”
“It was in Slytherin’s bloodline, Harry,” Draco states calmly.
The group goes silent. Harry’s mouth falls open as this registers.
“So… so everyone thinks that…”
“Exactly,” Hermione finishes gravely.
“But I’m not,” Harry promises, sounding a little panicky.
“You’ll find that hard to prove,” Hermione continues. “He lived about a thousand years ago; for all we know, you could be.”
Ron goes to bed early that night. Daisy, who he’s taken to carrying around in his pocket, did not appreciate the snake, and probably needs to sleep off the trauma. With him gone and Em’s absence more tangible than ever, no one’s surprised that Hermione bows out pretty soon too. Arthur figures the worst thing he can do is make a big deal about it, so he leaves the other two to disappear like he so frequently does with a determined march to his step.
Since the meeting isn’t actually supposed to end for a while, Harry has some time to kill. He has no idea what to do with it. He doesn’t want to go back to the Gryffindor dorms. He doesn’t think he wants to be anywhere right now. He thinks about it for so long he ends up just staying where he is. He’s not sure why Draco would rather spend his time in an empty classroom than anywhere else, but he can’t exactly talk, so he doesn’t ask. Draco pulls out a book from somewhere and reads. He doesn’t say anything about Harry just sort of sitting and staring at nothing for frankly way too long, charting the silver-blues the moonlight paints the walls. He doesn’t even look up. It’s nice.
“The hat wanted to put me in Slytherin,” Harry admits quietly after maybe half an hour.
Draco finally looks up from his book. His eyebrows flick up in surprise. He doesn’t have much eyebrow to speak of, being platinum blonde, but his face remains expressive nonetheless. He looks like a ghost in the silver-blue- or maybe like a reflection in a puddle. His eyes are crystal clear. He glows as softly as the moon. He puts his book aside.
“Really?” he asks.
Harry nods. He feels silly now.
“...I asked it not to,” he says a little shamefully.
Harry can feel those eyes staring into him for a long time, but he doesn’t feel the need to look up. He feels surprisingly comfortable. All that silence, probably.
“I don’t blame you,” Draco admits.
Harry’s head whips up to stare back at him in shock, eyes wide. Did he hear that correctly?
“It’s not… warm, like Gryffindor. Not if you don’t have friends, connections… if you don’t…” Draco sighs, trying to word it right. He dislikes flubbering, but he dislikes misspeaking more. “I think it’s supposed to be a house that it isn’t. There are traces of it everywhere. But no one talks about them. Everyone has a place.” he shrugs. “Maybe this is just a bad time to be a green.”
“If I had gone to Slytherin, maybe I could’ve done something,” Harry muses. “Helped. At least we could’ve shared a dorm and suffered together.”
Draco snorts. Change isn’t that simple. Harry is such a child.
“I think we are helping,” is what Draco says aloud.
He continues to consider Potter. Short little runt with more hair than sense. Glasses that sit crooked on his nose and don’t even fit him.
Ambitious. Cunning. Loyal.
He would’ve looked good in green.