Chapter 1: The Athame (September, 1997)
Chapter Text
Chapter One: The Athame
September, 1997
There was something strangled about the way Ginny said goodbye to her family on Platform 9 ¾. Her mother kept reaching for her hair, brushing it out of her face with trembling fingers and smoothing it down her back with each of her many hugs (her arms spasmed with the last one, and Ginny’s fingers clenched in her mother’s cardigan, and she pretended she didn’t hear the way Molly’s breath shuddered in her ear). All around them, similar scenes played out.
Nobody wanted to say that things were different this year, but there were two men hovering by the door to the engine car and though they were dressed as Aurors, the sneers they wore were sinister. The conductor himself glanced between them and the schoolchildren boarding the Hogwarts Express nervously.
Molly released her grip on Ginny to allow Bill to help her onto the train and deposit her trunk beside her. Fleur stepped forward with an anxious, impulsive flutter, and Ginny found herself hugging her fiercely around the neck.
“Sois prudente, Sœur,” Fleur murmured into Ginny’s hair, and Ginny let out a shaky breath of her own.
“I will,” she said softly, squeezing Fleur’s hand as they separated.
Bill was there with a big hand at the back of her head and a kiss on the forehead, just as he’d done when she was small, and then the three of them had stepped back. Her father was at the Ministry more and more frequently since Scrimgeour’s death and Thickness’ rise in ranks, and Ginny found herself longing for the comfort of his presence. She smiled, though, at the family that had come to see her off, and nodded firmly as though she could convince all of them that it would be alright.
Luna appeared at her side. The first whistle blew.
“Hello Ginny,” Luna said, her voice mild as always but her eyes uncommonly present. “Hello Weasleys. Ginny and I will have many of our classes together this year.”
Molly’s smile was tremulous. “That’s lovely, dear,” she said. “It is very important to keep our friends close.”
“Oh yes,” Luna said, “I quite agree.”
“Take care of one another,” Bill said quietly, “and no unnecessary risks. Walk the corridors in groups whenever possible, and arrange secure ways to get messages to one another. Don’t –”
The second whistle sounded. Ginny glanced at her watch. It was nearly eleven o’clock.
“ – Don’t forget, you know the castle better than they do.”
Ginny looked at Bill sharply, and then at her mother. Molly was gazing at her with a strange sort of fire in her eyes. Bill, Ginny thought, looked just as he had that summer in Egypt after her first year. He’d told her then that she would be wiser for the pain she had endured, and she hadn’t believed him. She did now.
“I won’t forget,” Ginny said.
“We’ll see you for Yule,” Molly said.
The final whistle sounded. Ginny and Luna withdrew into the train and Fleur closed the door for them, but not before slipping a small parcel into Ginny’s hand.
“For you,” she said, and blew Ginny a kiss. “A birthday present. Late, yes, but – you know.”
The train coughed to life and started its slow roll away from the station. Ginny thought she saw her mother’s face crumple just a little, but then Bill had his arm wrapped around her and his other hand on his wife’s back, and the three of them stood tall, holding onto one another, watching the train depart.
Ginny gripped the edge of the window with numb fingers and took a deep breath. Luna leaned against her shoulder, reassuringly solid.
“Come on, Ginny,” she said, “we ought to find Neville. I expect we’ll have plenty to talk about.”
***
It wasn’t until Ginny was sitting on her familiar four-poster in Gryffindor Tower that she pulled Fleur’s parcel out of her robes. The castle felt bigger, colder, and more hostile than it had since she’d wandered it with ink-stained fingers and Tom Riddle whispering in her ear. Tom’s presence wasn’t in a diary or even in her head this time, but Ginny recognized it in the curl of Snape’s lips as he sat where Professor Dumbledore had once sat, lounging like a spoiled prince in the grand headmaster’s chair. It was in the way Amycus and Alecto Carrow, mirror images of one another in both looks and cruelty, looked out at their new students with a sadistic kind of glee. And it was in the way that the Great Hall had never been consumed by such a grim quiet as it was after that sickening train ride – the false Aurors swooping through carriages with their wands out, the second year Ravenclaw girl they had frightened to tears, and the split lip that Neville wore proudly after a swift hex met his firm, He’s not here, idiots, when two men Ginny had been sure she’d seen tearing apart the marquee at Bill and Fleur’s wedding entered their car.
She’d known what it would be like, she reminded herself. They’d all seen this coming. She’d felt the fog of war settle over all of them, thicker in her lungs since she’d guided Harry away from the broken body of Albus Dumbledore where it lay at the base of the Astronomy Tower, limbs strewn grotesquely like a puppet with its strings cut. Not even the staunchest politician could hold onto the illusion of peace in the face of the rage and grief of an entire generation as they bore witness to the fall of the only man that Lord Voldemort ever feared. Ginny opened the window by her bed. It was a new moon, and exceptionally dark, but the breeze carried the last of summer’s warmth and the buzz of insects was reassuring in the eerie stillness of the sixth year girls’ dormitory. It was past time to make a plan.
Fleur’s package was heavy in her hand despite being no larger than a quill. She remembered Fleur’s grip on it, the way she had pressed it into Ginny’s hands like she was passing on a lifeline. Ginny pulled loose the twine tied around the paper it was wrapped in as realization of what she held began to dawn on her. A Damascus steel knife lay in her lap, mother-of pearl phases of the moon set in the blackened wood of the handle. Her wand grew warm in the pocket of her robes and, for the first time since the attack at the wedding, Ginny felt steady.
***
Ginny lay with the athame under her pillow that night, her fingers curled loosely around its handle. She slept very little.
Her grandmother had an athame, and so did her mother. She’d spent hours watching Molly use hers to harvest herbs and cut knitting yarn and perform all manner of green and household witchcraft. Ginny had a thousand questions she wished she had asked when she had the chance. She also had plans.
She thought about the stubborn, angry set of Neville’s jaw and Luna’s unwavering calmness, and she wondered if, perhaps, they might be able to reclaim a bit of Hogwarts after all.
It was with that comforting thought that she rose the next day and prepared herself for the first day of term. Her school robes were old, but they’d been tailored to fit her well by her mother’s careful wandwork. Her uniform felt like armor. She pinned her hair up into a simple twist, performed a lightweight charm on her schoolbag, and tucked her wand into her pocket. She hesitated a moment before sliding the athame into her bag. It wasn’t as though they were banned – plenty of witches still practiced the Old Religion, and many potions masters preferred them to any old knife when it came to the preparation of ingredients. And something about it made her feel just a little safer.
Her roommates, Evelyn Fairweather, Forsythia Anand, and Ingrid Earling, were in varying states of preparedness for the day. Forsythia had one sock on and was rubbing her eyes with kohl, while Evelyn perched beside her on the vanity chatting away and plaiting her long, black hair. Ingrid looped her arm through Ginny’s and said, “I expect our schedules will be somehow worse this year, yes?”
“Oh yes,” she said, “it’ll be a dreadful year for sure. Are you trying for a NEWT in Ancient Runes?”
Ingrid nodded and looked rather miserable about it. “My mamma seems to think I ought to consider a career in translation, but I’d rather feed myself to one of Hagrid’s Skrewts, personally.”
Ginny grinned at the normalcy of it all and, as Evelyn and Forsythia scrambled for the last of their belongings, opened the door.
“Let’s get through breakfast first, shall we?”
Professor McGonagall was walking the length of the Gryffindor table with schedules and Ginny wondered, not for the first time, at her composure. Even the ceiling in the Great Hall was gloomier than usual, all grey clouds and distant rumbles of thunder, but Ginny’s head of house was as austere as always. She spoke gently to the first years and Ginny watched her place a reassuring hand on Seamus Finneagan’s shoulder as she handed him his schedule. He and Ginny’s own former boyfriend, Dean Thomas, had finally talked out the unspoken tension that had been bubbling between them for years, and not a week later Dean had fled in an attempt to protect his Muggle parents. Seamus looked drawn and pale, but managed a smile at McGonagall before she moved towards the sixth year girls just as Neville took a seat across from Ginny.
“Seamus looks miserable,” Ginny whispered to him.
“He was right distraught last night,” Neville admitted quietly, buttering a scone. “Said Dean’s been communicating with him through the D.A. galleons, but he hasn’t gotten a message since the day before last.”
Ginny grimaced and pushed her plate of eggs away, the dread multiplying. She picked up her tea instead.
“The galleons, though,” she said, thrusting one hand into the pocket of her robes to reach for her own, but then McGonagall was there.
“Good morning students,” she said, her voice betraying no more fear than her demeanor. She passed out schedules amongst the group, tapping her wand against one occasionally to make any changes discussed. “I would warn you,” she told Ginny, “that Muggle Studies may be quite a different course than you remember it being under Professor Burbage.”
Her voice cracked at the mention of her colleague’s name.
The unshakable Professor McGonagall had betrayed a moment of emotion, and the air went out of Ginny’s lungs. It was as she’d suspected but not dared to ask - Professor Burbage was dead. She looked at Professor McGonagall for a moment, eyes glazed, and McGonagall offered her a similar pat on the shoulder to the one she’d just seen Seamus receive.
Ginny took a deep breath and forced her hands to remain steady where they were wrapped around her teacup. When the ripples in her tea subsided, she spoke.
“Yes Professor,” she said, “but nonetheless, I would like to see that class through. I am hoping for a NEWT in the subject, if you’ll remember.”
McGonagall smiled faintly. “Of course, Miss Weasley.” She tapped Ginny’s schedule once with her wand. The words on the paper shifted, then settled, and Ginny took it with a tentative smile of her own.
Ginny surveyed her schedule with some trepidation as McGonagall moved on to her dorm mates and Neville. She wished fervently, and not for the first time, that preparing for her NEWTs would be her biggest challenge this year. Looking up at Amycus and Alecto Carrow, Ginny knew her worries would lie elsewhere.
She had scored especially well in her Ancient Runes, Muggle Studies, Potions, and Defense Against the Dark Arts OWLs. She would likely go for NEWTs in Transfiguration, Charms, History of Magic, and Arithmancy as well. She had spoken with Professor McGonagall last term about her future career, but had yet to land on anything that felt right. She supposed this was in part because from where she stood, it was difficult to see past the next week or so.
Professor McGonagall was moving on to her next group of students, and Ginny found herself clutching the galleon in her pocket once again. She turned to Neville.
“The D.A. galleons,” she said softly. Neville looked up.
“What about them?”
“We need to communicate with what’s left of the D.A.,” Ginny said. “You and I both know this year won’t be peaceful.”
Neville’s face clouded again, but he nodded firmly.
“You’re right,” he said, “but who’s going to lead us?”
Ginny threw him a sharp look. “No one is going to lead us, Neville. It’s on us now.” She stood, gathered her bookbag and her new schedule, and turned towards the Ravenclaw table. “I’ll catch up with you at lunch. I’ve got to speak with Luna.”
***
Luna gave Ginny a sunny smile as she approached.
“Do you have your D.A. galleon?” Ginny asked without preamble. She glanced up at the Head Table. Snape was eyeing her with distaste, and the Carrows had followed his glare to the girl in the Gryffindor robes whispering with a Ravenclaw. Alecto shifted in her chair, gathering her robes about her stout frame and arranging her cruel face into a sinister smile.
Luna touched a chain around her neck and nodded. “I haven’t taken it off since fourth year,” she said. “It seems to dispel the Wrackspurts.”
Ginny nodded. “Yes. Keep it on. I’ll send word by lunch. We’re going to need to spread the word safely,” she said, “that the D.A. is returning.”
Luna smiled brightly, no trace of flightiness left on her face.
“Oh yes,” she said, “I think that’s a wonderful idea, Ginny.”
“I’d better be off,” Ginny said. Alecto had stood from her chair and placed a short, thick wand to her throat.
“Yes, seems like,” Luna said. “See you in Ancient Runes.”
Ginny turned away from the Ravenclaw table just as Alecto’s amplified voice carried across the hall: “Students,” she said without an ounce of anything but malice in her voice or face, “shall remain at their House tables while in the Great Hall. Unless there is something you would like to share with the rest of us, I see no reason for you to be whispering amongst yourselves.”
Ginny’s gut went cold at the sound of Alecto’s voice. It was raspy and grating. Ginny turned slowly to face the Head Table, constructing a carefully bland expression as she did so.
“Apologies, Professor,” she called brightly, “we were only comparing schedules.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” said Alecto, baring her teeth in what might have been a grin if it hadn’t been so chilling. “What is your name, girl?”
“Ginny Weasley.”
“I might’ve guessed,” Alecto said. “Best to stick with your own kind, Weasley. No need to contaminate the air of your fellow students with anything you might have to say.”
Ginny swallowed a retort, her carefully blank mask slipping just enough that she could feel the heat of her temper creeping up her neck.
“Sure thing, Professor,” she spat, her own smile no more friendly than Alecto’s. She turned on her heel, knuckles white as she gripped the D.A. galleon in her pocket, and strode straight towards the doors of the Great Hall.
She hadn’t quite reached the end of the tables before she stumbled. The stinging hex that Alecto had flung from across the room had caught the back of her heel, and sharp pain radiated from her Achilles’ tendon up her right calf in thin, brutal tendrils. Ginny choked on a grunt as her ankle buckled, but managed to hold herself upright. She turned slowly, hands shaking once again. Alecto stood, wand raised, her protruding bottom lip wobbling with real glee as she watched Ginny fight for composure.
“Your table, I said, Weasley,” Alecto said. McGonagall had paused near the end of the Gryffindor table. She was watching Ginny with a fistful of student schedules now crumpled in her hand. Ginny looked towards her peers. Neville’s face was a concerning shade of puce, Seamus was halfway out of his seat, and Ingrid’s lips were white.
“Of course, Professor,” Ginny said. Alecto’s eyebrows rose. Ginny took a shaky step towards the Gryffindor table, gritting her teeth at the waspish, tingling pain that spread up her leg like pins and needles. Alecto smiled, satisfied, and settled herself once again into her seat. The entire Great Hall seemed to let out a breath, and Ginny sat down heavily at the Gryffindor table, this time closer to the seventh years than her own friends. Seamus passed her a goblet of pumpkin juice, and she nodded to him gratefully.
“Out of her bloody buggering mind,” he muttered, still staring at Alecto Carrow. “A right nightmare, that one.”
“She can’t be worse than Umbridge, can she?” Lavender Brown whispered.
“I’ll bet she can,” Ginny said darkly. “She’s not trying to pass as one of the good ones.”
Lavender shuddered. “What’ll we do?”
Ginny shrugged. “What we did with Umbridge. But better.”
“The D.A.?”” Seamus asked, dropping his voice and leaning in.
“We’ll need it,” Ginny said. “We need to create a safe space for the younger kids and anyone who might be targeted. And we need to practice fighting. This year is going to be different.”
Lavender, to Ginny’s surprise, nodded solemnly. “How can I help?”
Ginny raised an eyebrow at her and then looked to Seamus, who was nodding. On Lavender’s other side, Parvati Patil caught Ginny’s eye and offered her a grim smile. Ginny took a deep breath, wondering how she had become, in a matter of hours, the de facto leader of a child army. The resistance, she thought to herself, remembering suddenly the photograph that Mad-Eye Moody had brandished about during her time at Grimmauld Place. It had looked more like a class photo than a military operation. Ginny remembered watching a young and unburdened Sirius Black, eyes bright and cheeks not yet sunken, slinging his arm around a blushing Remus Lupin and shoving a laughing James Potter into Lily Potter’s side. They were tussling children and they were going to war, just like Tom Riddle was a bright and charming sixteen year old and an irredeemable madman all at once.
Shaking her head slowly, Ginny looked back at her peers and said, “Meet me in the common room directly after dinner. I’ll work on getting the message out to our friends in other Houses.”
***
Ginny all but floated through her first day of classes on a dizzying wave of dissociation. Luna appeared at her side as they were entering Ancient Runes, and squeezed Ginny’s arm gently.
“How was Potions?” Ginny asked.
“Oh, very strange,” Luna said, “Professor Slughorn is not himself. I did speak with Astoria Greengrass, though.”
Ginny raised an eyebrow at Luna’s mention of the Slytherin, the delicate-looking younger sister of Daphne Greengrass, a seventh year who spent much of her time in the company of Draco Malfoy and his gang. Astoria herself was quiet and studious, and had, to Ginny’s knowledge, remained carefully neutral since Tom Riddle’s return.
“You and Astoria –”
“Are friends,” Luna said serenely, but Ginny recognized the dangerous lilt underneath that reminded her that Luna would not tolerate an implicit bias against anyone – not even a Slytherin. She considered for a moment, and Luna let her, and then she nodded.
“Alright,” she said, “she’ll be a good contact to have in case any of the Slytherins who aren’t standing with Riddle want our help.”
“Yes,” Luna said, “she will.”
Professor Babbling swept into the room in a cloud of robes with parchment spilling out of her hands. She looked hassled and shared the same guarded, anxious look as many of the professors who weren’t obvious Death Eater plants. She tugged her wand from her messy bun and said a brisk, “Wands out, my dears! We shall begin our year with runecrafting for personal protection,” and the class complied readily, no doubt thinking, like Ginny herself, that there were sure to be plenty of opportunities to practice such runes this year.
Before they left the classroom, Ginny had a good handle on the structure of her personal protection rune, and Luna was scribbling two separate sets of notes on personal and communal protection.
“I’ll speak with the Gryffindors tonight,” Ginny said. “Will you do the same for the Ravenclaws? I’m sure Padma will help.”
“Of course,” Luna said, “and I’ll ask Astoria to alert her trusted friends in Slytherin.”
“I’ll make sure Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones take care of the Hufflepuffs. Send me a message once you’ve met with the others and we’ll gather a group of leaders from each house.”
Luna smiled at Ginny and tapped her notes, drying the ink instantly, and then made a copy which she tucked into Ginny’s bag.
“We’ll talk soon. Try to actually eat at dinner tonight,” Luna said kindly.
Ginny couldn’t deny her that.
***
Ginny sat on the floor of the Gryffindor common room that evening directly after dinner, soaking up the heat of the fire and reading through Luna’s notes on protection runes. Neville was slumped in an armchair nearby, staring into the flames and fidgeting with his wand. Seamus joined them quietly and Lavender and Parvati, more inseparable than usual, walked over arm in arm with a handful of younger students trailing after them. Everyone settled into seats with various bits of homework, and after a few tense, quiet moments, Ginny spoke.
“This year won’t be easy,” she said softly, eyes still on Luna’s notes. No one responded, but she felt their attention acutely. “Harry Potter isn’t on the run. He’s working on something – something that’ll take down Voldemort for good.” Ginny was proud to see that many of her friends refused to flinch at the use of Tom Riddle’s chosen name; a few of the younger kids inhaled sharply and the unease grew amongst their group, but they were listening raptly, so Ginny kept talking. “He hasn’t abandoned us, and we won’t abandon him. And moreso, we won’t abandon one another. Lord Voldemort has a name, you know. A real one. Tom Riddle. He won’t call himself that because it makes him too real, too ordinary. That’s the truth, isn’t it?” Ginny glanced up from her runes. Her voice had remained soft and even, and her audience had continued to remain, by all appearances, focused on their own work. A first year, so small that Ginny couldn’t help but recall herself at that age, walking around in the grip of a Dark Lord whose power she couldn’t fully grasp, had abandoned the Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 in favor of gazing at Ginny in wonder. She flushed when Ginny caught her eye and looked quickly down at her book once more, but Ginny smiled a little and gratefully accepted the strength that the girl’s awe had granted her.
“That’s the truth,” she said again. “Riddle wants us at the mercy of fear, because if we are, then we will never rally the strength to resist. But he underestimates us. Hogwarts is our home, and the people Riddle wants to target are our community. And that is something that Tom Riddle will never again have – a community.”
“Hear, hear!” Seamus whispered, hoarse and clearly somewhat overcome with emotion. Lavender reached for his hand and offered Ginny a swift, beaming smile before ducking her head once more and returning to the Divination homework she was pouring over with Parvati.
Ginny caught her breath and then pushed on. “We are going to protect one another this year,” she said, “and we are going to resist. If you want that, if you can do that, then come to myself or to Neville. Those of you who still have your D.A. coins from two years ago, keep them close. I’ll send a message by week’s end and we’ll gather for our first meeting with those from the other Houses who want in. In the meantime, look out for one another. Anyone you see sitting by this fire tonight is a safe person,” she said, looking at the huddle of first and second years pointedly, “come to us for help, and we will help.”
Ginny finished speaking and picked up a quill, adding notations to the margins of Luna’s notes. Neville spoke quietly with Seamus, who was nodding along with a fire in his eyes that Ginny knew to preclude something explosive. Parvati and Lavender headed up to their dormitory, and everyone else dispersed slowly. Ingrid sat herself down next to Ginny and pulled out her own parchment, quill, and texts to start on the essay Professor Flitwick had assigned on Sameera Hanifus’ work on the theory of nonverbal charms.
“Is it true?” Ingrid asked softly after a few minutes of the girls scratching away in companionable silence. “About You-Know-Who’s name?”
Ginny nodded silently.
“People still talk, you know, about what happened to you in our first year. No one really knows.”
Ginny’s stomach clenched, but she met Ingrid’s eyes unflinchingly.
“I’m not always sure I know,” Ginny said.
Ingrid considered her for a moment, as if looking for something. Ginny did not look away, as much as she wanted to, and Ingrid seemed to find what she sought.
“He told you his name, didn’t he?” Ingrid asked, and Ginny’s stomach lurched again.
“Yes,” she said, “he did.”
***
That night, Ginny removed the athame from her book bag along with the leather journal Bill had gifted her for her birthday the year prior. She’d yet to write in it, but had packed it in her Hogwarts trunk anyway on account of she was a Gryffindor, and she would work up the nerve eventually. Her protection rune was rough at best, but it seemed like a good place to start.
With remarkably steady hands, Ginny carved the rune into the leather of the diary using the tip of the athame. For a moment, it remained nothing but an unsightly rip in otherwise-pristine leather, but then it seemed to sink into the book, healing itself like a wound. For a moment, the shape of the rune emitted a soft, yellow glow. Then it faded. Ginny felt a familiar warmth rise in her chest – the kind that her magic offered whenever it was particularly pleased.
She had done enough for the night, she decided, and put the diary away without writing in it. Wouldn’t want to overdo it.
***
Over the next three days, much of Gryffindor house approached herself and Neville. Parvati, who had a knack for charms, and Seamus, who consistently managed some of the strangest magic that Ginny had ever seen, managed to recreate Hermione’s Protean charm so that new members of the D.A. could send and receive communications. By Friday morning, new galleons had been passed out to six Gryffindors, four Ravenclaws, twelve Hufflepuffs, and five Slytherins. Ginny, Neville, and Luna had asked Hannah Abbott and Astoria Greengrass to meet them in the third floor corridor across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy during lunch hour on Friday, and they had agreed.
So Ginny was sat against the wall as Barnabas demonstrated a perfect plie to a handful of trolls who stumbled over one another to claim places at the barre.
“You as well, young lady!” Barnabas cried, beckoning Ginny.
“Mum gave up on my ballet lessons after I used one of my pointe shoes to slingshot a gnome when I was twelve.”
“Disgraceful!” Barnabas sputtered, and Ginny grinned brazenly.
“Stop harassing Barnabas, Ginny, you know how he is.”
Ginny huffed and elbowed Neville in the side as he sank to the floor next to her, Hannah not far behind.
“Oh please,” she said, “if anything he’s harassing me.”
“Luna says you were quite good at ballet, actually,” Neville said lightly.
“I was, but keeping my brothers in line was difficult enough when I wasn’t wearing tutus around the house.”
“Shame,” Neville said, and Ginny shrugged.
Hannah was watching their exchange with patient amusement, and had joined them on the floor. She and Neville were sitting quite close, Ginny noticed with a smile. Luna and Astoria were the last to appear, Astoria clearly anxious and whispering to Luna.
“Hi,” Ginny said, and the girls looked at her.
“Hello, Ginny,” Luna said, “I’m rather in the mood for a cozy fire.”
Ginny grinned and stood. “Alright then. Want to help me out?”
“Certainly,” Luna said, looping her arm through Ginny’s.
Astoria, Hannah, and Neville watched as Luna and Ginny paced the corridor once, twice, then three times, murmuring to one another.
“Books on defense –”
“A fireplace, please.”
“Training areas and soft couches –”
“Ooh, one of those war tables where we can plan our moves!”
“And a table for eating.”
“An escape route,” Luna said.
“Protection wards,” Ginny finished, “against everyone who would wish us ill. Against every Death Eater and Death Eater sympathizer, and especially against Snape.”
The door appeared. Luna reached for the handle and it swung open. The five students filed inside, and when it swung shut behind them, Barnabas and his trolls paused to watch the door fade out of existence.
***
The Room of Requirement had outdone itself. The far corner contained several bookshelves that positively sagged with books, a blazing fireplace, and a few squashy couches complete with throw blankets and extra cushions. Another corner of the room was clearly set up for practical training, and looked much as the entire room had two years ago when Harry, Ron, and Hermione had led the D.A. A thin barrier shimmered in a dome over that area, a protective shield set up by the room to contain spells gone awry. Hannah tapped it with a finger and it rippled, reverberating like a drum. There were bathrooms set into one wall, a long dining table, and even, as Luna had requested, a war table. Set right into the tabletop was a map of Hogwarts and its grounds. Luna squealed happily and began inspecting it.
Neville was across the room, though, staring at a trapdoor set into the wall.
“Luna’s escape route?” Hannah asked softly, and Neville nodded slowly. The others gathered behind him.
“Should we…?” Astoria asked, clearly cautious.
“We probably should,” Ginny said. “It wouldn’t do to have a trapdoor in our safehouse if we don’t know where it leads, right?”
“Where do you think it leads, though?” Hannah asked.
“The Shrieking Shack?” Neville suggested.
“Somewhere in Hogsmeade, likely,” Astoria said.
“The Forbidden Forest?” Ginny mused.
“It’s supposed to be a safe exit,” Astoria said. Ginny shrugged.
“I’ll go,” Luna said. Everyone turned to look at her.
“Luna –” Neville started, but Luna was already prying the trapdoor open.
“I’ll need a boost,” she said.
“You shouldn’t go alone!” Hannah said.
“I’ll go with her,” Neville said. “The rest of you should stay. We’ll send yellow sparks down the tunnel if we need help, green if it’s safe, and red if you ought to get out and seal the room.”
It was a good plan, Ginny had to concede, but that didn’t stop her heart from hammering in her chest.
“Be careful,” she said, “and use muffliato. Come back as soon as you get a look at what’s on the other end.”
Neville nodded and gave Ginny an awkward pat on the shoulder. Luna smiled brightly at Ginny. Then Neville was boosting her up and she was crawling into the dark tunnel beyond the door. The remaining girls helped Neville climb through. He lit his wand with a whispered “Lumos” and the girls watched his wandlight bob down the length of the tunnel until it was swallowed by the darkness.
Astoria was eyeing her watch. “We’ll give them ten minutes,” she said, “then I say we seal the room, sparks or not.”
“Are you crazy?” Ginny snapped. “Ten minutes and we go after them! We’re not trapping them in here.”
“Better they make their own way back to the castle than let whatever’s waiting on the other end of that tunnel in,” Astoria said firmly.
“Fine. Seal the room if you must, but I’ll be going after them. I’m not leaving them at the mercy of –”
“Ginny! Astoria!” Hannah cried.
“What?” both girls snapped, wheeling to face her. She was scowling disapprovingly.
“We’re already fighting and we haven’t even had our first meeting yet. We have a plan. We’ll wait for sparks,” Hannah said firmly.
Ginny and Astoria stood toe to toe, and Ginny found herself surprised at how fierce Astoria managed to be despite her somewhat frail appearance. Both girls seemed to examine one another, and then both girls stepped down.
“Hannah’s right,” Ginny said, sizing Astoria up with a newfound respect.
“Hufflepuffs usually are,” Astoria said breezily, but there was a hint of a smile on her face.
Hannah snorted inelegantly, and the three girls looked at one another before Astoria let out a laugh. She almost seemed surprised that she’d done so, but when Hannah and Ginny joined in, the three of them seemed to deflate. Hannah sank into a cross legged position on the rug where they stood, and the other two joined her shortly.
“We’re going to need to find a way to get along,” Ginny said.
“I know how you feel about Slytherins,” Astoria said, not angry, just matter-of-fact. “I’m not expecting your friendship.”
Ginny hesitated; Hannah was watching her expectantly.
“Look, Astoria, we’re all more than our Houses. This sort of division is how we ended up in this mess to begin with, isn’t it?”
Astoria nodded slowly. “Very astute, for a Gryffindor.” She offered Ginny her hand. Ginny accepted it, and returned the gesture with a small smile. Hannah was grinning in a self-satisfied sort of way, but she looked fond as well.
“Not so difficult, is it?” she said.
“Shut it,” Ginny and Astoria said.
There was no heat behind their words. The three girls sat in companionable silence. Seven minutes had passed. Then, green sparks whizzed out of the tunnel with a high whistle and burst at its entrance.
“Oh!” Hannah cried. The girls sprang to their feet. Ginny pulled herself up into the tunnel and reached down a hand to help Astoria and Hannah clamber up.
“Lumos!” Ginny said, and behind her she heard the other girls doing the same. Their wands illuminated a rocky tunnel, barely tall enough for them to stand. They crouched as Neville and Luna had done, and began their trek.
They emerged in an opening of smoother stone. Astoria prodded the wall in front of them with the tip of her still-lit wand.
“Another trap door?” she guessed.
“That doesn’t look like a trap door,” Hannah said. She touched the strange brown paneling, almost paper-like, and then turned to Ginny and Astoria. “That’s the back of a portrait.”
And then the portrait swung open, and there stood Neville, beaming. Behind him, Luna was sat at a small, rickety table with a mug of tea. A man stood in the corner, arms crossed and a scowl fixed to his face. He had a long, unkempt beard and a wild head of silver hair. His sleeves were frayed, and his robes displayed several prominent stains. He looked for all the world like a drunkard one might find slumped in a corner at the Leaky Cauldron, but there was something painfully familiar about the sharp blue of his eyes and the way his lanky frame commanded attention.
“Girls, meet Aberforth Dumbledore,” said Neville as he helped them down from the portrait hole.
It was only once they were all standing on the rough stone floor that Ginny realized they were in the Hog’s Head. It was several beats later that she processed what Neville had said.
“Dumbledore?”
***
Aberforth Dumbledore was, to his own great satisfaction, nothing like his brother. There was no twinkle in his eye, no playfulness about him, and his robes bore far fewer odd designs. He’d set tea on the table in cups too delicate to match the rest of the Hog’s Head’s somewhat crusty decor. It seemed fitting that they should end up right back where the D.A. had begun.
Aberforth was rustling around in the kitchen, grumbling about Albus’ ankle-biters and infernal adolescents. A plump billy goat clopped into the kitchen and huffed at him impatiently, then nudged the backs of Aberforth’s knees with his horns.
“Alright, alright you useless twat, your meal’s coming, as if you need any fattening up – ungrateful devil –”
Aberforth slopped what appeared to be the day’s food scraps into a trough by the door to the fenced-in backyard, ushered the billy goat outside, and then closed and locked the door. He drew the curtains for good measure, and then stomped back over to the table where five nonplussed Hogwarts students sat sipping tea and whispering.
“Well?” Neville asked boldly.
“Some cheek,” Aberforth snapped, but he slumped onto a stool near the kitchen counter and resumed peeling potatoes.
“We need help, and Hogwarts sent us here. I doubt that’s a coincidence, considering –”
Aberforth leveled what could only be described as a snarl at Ginny.
“I’m not my brother,” he said.
“Never said you were,” Ginny said coolly, “but the castle seems to think you’ll help us anyway.”
Aberforth chewed on a potato skin, slicing the peeled tuber in his hand into the pot on the stove. Ginny made a face - Aberforth himself seemed somewhat more goat than man at the moment. But he was thinking, and Ginny couldn’t bring herself to disrupt his deliberation.
“I’ll help,” Aberforth said, “but I’ll not get anywhere near that bloody castle. Dodgy place, always has been. Too many brats.”
“Oh thank you!” Hannah breathed.
“Don’t go getting all weepy on me, girl,” he said, avoiding Hannah’s watery smile. Ginny couldn’t fully blame her. She herself felt nearly weak with relief at the presence of an adult from outside of the castle who was, at least, somewhat sane. The billy goat brayed at the door and Aberforth shouted, “Not now, you great beast,” and Ginny thought, sane enough.
“We might need help, getting Muggleborns out of the castle. And first years, maybe. If things get really bad,” Ginny said.
Aberforth grunted, and Ginny took that as assent. She stood, found a paring knife in a drawer, and picked up a potato. Doing something familiar with her hands, something she’d done at least weekly at the Burrow by her mum’s side since she was tall enough to see over the counter, brought some relief. She thought about the athame in her pocket and wondered if a regular old paring knife, sticky handle and dull blade and all, could hold and channel the same kind of intentions. Safety. Abundance. Nourishment.
“We might ask for supplies. We can try to pay you.”
“Don’t need payment,” Aberforth grunted, to Ginny’s surprise. She sliced the potato into the pot and picked up another.
“We won’t be a burden.”
“Can’t accept coin from a bunch o’ whelps, now, can I?” His voice was thick, and Ginny got the impression that there was more to his objection. Something about Albus’ whelps, perhaps. Some amount of love and loyalty.
Ginny nodded. “Fine. Supplies and – and an escape, if we need it.”
“Don’t be traipsing through here every other eve’n,” Aberforth said, “and we’d best have a way to talk ahead of time.”
Luna stood and pulled out her D.A. coin necklace. “We’ve got these,” she said.
“Bit flashy, not my style,” Aberforth grunted.
“They’re for communication,” Neville said, “we’ll get you an extra one tomorrow evening. I’ll bring it down the passage – just me,” he added at Aberforth’s dark look. Ginny got the impression that regular company wasn’t something the old man much wanted.
In the end, Aberforth sent them back with several jars of potato stew sealed with the same keep-fresh charms Ginny’s mum used on summer vegetables to keep them over winter. They made their way through the dark tunnel in a silent group. When they reemerged in the Room of Requirement, a shelf had sprouted out of a wall near the dining table, perfect for a pantry of stored foods, as if the Room itself knew that they were preparing for the worst. Hannah stacked the jars carefully on the shelf, and Ginny sat on the table with the athame in her hands once more. She turned it over and over in her hands, watching the steel glint in the firelight.
***
Dear Sister,
Thank you for the birthday present. I’ve never held something so beautiful. I’ll take care of it, I promise, but if you have any suggestions on proper use I would be so very grateful. I know you enjoyed potions-making in school, but my skills are more similar to those of my oldest brother. Perhaps the library has a book or two on the use of such an object in those practices. Could you suggest any titles?
School’s alright. Lots of new professors to get used to, but my friends have been a big help when it comes to studying. The new professors seem passionate about their subjects, and seem to prefer hands-on knowledge in areas that we have previously not studied.
I hope all is well back home. My love to Mum, Dad, and the boys. See you at Yule!
Much love,
Red
P.S. The owl’s a bit tetchy, sorry. Owlry’s been busy as of late. He’s really quite sweet once you give him a peanut to nibble.
***
The first Friday in September was unseasonably warm. Sun shone on still-green leaves and the Black Lake glittered peacefully on the horizon. Classes had wrapped up for the day, but most students seemed more inclined to hole up in their dormitories than they had on any other bright Friday in the school’s history. Hogwarts was very still this year, and Ginny found herself more unsettled than comforted by the quiet. Hagrid traipsed across the grounds towards his hut, Fang loping beside him all floppy ears and doleful eyes. Ginny waved as she approached, and Hagrid’s face, so unaccustomed to the worry lines it now bore, broke into a true smile.
“Good ter see ya, Ginny!” he called as she approached. He balanced a 20 kilogram bag of Franklin Finkle’s Fantastical Fauna Fertilizer on one shoulder with ease and hailed her enthusiastically with the other hand.
“Hi Hagrid,” Ginny grinned, accepting his one-armed, bone-crushing hug. “Good to see you’re still kicking about here.”
“Aw, they couldn’t’ah chased me outta here with a herd o’ centaurs! Asides, ol’ Fangy and I have a class ter teach, don’ we?”
“Sure do,” Ginny said.
Hagrid dropped the fertilizer at the doorstep and stomped the mud off his boots before holding the door open for Ginny and Fang. Ginny found the overstuffed armchair by the window without preamble, and curled up like a cat. The hut smelled of straw and earth. Herbs hung in great bunches from the ceiling and a breeze drifted through the cracked window. Hagrid knelt at the hearth, hanging a large kettle and stoking the fire. Fang sniffed around at the folds of his jacket until Hagrid rummaged through his pockets for a bone roughly the size of Ginny’s femur and tossed it to Fang, who flopped on the warming hearth, content.
“So,” Hagrid said as he bustled about the small kitchen, dumping sausages into a pan and poking at some mostly-flat dough under a towel on the table that Ginny assumed he hoped to coax into bread, “what brings yeh out here?”
Ginny hesitated, then shrugged. She pulled her Arithmancy textbook from her school bag and held it up. “Thought I might study?” she said, knowing full-well it was a weak excuse. The reality was, no part of the castle felt like the Hogwarts she knew any longer. Hagrid’s hut, though, was just as it had always been.
Hagrid just grinned, though.
“Yeh know yer welcome here any time,” he said, sounding pleased that she’d thought to visit him at all. “Could get awful lonely out ‘ere without Ron and Harry and Hermione traipsing out to visit me at all hours o’ the day.”
Ginny nearly started at their names spoken aloud. It was odd to hear them referenced so casually now, as though they’d merely gone off for a semester abroad or – or anything less frightening than running off to complete a half-baked plan of Dumbledore’s.
“It’s strange up there without them,” Ginny admitted, hating herself for the tremble in her voice.
The kettle rattled over the fire, and Hagrid cradled it in his hands with large, patched oven mitts. He poured Ginny a cup of tea and gave her what she thought was intended to be a gentle pat on the shoulder, but nearly sloshed her steaming tea all down her front.
“Ah. They’ll be a’right,” Hagrid said gruffly, sinking into a large wooden chair with his own giant mug. “Those three’ve always done what needs ter be done, danger be damned.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Ginny said, and Hagrid nodded sagely.
“Me too,” he said.
Ginny stayed curled up in the soft armchair until the sun began to sink low over the lake. She ate the sausage Hagrid offered her (but didn’t touch the bread, on account of her desire to keep all her teeth where they were), wrote most of an Arithmancy essay, and, feeling brave, she fished the diary out of her bag. With the athame laid beside it, she began a series of runes. The first took little energy from her, but as she drew on she felt the strain of her magic against her ribs, like a muscle she had neglected for too long. The last rune she drew was the fourth, all sharp angles arranged over a harsh vertical line. Binding. Baneful magic, her mother had told her once, is not the same as Dark magic. Baneful magic merely removes. Sends away, like depulso or even expelliarmus. Binding runes are Baneful – not Light and not Dark, and because of this, they hold space for both when returning the intentions of magic to its source. They contain the magic that has been set upon their caster, wrap it up like a little gift, and bind it right back to the soul of its own caster. Ginny’s diagram and analysis of the rune were scattered about the page, and she watched with satisfaction as the rune itself shivered. For a while, all Ginny could do was watch and let her magic feel. The words did not sink into the parchment. No other writing appeared. The rune settled eventually, finding purchase on the page. Ginny’s magic settled with it.
For the first time since Bill and Fleur’s wedding, she let her bones grow heavy with weariness. Once the clock on the wall struck eight, she shifted Fang’s massive head off her lap, gave him one last scratch, and waved goodbye to Hagrid, who sat whittling by the fire. He was making, as far as Ginny could tell, the head of a lion.
***
The first detention of the school year was handed out the following Tuesday by Amycus Carrow himself. From the hungry way he chewed on the word, he’d been waiting for the opportunity to say it the whole of the first week of school. Ginny’s fellow sixth year, Bonnie Fay, stood in the doorway of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, trembling under Amycus’ gaze. He, for his part, looked as though he’d received a rather spectacular gift. Bonnie was tardy, by a whole two minutes and forty seconds. She wrung the end of her yellow tie in her hands, eyes wide and watery.
“What have we here,” Amycus mused through bared teeth. “A little mouse is late for class, eh? That won’t do.”
“I’m sorry, Professor, I –”
Amycus threw up a hand and Bonnie flinched back. This seemed to please him more than her stammered apologies.
“Now, now, dearie, I’ll have no excuses –”
“I was only in the bathroom –”
“DETENTION,” Amycus bellowed, his doughy face wrinkling unpleasantly, spittle flying out of his mouth to land somewhere in the unlucky front row. Then the rage that bubbled just below the surface of his skin seemed to smooth out in a way that left Ginny a little sick to her stomach. “It’s detention for you, little mouse. My office, five o’clock on the dot. You and I will spend the dinner hour together. Now sit, and stop blubbering.”
Bonnie, still trembling, tripped towards a seat next to Ginny. Amycus squinted his beady, cruel eyes at his pale, silent class. Ginny tried to smile kindly at Bonnie, but the nausea had yet to abate, and Bonnie herself looked as if she might lose her lunch at any moment.
The class itself was vile. Amycus had neglected to assign a textbook, but he had stuck a page ripped from one up on the blackboard. It was the Vitruvian Man, and surrounding it, Amycus had drawn arrows with chalk to indicate different body parts.
“We’ll discuss curses today,” he said cheerily, “and where on the human body one might aim them for maximum effect.”
Ginny wondered if he knew that the Vitruvian Man had been drawn by a Muggle.
***
Hannah was waiting by the portrait hole to the Gryffindor common room when Ginny, Ingrid, Evelyn, and Forsythia emerged the next morning.
“Ginny,” Hannah hissed. She’d been chatting with the Fat Lady, who huffed a little at the sudden dismissal.
Ginny waved her dorm mates on, saying, “I’ll catch up with you lot later,” and then let Hannah loop her arm through Ginny’s while flagging Neville and Seamus down as well.
“Is Bonnie okay?” Ginny asked, yesterday’s nausea having lingered through the night.
“Not really,” Hannah said, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. “Oh Ginny, it’s terrible, they’re terrible!”
Neville and Seamus joined them in the corridor.
“What’s terrible?” Neville asked, looking rather distressed at the sight of a teary girl.
“She didn’t come back to the common room until nearly eight last night, and when she did she was – she couldn’t look anyone in the face. And – and –” Hannah lowered her voice, hesitant, “erm, she, well, she said Carrow wouldn’t let her use the loo because, well, that’s why she’d been late.”
Seamus and Neville stared at her, bewildered. Ginny felt that sick swoop in her stomach once again.
“He didn’t,” she said, her voice rough with rage and second-hand humiliation. Hannah nodded.
“What? He – no,” Seamus said, looking a bit ill himself.
“Made her sit there in her own, erm, mess and then had her clean it up with a rag,” Hannah said, blinking back tears. “She was inconsolable when she got back. She’d had her wand with her, so she cleaned herself up as soon as he let her leave, but she spent a good hour in the shower last night just – scrubbing herself raw. Begged me not to let anyone else see her.”
Hannah was clutching Ginny’s arm now, and Ginny felt herself leaning on the older girl as well, nearly blind with rage.
“He’s sick,” Seamus spat as Hannah’s words slowly registered, “a sick fecker.” His face was red and twisted in anger.
“This is – this is only the first detention,” Neville said, horror clear in his voice. “It’ll only get worse.”
“We’ve got to do something,” Ginny said, feeling as if she’d been hollowed out. This was worse than Umbridge, worse than Snape. This was a man only intent on humiliating those in his power. “We’ve got to – he can’t get away with this.”
Ginny spent the day in a daze, her mind replaying Hannah’s story, formulating a plan. Her Ancient Runes textbook swam with words and symbols she couldn’t focus on, and Luna’s serene presence beside her almost angered her more. As soon as Professor Babbling dismissed them, Ginny bolted from the room without meeting Luna’s eyes.
Luna would never approve. That isn’t going to undo what he did, Ginny, she would say, almost too gently. Neville’s voice chimed in with, This isn’t what we’re fighting for, and Ginny shook them both off impatiently. Seamus, though. He wouldn’t talk her out of it.
After a full day of carefully avoiding the others, she found him as soon as the last bell rang.
“I’ve got a plan, and everyone but you would disapprove,” she said quietly, falling into step with him as a crowd of students flooded towards the Great Hall for dinner.
Seamus grinned without humor and said, “I’m all for it, Weasley. How can I help?”
***
They skipped dinner, much to Seamus’ chagrin. They weren’t particularly careful about it, but Ginny’s plan wasn’t particularly careful. Amycus Carrow’s desk in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was the same one that had been occupied by each of the dozens of Defense professors who had taken up the post since Tom Riddle had cursed the position. Ginny wouldn’t even need to enter the office itself to complete her task. Seamus loitered in an alcove down the hall, pretending to be very interested in his Charms homework and keeping watch. Ginny brought only her athame and her wand.
The rune she used was simple: a variation of the thorn. Destruction and defense. A karmic reaction of sorts. All it holds is what you have already invited. Ginny lay on the cool stone floor under the desk, trailing her fingertips over the rough wood. She found an even spot, filled her mind with intention, and dug the tip of the athame into heavy oak.
***
The next day, Amycus Carrow could not sit at his desk without breaking into hives. He itched his way through classes, temper even shorter than usual, but any petty hexes he sent at students seemed to miss. He stormed through the corridors to Snape’s office that evening, flinging slurs at any student who dared let their laughter slip out as he went, and Seamus told Ginny in hushed tones during lunch (at which Amycus was not) that Carrow had practically cried in his final Defense class of the day, face blotchy and fingers tearing at his robes in an unsuccessful attempt at crawling out of his own skin.
The rune’s work was done, and it would fade with Ginny’s intention.
Ginny was far gentler with Luna. She held Luna’s hand in the hallways and braided her hair during their free period, spent under a willow tree by the Black Lake, while Seamus had them laughing with his impressions of Amycus trying to subtly itch his own arse during class. Ginny didn’t know quite how to apologize for her storminess the day before. Luna appeared largely unbothered, and Ginny resolved to ensure that her anger didn’t slip out at her friends again, even in small ways.
“I’m glad you got it out of your system,” Luna said mildly, and Ginny gave her a guilty smile, “but you have been rather rude.”
Hannah and Neville walked into the Great Hall together at dinner time, and parted ways to sit with their Houses. Neville flung himself onto the bench beside Ginny and piled roast onto his plate with an aggression that Ginny doubted was intended for the beef and carrots.
He took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and then, still staring at his plate, he said, “That was stupid.”
Ginny and Seamus met his eyes, unrepentant.
“And reckless, and – and stupid!”
Neither of the perpetrators responded, just watched as Neville sawed through another bit of roast.
“You should have told us,” he said finally, “we could have helped.”
Ginny and Seamus looked at one another and grinned.
“Next time, mate,” Seamus promised, returning to his own meal.
Ginny nudged Neville’s shoulder, and Neville gave a reluctant smile.
“It’s pretty good though, isn’t it?” she needled.
“You know it is,” Neville grumbled, “stop fishing for compliments.”
“Don’t need to fish,” Ginny said, flicking her plait over her shoulder coolly, “I know I’m brilliant.”
It was the most laughter the Gryffindor table had seen since Dumbledore’s death.
Chapter 2: Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme (October, 1997)
Summary:
Parsley for comfort, sage for healing, rosemary for love, and thyme for courage.
Notes:
CW: Underage substance use (just weed), torture, misogyny, magical racism, mentions of the British Empire being the British Empire, a brief description of Tom Riddle's abuse of 11 year old Ginny Weasley including some implied sexual assault, magic and its consequences.
A Note on Rowling: Any space I operate within and any story I create will always prioritize the safety of LGBTQ+ and trans individuals, as well as women and POC. Rowling’s views in no way align with my own. My love of Harry Potter and my interaction with its content is now and forever centered in a desire to reclaim the stories and characters who mean so much to me, and to emphasize how they are antithetical to Rowling’s espoused beliefs.
Chapter Text
Chapter 2: Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme
October, 1997
Ma cherè sœur,
We, the entire family, are so pleased to hear from you! I am particularly happy that you are enjoying my gift. It is, in my family, traditional to make one with your maman on the eve of your coming-of-age. I thought, under the circumstances, you might appreciate having yours earlier. Your maman agreed. I will happily teach you all I know about the gift when I next see you. In the meantime, you may find that the professor of your favored subject has some valuable perspective on its use. You might also seek out the works of Madame Amèlie Allard if you are curious about the historical uses of such objects. Unfortunately, I am not familiar with English scholars of the subject.
I know you are always most prudent in your studies, but remember that your heart and your conscience must lead the way.
Much love and encouragement to you,
Rosewood
***
The D.A. met in the Room of Requirement once a week, in theory. In practice, a handful of members occupied the Room at least once a day. Astoria and Luna used their shared free period to help first years learn basic shield and healing charms, Padma and Hannah had a near-constant stream of healing potions bubbling over bluebell flames along the back wall, and Neville, Seamus, Lavender, Parvati, and Ginny rotated teaching advanced defensive and offensive spells to the older students as well as leading study groups with their own years. And once a week, the coins warmed everyone’s pockets as Neville called them all to the Room of Requirement for a check-in and an official meeting. These most often took place during free periods or after dinner.
Detentions had grown numerous and the Carrows had grown bolder. The first time Neville had refused to practice the Cruciatus Curse on a second year who hadn’t turned in his homework on time, he had received a beating so severe it nearly depleted Hannah’s supply of Murtlap Essence. Ginny herself had been on the receiving end of several blessedly weak hexes from Crabbe and Goyle, and Seamus had been backhanded by Alecto after daring to loudly inform Theodore Nott that for all the good blood purity did him, his chin was likely so crooked due to all the inbreeding ( She’s only mad ‘cause she can’t call me a liar , Seamus had said, Nott’s parents are first cousins).
And Ginny was growing impatient. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was waiting for, but the last time she had felt some measure of peace was while scratching that rune into the underside of Amycus Carrow’s desk. Now she sat at the war table with Luna, halfheartedly attempting to translate a book on rune creation written by a French author.
“We should be doing more,” Ginny said, and Luna hummed, tracing the corridors between the Room of Requirement and the Great Hall.
“We can always sneak doxy venom into Professor Snape’s cottage pie,” Luna said mildly, and Ginny rolled her eyes.
“As much as I would love to poison Snape –”
“Oh, he wouldn’t die ,” Luna said, “but he might have the runs for a few days!”
“As much as I would enjoy giving Snape a terrible case of diarrhea, that won’t do much for our cause.”
“No,” Luna said, “but it would be quite a hoot, wouldn’t it?”
Ginny smiled in spite of herself, and closed her book. Luna was seated cross-legged on her stool, her long, pale hair out of its usual haphazard updo, curling around her cheeks and forehead in a wildly endearing sort of way. Her dark skin glowed in the light from the fireplace, and Ginny couldn’t help but return the warmth she radiated.
“I’ve got another idea, though, if what you’re hoping to do is to benefit the cause,” Luna said, reaching for Ginny’s book.
“Have you?”
“Oh, yes,” Luna said. “We’ll need Padma’s expertise as well, and a couple of volunteers who don’t mind a little mischief.”
***
Padma, it turned out, could brew a Perma-Paint Potion like nobody’s business. It was bubbling and red, and between Ginny’s athame and a few bay leaves marked with a rune for justice and sacrifice, it had a few extra tricks up its sleeve. Ginny, Padma, and Luna decided an after-hours mission was the most likely to succeed, and Neville and Seamus had tagged along to help with the spellwork.
The prefects finished their rounds at eleven o’clock at night, but it wasn’t until nearly one in the morning that Ginny, Neville, and Seamus crept out of the Gryffindor common room.
“A bit reckless, are we?” the Fat Lady whispered, and Seamus flashed her his most winning grin.
“Just attending to some business,” he said, waving a hand airily.
“Oh I don’t doubt ,” the Fat Lady said, “but under the current administration –”
“Not to worry,” Ginny said, “we’ll be quick and careful.”
The Fat Lady pursed her lips but watched them walk away without further protest. The hallways were silent and lit only by Neville’s lumos . Just outside the Great Hall, Luna and Padma were waiting with a small cauldron.
“We’ll need to be careful not to let any of the potion stain our clothes or skin,” Padma whispered, “it won’t come off with any spellwork short of a blasting charm.”
“Are we sure about this?” Neville whispered, looking a bit alarmed at that revelation.
“Vandalism is a time-honored form of protest,” Seamus said solemnly, “and you’d know that if you weren’t a colonizing English bastard. Now c’mon, pass that cauldron. We haven’t got all night.”
***
Seamus swore up and down that he’d heard Alecto’s shriek all the way from Gryffindor Tower. Ginny herself was loitering by the doors to the Great Hall as the Carrows and Snape swept through the corridor trailed by Pansy Parkinson ( I’ve just seen it, oh, professors, it’s terribly gouache ), who looked positively gleeful at the prospect of seeing their collective anger unleashed.
DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY
STILL RECRUITING
Large and violently red, dripping down the wall, and enshrined in Perma-Paint. And underneath it, a sharp arrow pointing upwards, innocuous to some, but when Ginny entered Professor Babbling’s classroom that afternoon for Ancient Runes she received a glowing smile and a whispered, Fantastic application, Miss Weasley . Tiwaz, after all, was always intended to be a symbol of positive action.
Alecto spent much of her morning throwing every spell she could think of at the message on the wall, which stubbornly refused to move. Every time she cast scourgify , the words squirmed and blurred and then rearranged themselves into names: Mad-Eye Moody; Albus Dumbledore; Amelia Bones; Charity Burbage; Samara Abbott.
Amycus was already busy interrogating students, starting with the Gryffindors, but Ginny was nearly floating, still on something of a high. She couldn’t seem to find peace or joy anywhere else, but every time she passed the graffiti and it flashed new names ( Sirius Black; Lily Evans Potter; James Potter; Gideon Prewett; Fabian Prewett; Marlene McKinnon ) she felt something vicious and hot in bloom in her chest, as close to happiness as she’d felt in months. When Amycus’ hand snagged the collar of her robes and yanked her back into his classroom as the rest of her Defense class hurried for the exit at the sound of the bell, Ginny felt it again: a savage, sharp, righteous fury. And when Amycus looked her in the face, she was grinning.
“Something I can help you with, Professor?” Ginny asked sweetly, finding her footing and smoothing her hair back when Amycus let go of her robes.
“Oh I do believe there is, Miss Weasley,” he said. He had a piece of spinach in his teeth. Ginny eyed it with distaste. “You seem like just the sort of miscreant who might find destruction of school property to be an amusing pastime. Am I right?”
“Certainly not, Professor,” Ginny said primly, “I’m partial to Quidditch, but you lot have canceled that for the year, so I’m fresh out of hobbies as of late.”
Amycus bared his teeth at Ginny and she wrinkled her nose at the spinach.
“You’ve got something – just there –” she said, gesturing towards his face, and that seemed to do it for him. Amycus raised his wand.
Just as he opened his mouth to utter a curse, there was a hot gust of air and a glow from the underside of Amycus’ desk. Ginny stumbled backwards as a blistering wind swirled through the room, scattering her class’ newly-submitted essays on Ferventi Sanguine (blood boiling curse, used heavily amongst Roman-Catholic witches as a method of torture in Victorian times –) and then Amycus was across the room, pinned to the wall by hot air that was blistering his face and hands – and Ginny could not take her eyes off of the desk, glowing a hot red – and then it was over.
Amycus let out a strangled cry and dropped to the floor before scrambling to his feet and lunging at Ginny again, who snapped out of her daze to back towards the door.
“I didn’t – I don’t know –” she gasped as Amycus’ eyes glittered with malice and his red, sweating face neared hers. He crowded her against the wall, so close she could smell his foul breath, and his raw, blistered hand closed around her neck.
“I don’t know what you’ve done, girl , but I’ve got you now – couldn’t’ve been anyone but you – what have you done to me you wicked cunt – ”
“Nothing, nothing , I swear –”
“Amycus.”
Ginny had never in her life been so relieved to see Professor Snape. Snape, on the other hand, looked none too pleased to see her.
“You are needed in my office, Amycus,” Snape said, eyeing Ginny coldly.
“She’s gone and cursed me, I don’t know how, but she’s –”
“Come now Amycus, are you telling me you’ve been bested by a pubescent blood traitor?” Snape asked with a nasty curl to his lips.
Amycus straightened up as much as his squat form would allow him and sputtered indignantly. “She’s a terror and I’ll prove –”
“I have no doubt,” Snape interrupted, “that Miss Weasley had a hand in the message that now adorns one of our corridors. It is, after all, reminiscent of some of her early work, is it not?”
Ginny’s blood ran cold and she let out a sound more like a strangled hiss than anything.
“You can’t prove –”
“Perhaps not,” Snape said, “but were you to deny your involvement, we may find ourselves in a situation that requires…further investigation,” he said, “and we wouldn’t want to make this unnecessarily painful , now would we?”
Ginny stared at him, open-mouthed. If she wasn’t mistaken, Snape was offering her an out: take the fall, and protect the D.A.
She’d be foolish not to accept.
“No, Sir,” Ginny said finally, not taking her eyes off of the sickening smile spreading across Amycus Carrow’s face, “I suppose we wouldn’t.”
***
“I rather think I got off lightly,” Ginny said later that evening, as Neville, Luna, Hannah, and Astoria stared at her in open horror.
“ Two weeks of detentions with Amycus Carrow –” Hannah cried, her voice high pitched and frantic, as though she couldn’t quite believe Ginny had the audacity to be so flippant.
“Idiots. You’re all idiots,” Astoria said from the corner, head tipped back as she stared at the ceiling of the Room of Requirement. “ You ,” she said, snapping her gaze to Ginny with such ferocity that, for a moment, Ginny considered being afraid of her, “are an impulsive, hot-tempered, selfish , immature little girl with absolutely no sense .”
Ginny shrugged. “Yes, alright. And you are a morally tepid coward who would rather let Daddy sell her to the highest bidder just so she doesn’t have to bother taking a stand about anything.”
“ Ginny ,” Hannah said, horrified.
“Think what you want of me, but I’ve never once put everyone I care for in mortal peril with nothing but a bit of red paint, and you’ve done it twice now.”
Neville, Luna, and Hannah all shouted this time, but Ginny wasn’t looking at them. Astoria’s dark eyes were cold and glittering, set into her soft, pale face like shards of obsidian. She’d intended to hit where it hurt, and her words had found their mark.
“ Fuck you ,” Ginny said, “and for the record, it was blood the first time.”
***
Ginny’s first detention was held the following evening. Amycus seemed to enjoy depriving his victims of dinner before tormenting them. Ginny, determined not to show an ounce of trepidation, breezed into the room at five o’clock exactly.
Amycus stood by his desk, rocking back and forth on his heels, watching Argus Filch’s scuffed shoes and dirty trouser cuffs as he muttered darkly to himself from beneath the desk. He was scraping at Ginny’s rune with a chisel and cursing under his breath. Flashes of red light sputtered around his fingertips and he occasionally yanked his hands back with a yelp as the thorn’s magic continued to fight back.
“No use, Professor Carrow Sir,” Filch said, scooting out from under the desk, “‘s good as firewood now. Could have a desk brought up from the ol’ storage rooms.”
“Yes, yes, you do that,” Carrow said, and Filch scrambled out of the room, snarling at Ginny as he passed. Carrow turned his attention to Ginny as the door slammed behind Filch. “Ah, Weasley. You’ve done a number on my desk, haven’t you? Think you’re awful clever, don’t you?”
Ginny met his eyes blandly and shrugged.
“You’re quite the little vandal, Weasley. And as such, I thought you might benefit from something of a hands-on punishment. Sit.”
Ginny sat. The desk Amycus had indicated was in the front row of the classroom. He approached her slowly, wand out.
“Hands on the desk, Miss Weasley. Palms up.”
He was stood right in front of her now, rocking back and forth on his heels again. Ginny knew he was going to enjoy tormenting her, and she refused to offer up any amount of fear. She placed her hands on the desk.
Amycus snapped his wrist as if cracking a whip, and an invisible lash landed across her palms. Ginny couldn’t hold back a cry of pain, and to her shame, she saw the satisfaction it inspired in Amycus. Angry welts bloomed on her skin.
The second lash drew blood, but Ginny did not allow another sound to pass her lips. Instead, she stared steadfastly at Amycus Carrow’s face, defiant and determined to force him to look her in the eye. He grinned, and said, “10, I think, for the skin rash. 10 for the inflammatory messaging on the walls. And 10 more for ruining my desk .”
***
By her third day of detention, Ginny was certain her hands would scar. By the fifth, Amycus had her using her bandaged hands to clean his classroom without magic. By the end of the first week, Amycus Carrow stood before her, bold as brass, hungrily taking in every moment of pain he was inflicting upon her. He stood close enough that she could smell his foul breath once again, watching over her shoulder as she scraped charred gunk out of each of the classroom’s lamps with stiff fingers.
“Excellent, Weasley,” Carrow said, “we’ll break you in just yet.”
Ginny straightened her back and scowled, but continued her work. This seemed to delight Carrow even more, and he drew closer still to her ear, hot breath on the back of her neck. He smelled unwashed, like old onions and cellar must, and Ginny shuddered.
“ I’ll break you,” he said again.
Amycus Carrow seemed to watch Ginny with a perpetual leer these days, and the hunger in his face unsettled her. She returned to the Gryffindor Tower after each detention and stood in a too-hot shower until she felt his breath had been washed off her neck.
***
It didn’t take long for Ginny’s dorm mates to notice her hands. Forsythia’s mother owned an apothecary in Diagon Alley, and Ginny had returned after her detention one evening to find her on the floor of their dormitory with her mortar and pestle, grinding dittany and calendula into a poultice.
“You haven’t got a clue how lucky you are that these aren’t infected yet,” Forsythia had said, washing Ginny’s hands gently in a bowl of warm water before packing them with poultice and wrapping them in clean bandages.
“I’ve kept them clean,” Ginny had said, a little indignant.
“That’s not enough,” Forsythia had insisted. From then on, she’d had a jar of poultice and a supply of fresh bandages on hand in her nightstand. When Ginny had tried to thank her, she’d shaken her head firmly and said, We’re in this together, aren’t we?
At her words, Ginny felt a twinge of guilt for all the avoiding she’d been doing recently. She’d continued to lead tutoring sessions in the Room of Requirement, but she had carefully dodged Hannah and Neville’s attempts at probing about her detentions, and she and Astoria continued to interact only in clipped, frosty tones. Luna had refused to allow Ginny to fully self-isolate again, though, and her lingering guilt over how she’d treated Luna weeks before had her allowing the other girl to drag her onto the grounds during free blocks. It was on her final day of detention that Luna, clutching Ginny’s arm and chattering about Professor Babbling’s latest assignment on the differences between passive and active defensive runes, guided them down to Hagrid’s hut without Ginny even noticing until they were standing in his pumpkin patch.
“They’re doing well this year, aren’t they?” Luna mused.
They were. They smelled of freshly-turned fertilizer and were likely taller than Neville. Ginny plucked a slug from one’s stem and flicked it towards the grass.
“Yes,” Ginny said. “The only thing he makes well are roasted pumpkin seeds, you know.”
Luna seemed to take that as assent, and marched up to Hagrid’s door, knocking. Ginny followed.
There was a loud curse from inside and a clatter, and then Hagrid filled the doorway of his hut, peering down at them sheepishly.
“Ah, good, it’s yeh two. Come in, come in – Ginny, by Merlin, what’s happened to yer hands –”
They crowded into the hug and Luna curled up with Fang on the hearth, who offered her a beleaguered sigh and dropped his bludger of a head into her lap.
“Don’ mind him,” Hagrid grunted, returning to the table where he had what appeared to be an entire cow’s worth of steak half-butchered, “He’s only bein’ a big ol’ grump because I won’ let him have a bite o’ Grawpy’s dinner.”
Fang whined pitifully, gazing up at Luna with doleful eyes.
“Oh yes,” Luna cooed, “he’s ever so put out.” She rubbed his massive snout and he huffed, pressing his head into her hands, appeased.
Ginny took up her usual post in the armchair by the window, wrapping the large afghan around her shoulders.
“Are you going out there alone to feed him?” Ginny asked, and Hagrid nodded.
“Ah, well, I’ve got Fang ‘ere but he’s a right coward.”
Fang huffed again and melted further into Luna, who patted him consolingly on the chest.
“Don’t worry, Fang,” she whispered to him, “you’re still a very good dog.”
Ginny couldn’t help but smile. It felt foreign on her lips, but watching Luna snuggle the creature twice her size as if it were an infant, she couldn’t help but feel warm. She reminded Ginny somewhat of Charlie, or of Hagrid himself – so warm that even the largest of creatures couldn’t help but seek out their affection.
Hagrid finished his butchering and began packing meat into a large cast-iron skillet with big chunks of butter. Soon enough, the hut smelled of sizzling steak. Hagrid washed his great hands and cleaned up his workspace before settling into his chair with two knitting needles the size of swords and basket full of poorly-wound burgundy yarn. He was knitting what appeared to be the world’s largest sweater, and while it was a bit lumpy, it was clearly cozy.
“Now,” Hagrid said, starting a herringbone stitch, “what happened to yer hands, Ginny? An’ don’ say nothin’, ‘cause it’s clearly somethin’.”
Ginny held her bandaged hands out in front of her and shrugged.
“Got on the wrong side of Professor Carrow,” she said, as mildly as she could. “He’s got this spell, erm, like an invisible whip or something. It’s rather nasty.”
Hagrid’s face hardened. He was focusing extra hard on his knitting, but Ginny could see that he’d lost his rhythm – he looked a bit like he’d rather be using the needles for stabbing.
“I was ‘fraid somethin’ like this migh’ happen,” he muttered, and Ginny looked to Luna, hoping to exchange surprised glances; Luna, though, was sitting cross-legged, back straight, and staring into the fire. It appeared Ginny was alone in her surprise.
“Something like –”
“Well,” Hagrid said quickly, “he’s a nasty sort, in’t he? An’ we remember that Umbridge hag from the Ministry, don’ we? Students shouldn’ have to worry ‘bout bein’ tortured by their teachers.”
Hagrid’s great face was ruddy with grief. Ginny recalled him carrying Dumbledore’s casket to its final resting place, tears flowing freely, and wondered if Hagrid ever thought about how he’d never quite gotten to choose his place in the world for himself.
“Rather insulting to hags, don’t you think?” Ginny asked, attempting to lighten her tone despite the ache in the air.
Hagrid snorted.
“Yer right, o’course,” he said.
Hagrid sent Ginny and Luna off with a supply of bandages and some rock cakes, which they fed to the crows on their way back up to the castle.
***
On the Friday of her final detention, Ginny invited Forsythia to join the D.A. Ingrid came to meetings semi-regularly and was in possession of a coin, but Evelyn had wanted to stay as far from the thick of it as she could, and Ginny couldn’t blame her. In another life, she may have chosen the sidelines as well. Forsythia had stayed out of it, out of love for Evelyn, but after nearly two weeks of wrapping Ginny’s hands on the floor of their dormitory and whispered conversation about Forsythia’s own Muggle father and sibling, she walked into the Room of Requirement with a chest full of herbs tucked into her arms. She and Hannah settled into a corner to take inventory of their supplies, and when they rejoined Ginny, Padma, Luna, and the Gryffindor seventh-years by the large, roaring fireplace, Hannah was beaming.
“Forsythia’s mum is ever so creative with combining healing herbs,” she told them breathlessly, and some of the tension lifted from Ginny’s shoulders.
“She’s got her mother’s talent,” Ginny said with a grin, lifting her hands. They were no longer bandaged, but bore faint white scars that snaked across her palms and traveled up her fingers. The wounds had knit themselves together with less scarring than she’d been expecting, but Lavender had still grasped her hands and murmured a genuinely heartbroken, Your palm lines will never be readable again!
Forsythia smiled humbly and said, “I’ve always had a knack for healing herbs.”
Soon enough, her kit was spread out on the rug before them, and Forsythia was explaining some of her favorite combinations to them. Seamus picked up one of them with a wide, delighted grin and said, “Oh- ho ! Not entirely healing herbs, I see!” It was a small jar packed with earthy-smelling buds.
“Is that –” Ginny said, but Forsythia was already reaching for it.
“Oh, but it is medicinal,” she said, holding it up. “It helps with muscle aches and chronic pain, and it’s ever so good for, well, I’ve had these terrible migraines since last year…Mum says it’s anxiety….”
“So do feverfew and valerian,” Hannah said, eyeing the jar skeptically.
“What’s so wrong with that plant?” Lavender asked.
“Absolutely nothing ,” Seamus said happily.
“Absolutely nothing,” Forsythia confirmed. “Witches have used it for centuries, both medicinally and, well, for fun.”
And so, fifteen minutes later, Forsythia had rolled a joint using a small slip of thin parchment, lit the end with a spark from her wand, took a long, slow inhale, and then passed it to Seamus. The smell was warm and mellow, and Ginny accepted it from Seamus with little dubiousness. It was a familiar smell that often lingered in Fred and George’s apartment or on Charlie’s t-shirts. She wasn’t much a fan of Firewhiskey, but, she thought, her mind could use a little quieting, and it couldn’t hurt the aches in her hands.
The joint was passed around the circle as Neville fiddled with the Wizarding Wireless and Padma continued to speak with Forsythia about her poultices. In the end, they all inhaled just a little bit of the sweet smoke. The Room was empty save their group, and the week was over. Ginny could feel the relief seeping into her bones as she relaxed against the couch at her back, tipping her head back and closing her eyes. The firelight was extra warm on her face and arms, the security of the Room was extra comforting, and the presence of these people was extra right. She was safe, and she wouldn’t have to feel Amycus Carrow’s lurid gaze or smell his rancid breath for two whole days.
The door opened, and everyone turned as one to watch Astoria Greengrass approach. She stood just outside their circle, hands on her hips, one imperious eyebrow raised at the state of them. Ginny offered her what she thought must be a very magnanimous smile. Finally, Astoria sighed and settled herself primly on an ottoman.
“Well,” she said, “aren’t you going to share?”
And Ginny grinned properly as Parvati passed the joint to her.
“You know, Greengrass,” Ginny said as Luna stretched out on the floor and placed her head in Ginny’s lap, “that stick up your arse isn’t half so big as I thought it was.”
“Your opinion of my arse means the world to me,” Astoria said dryly, and Ginny fairly cackled with delight.
“Sorry I called you morally tepid,” Ginny said, and she meant it. “You’re morally warm at the least. Proper tea-steeping temperatures, even. Got enough of a backbone to be here, after all.”
Astoria eyed Ginny cautiously for a moment, but then the inhale she’d taken began to take effect and her limbs relaxed. Ginny watched what must be nearly sixteen years of buttoned-up Pureblood tension melt from her shoulders and then she said, “I know you’re not selfish.”
Ginny shrugged.
“I mean everything else, though,” Astoria said.
“Fair enough.”
“No one should have to be stuck alone in a room with Amycus Carrow. I’m sorry.”
And with that, their tentative truce was restored. Astoria offered Ginny a smile, and then leaned into the animated conversation Hannah was having with Lavender and Neville. Ginny felt Luna shift on her lap and looked down. The girl was gazing up at her with wide, grey eyes and something akin to adoration.
“Hi,” Ginny said, tugging on one of Luna’s curls. Her nose wrinkled and she smiled.
“Hi,” Luna said. “I just want you to know, Ginny, that I am very proud of you.”
“Oh,” Ginny said, feeling something warm rise in her chest, “well, then, you ought to know that I’m quite fond of you.”
Luna smiled.
“I had hoped so,” she said.
Ginny squeezed her friend’s hand, and the two of them settled back into silence, soaking up the rare moment of true rest. Luna smelled like jasmine flowers. The Wizarding Wireless was playing The Hobgoblins. The fire warmed Ginny’s face. She breathed.
***
Ginny couldn’t tear her eyes away from the shadows.
“Are you doing that?” she demanded of Neville, throwing out a hand to point an accusing finger at him.
“I’m not doing that!” Neville cried, “I’m doing this !” His wand was twirling lazily, emitting soft golden sparks that lingered even when the wand itself moved away from them. Ginny remembered watching Muggle children in Ottery St. Catchpole’s village square playing with long, thin sticks that spat sparks one Bonfire Night when she was very young. Wands, Mummy, they’ve got wands! Molly had smiled indulgently at her. The children wove between their parents, shrieking with glee. The fireworks above may as well have come from their little sticks, just as they might from Arthur’s wand.
“Muggles can do that,” Ginny breathed.
“Don’t be silly, Gin,” Parvati said.
“They can !” She sat up rather suddenly, and Luna tugged a strand of her hair in protest. “I’ve seen it. Just because they can’t do it with magic doesn’t mean they can’t do it all the same!”
Luna was humming something vaguely familiar, something Ginny had heard her hum before. She settled back into Luna’s lap, her long, copper hair splayed out on Luna’s legs.
“Like cinnamon….” Luna murmured with a deep sigh.
“That’s…that’s rather beautiful, Ginny,” Lavender said from her spot above Parvati on a plush cushion.
“This war thing is pretty feckin’ stupid when you put it like that,” Seamus said. He was facedown on the carpet, rubbing his cheek against the soft, tufted fabric. “What’s ol’ You-Know-Who even want with the lot of ‘em anyway? A buncha slaves? Can’t kill ‘em all .”
“He’s a halfblood, you know,” Ginny said, quite suddenly.
“That’s only a myth, like how werewolves are actually quite partial to silver on account of how it compliments their skin very nicely,” said Luna.
“Isn’t,” Ginny said, shaking her head ( Stop that, you’ll tangle it – Luna was protesting from above her, all wide eyes and fluttering hands). “His dad was a Muggle, y’know. He killed his own father –”
“What happened to you, Ginny?” Forsythia asked. Ginny’s eyes drifted back to the shadows.
“Had him in my head for nine months,” Ginny said; a shadow flared on the ceiling – Neville, flicking the last of the sparks from his wand and then tucking it away. “He was…nice, at first. Then he started telling me things, things that he’d done and things that he hoped to do. Sometimes he showed me, too. It was like having a best friend and a terrible secret all at once.”
The others had fallen silent. Ginny did not look at their faces.
“He had a very cold voice, but he was charming all the same. Called me a pretty little girl and then showed me what he did to the girls he took to the Prefects’ bathroom. Told me I had so much more wit than my brothers and then reminded me that I’d never amount to anything without his help. Then, one night, it was like he’d slipped himself into my skin and pushed me out, and when he let me back in there was blood underneath my fingernails and all of Hagrid’s roosters were dead, and Tom was telling me that perhaps I wasn’t so smart as he’d thought, and if only I would do everything he said, perhaps I wouldn’t go off my head again.”
Seamus took the joint from Forsythia and handed it to Ginny. She took a long inhale and held it in her lungs for as long as she could. It burned in her throat, but when she finally released her breath she did so slowly, watching the thin line of smoke slip from her lips. Ginny ran her fingers over the rug beneath her, nestling her cheek into Luna’s thigh and letting her heavy eyes drift closed.
“He was quite good at spellwork, though. Would’ve made a fantastic study partner if he weren’t quite out of his mind.”
***
No one much felt like discussing what Ginny had told them while they’d all been warm and hazy for those few hours in the Room of Requirement, but no one seemed particularly put off by her confessions either. Lavender and Parvati looped their arms through hers and walked the halls with her, and Lavender even helped her charm her lip gloss to be less sticky. Seamus and Neville reminded her to eat during mealtimes, Hannah studied with her in the library, and Forsythia and Ingrid sat with her on the floor of their dorm each night and helped her translate the French books on Runic magic that Fleur had told her about. Even Astoria was nearly pleasant with her, which was more disconcerting to Ginny than all the rest of it put together.
For a while, things stayed quiet, and Ginny found herself reluctant to disturb the fragile peace. Between the nights the D.A. spent in the Room of Requirement and Professor McGonagall’s much-dreaded sixth-year conjuration projects, Hogwarts was beginning to feel almost normal. The facade cracked each evening in the Great Hall as the magicked ceiling darkened and the figures of the Carrows loomed at the Head Table. Snape himself had rarely been seen since the Welcoming Feast. And then, as October waned, the illusion shattered.
The photographs in the newspaper that Hannah thrust into Ginny’s hand did not move.
“My aunt sends them, sometimes,” Hannah said, falling onto the couch next to Neville in the Room of Requirement the day before Samhain. “It’s rather a miracle I managed to tuck this one away before it was spotted by the Carrows. I can’t imagine they’d be too pleased to see a Muggle newspaper at Hogwarts.”
Ginny spread the front page on the floor in front of her so that their whole group could see.
SUFFOLK COMMUNITY IN MOURNING AFTER BRUTAL ATTACKS
Local community rallies after unidentified killers leave three dead in bloody family attack. Motives and suspects not yet identified.
The headline was accompanied by a grainy and eerily still photograph of two women, arms wrapped around one another, watching a Muggle policeman manage the crowd gathered in front of a quaint townhome. Ginny felt her stomach clench.
“Suffolk is awfully near Godric’s Hollow,” Neville said grimly.
“Merlin, this is terrible,” Ingrid breathed, eyes scanning the article. “Doors locked from the inside…no forensic evidence…it has to be Death Eaters.”
“It was, I’d bet anything,” Hannah said. “I passed a group of Slytherin sixth-years who seemed awfully cheerful today. That’s never good. And it’s so close to Samhain…they’d want to send a message now more than ever.”
“Overshadowing the anniversary of You-Know-Who’s disappearance with some Muggle-hunting seems like a pretty clear message to me,” Seamus said.
Ginny clenched her teeth, still reading the article but hardly processing. The parents had been killed first, and then their fourteen year old daughter. She’d died alone, afraid, in the presence of men who basked in her terror, and she’d been killed by magic she hadn’t even known existed. Ginny’s hands were shaking.
***
It didn’t take much – less than thirty minutes, a duplication of the newspaper that Professor McGonagall would’ve been proud of, and a handful of sticking charms. The Great Hall was plastered with Muggle newspapers in the morning, the word MURDERERS scrawled in giant, angry red letters across entire walls. Ginny had never seen Alecto Carrow move so fast. She was tearing the papers down with a focused sort of rage that Ginny wouldn’t have expected from her, heaping the scraps on the floor. The Perma-Paint Potion, some still wet, smeared her hands. Ginny wasn’t sure if Amycus hadn’t noticed, or simply did not care. A crowd of students and professors alike had gathered to observe, and Ginny felt Luna’s warm hand slip into hers.
“Bit of a risk, don’t you think?” Luna murmured, resting her head on Ginny’s shoulder, “Seeing as Amycus knows your style.”
“Yes, well,” Ginny said tersely, “perhaps I wanted them to know it was me.”
Luna tightened her grip on Ginny’s hand.
“Astoria was wrong about you being selfish,” Luna said, “but she may have had a point about a few other things.”
Ginny frowned and pulled her hand from Luna’s grasp.
“If you think so,” she said cooly, “then maybe you’d rather cuddle up to her.”
Luna studied her impassively.
“No,” she said after a moment, “I don’t think I would, actually.”
Ginny avoided her all-knowing gaze, but did not move away when Luna once again rested her hand on Ginny’s arm.
***
It was, without a doubt, the most impressively done show of dominance that the Carrows had pulled off yet, and Ginny couldn’t help but think that was thanks to Alecto. The woman had shredded each newspaper with methodical ferocity and practiced cutting hexes. She had gathered it all into a giant pile and then levitated it through the Great Hall and out the castle doors, all the while deathly silent. They hadn’t seen her or her brother for the next several hours, and Ginny went about her day almost defiantly cheerful, refusing to wonder when the axe would drop.
After dinner, Alecto Carrow’s voice rang through the Great Hall with the help of a sonorous charm once again.
“STUDENTS, ” she said, “ PROCEED TO THE EAST COURTYARD IN AN ORDERLY FASHION. IT APPEARS WE HAVE SOMETHING TO CELEBRATE. ”
As the rush of students carried Ginny towards the courtyard, she was met with a very odd sight.
‘S good as firewood now , Filch had said. Amycus Carrow stood by his own desk, now looking rather battered. Beneath it lay a great pile of kindling in the form of shredded newspapers.
“ SAMHAIN IS UPON US, ” Alecto said, a twisted smile on her face, “ AND WE HAVE BEEN PROVIDED WITH THE PERFECT KINDLING. MISS WEASLEY? TO ME, IF YOU PLEASE. ”
Ginny’s classmates stirred and shifted, a whispering, homogenous mass, until they all found her with their hundreds of frightened eyes. Ginny felt her blood grow cold. She lifted her chin and looked Alecto in the eye.
“ DON’T BE SHY NOW, MISS WEASLEY. ARE YOU A GRYFFINDOR OR NOT? ”
Ginny bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, clenched her scarred hands, and stepped forward.
“ I DO BELIEVE MISS WEASLEY SHOULD CLEAN UP HER OWN MESS. DON’T YOU? ”
Those hundreds of eyes shifted back to Alecto as if the whole of the school was one huddled, frightened creature. It was, to Ginny’s shock, Professor Babbling who grabbed her wrist and held her in place when Ginny began to step forward.
“Miss Weasley,” she hissed, “if there is a rune on that desk as I believe there is –”
Ginny looked at Professor Babbling and felt a clear, frigid calm settle over her, nothing like the hot rage of the night before, or even the manic cheer of that morning.
“It’s alright, Professor,” Ginny said.
Babbling dropped her arm and clasped her trembling fingers together.
“ WELL? ” Alecto bellowed. And then, Ginny stepped out of the crowd.
The sonorous charm dropped, and Alecto’s smile did too. She watched Ginny march forward until the two women were toe to toe.
“You’ll have the honor of lighting the Samhain bonfire this year, Weasley. As tradition dictates, it will stay lit until dawn.”
Ginny nodded, raised her wand, and said, “ Incendio .”
The newspapers went up in flames. Flames licked at the underbelly of the desk and with each leap of the fire, blistering heat scorched Ginny’s chest. And as the desk was consumed, and Ginny’s rune with it, the thorn returned to her with a vengeance. Its glowing red light lept from the center of the fire, distinct from the flames themselves, and wrapped around her. There was no sound in the courtyard that she could hear except for the rushing of heat and air. Sparks rose as the sky darkened, and the red light crept upon her feet, then snaked up her legs like Devil’s Snare, and before she could so much as cry out from the searing pain, it had brought her to her knees. She kneeled before the fire and the rune’s magic twined with her own, sinking into her skin. It dug into her torso and then her chest, tightened around her ribs until she couldn’t breathe and then pierced skin to sink into her clavicle. Her body was rigid with pain and, for a very long time, Ginny saw nothing but flames.
***
Luna was the first thing that Ginny heard that wasn’t the hissing and spitting of fire. She was kneeling before Ginny and the now low-burning bonfire. The pain was subsiding.
“My mother cradled you with her spirit through the night,” Luna was murmuring, stroking Ginny’s sweat-soaked hair away from her face, “I’m sure of it. The veil was thin, and your magic was felt by the souls of all our ancestors. You’ve been so very brave, Ginny, but you don’t have to be anymore. Not right now.”
Luna’s hands, soft and familiar, were cupping Ginny’s face. Her thumbs soothed the tears from her eyes. She wore rings, always, of both silver and gold, some delicate and others heavy with large stones. The metals were cool on Ginny’s scorched skin. Luna’s braids smelled of jasmine flowers and shea butter.
Dawn was cresting over the hills, and the rest of the students had returned to their dorms. Amycus and Alecto Carrow were nowhere to be found. Professor McGonagall and Professor Babbling, however, sat nearby on a stone bench. Hagrid was sweeping ash from the stones of the courtyard, knuckles white around the giant broom, face streaked with tears. Madam Pomfrey stepped into view.
“You have had quite the night, Miss Weasley,” Madam Pomfrey said gently. “Let’s get you to the Hospital Wing.”
Ginny, trembling and exhausted, slumped gratefully into Madam Pomfrey’s waiting arms.
***
Blessedly, it was a Saturday. Ginny couldn’t help but think about the dawn of November 1st, sixteen years ago. The sun had risen as Lily and James Potter had joined their ancestors beyond the veil, and Lord Voldemort had been no more. Ginny felt as though she could feel the fingertips of the dead – her uncles, her grandparents, Luna’s mother, Harry’s parents, Sirius – on her raw skin even now. She did not doubt Luna’s words in the courtyard – she would not have emerged from that pain without some part of her being held, being comforted.
Luna held her now, curled up in the hospital wing cot beside her, reading a novel. Neither girl spoke, and Ginny allowed herself to bury her face in Luna’s braids without a second thought. She’d slept the full morning and much of the afternoon. Professor Babbling and Madam Pomfrey had bustled around her with salves and wands and potions, and Hannah and Forsythia had visited with their own, which Pomfrey had been suitably impressed with. Ginny would have to visit Hagrid’s hut when she was able to walk without feeling her muscles weaken beneath her own weight – she remembered his grief-stricken face as well.
Professor McGonagall had stayed to get her settled, offered her a gentler smile than Ginny had ever seen on the stern professor’s face, and then gone to tend to her other students in Gryffindor Tower.
“Neville and the others are making sure the younger ones are all right,” Luna said. “Olivia and Theo were quite shaken up, they’re ever so fond of you.”
Ginny grimaced wryly, but said nothing. Luna did not seem to expect her to speak, for which Ginny was grateful. She was not entirely sure what to say.
“Ginny,” Professor Babbling called from the doorway to Madam Pomfrey’s office, “might I have a private word with you?”
“I’ll go see if the House Elves can spare some soup for you,” Luna said, and dropped a kiss on Ginny’s forehead before disappearing out the great double doors.
Professor Babbling sat in the wooden chair beside Ginny’s bed and surveyed her student for a moment. Ginny did her best not to waver under her gaze, but the professor smiled gently, and patted Ginny’s hands.
“You’re braver than I,” she said softly, “but I’m afraid your bravery has had rather permanent consequences.” Professor Babbling conjured a small silver mirror and, before handing it to Ginny, said, “Your magic is a part of you, dear. No less so than a limb. Think of it as such.”
The professor stepped away, and Ginny raised the mirror. Her face was haggard and paler than usual, and dark circles sat heavy under her eyes. Her hair was dull. She was in desperate need of a shower. The hospital gown that Madam Pomfrey had helped her change into hung loose on her shoulders, and where it dipped below her collarbone she found what Professor Babbling had intended to show her: a mark like a brand, familiar and sickening - the thorn, etched into her skin as if carved by her very own athame.
***
Luna and Hannah brought Ginny an herbed broth that evening. It smelled rich and aromatic, and Ginny recognized it at the first sip – Molly Weasley poured it down all of her children’s throats at the first sign of illness. Parsley for comfort, sage for healing, rosemary for love, and thyme for courage. She drank deeply from the large mug, and felt the warmth inside of her wash out the pinprick heat still blistering on her skin.
Chapter 3: Threefold (November, 1997)
Notes:
CW: Child abuse, torture, sexual assault/rape (not terribly explicit/descriptive, but not subtle either), war, magical racism, misogyny, dark themes.
Any space I operate within and any story I create will always prioritize the safety of LGBTQ+ and trans individuals, as well as women and POC. Rowling’s views in no way align with my own. My love of Harry Potter and my interaction with its content is now and forever centered in a desire to reclaim the stories and characters who mean so much to me, and to emphasize how they are antithetical to Rowling’s espoused beliefs.
Chapter Text
Chapter Three: Threefold
November, 1997
By the time Ginny was released from the infirmary (with stern instructions from Madam Pomfrey to take cool baths with calendula a couple times a week and apply the gel of an aloe plant to her chest, arms, and face daily), the Carrows had instituted a new policy: dormitory checks each evening after curfew. Ginny thought she might prefer to spend her nights under Madam Pomfrey’s near-smothering care if it meant she could avoid the threat of Amycus and Alecto presence in the dead of night.
Evelyn and Ingrid had taken to curling up in their respective beds facing one another and whispering – nothing of consequence, really, just tidbits of gossip from Witch Weekly and idle chit-chat about how Leah Andrews from Ravenclaw had returned to school with a new haircut and a new boyfriend or the latest paperback novel Ingrid was reading. It was a source of comfort, Ginny knew, for both of them as well as for herself and Forsythia. Their hushed voices weren’t the same as the hush that had fallen over the rest of the castle, but rather recalled a time when Ginny might’ve giggled in the rickety orchard treehouse with a couple of girls from Ottery St. Catchpole, denying her brothers entrance and sharing what felt like the world’s most precious secrets. It felt safe enough to allow her breathing to level out for just a few moments, drifting in that haze that precluded sleep but offered some rest. And then a large brass key, enchanted to bypass each dormitory’s wards, was rattling in the lock. It used to hang in Professor McGonagall’s office, but for the last few days it had hung heavy from a scarlet cord around Alecto Carrows’ neck along with the three from Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. Alecto’s breath whistled in her nose, and Ginny considered that to be her one redeeming trait. She’d never be able to truly sneak up on Ginny, at least.
“Up!” Alecto barked, and the girls scrambled. Each stood awkwardly at the foot of their bed, hands clasped behind their backs. The back of Ginny’s neck prickled, and the rune embedded in her sternum itched. Her athame was tucked into the lining of her trunk; heat rose to her cheeks with the effort of not glancing towards it. One of her heels was pressed uncomfortably into the post of her bed.
And then there was a shuffle on the stairs outside, and familiar, heavy footfalls had Ginny’s throat closing up: Amycus Carrow was stepping into the sixth-year girls’ dormitory, a familiar leer twisting the corners of his lips. It felt, sometimes, as though his presence swallowed all the air in a room, leaving Ginny breathing the humid dregs. It coated her throat in a way that felt familiar. Somatic reprocessing, her Mind Healer had called it the summer after the Chamber, when Ginny had found that her limbs grew leaden and her vision tunneled when someone entered her space or called her darling. Perfectly normal, just the body’s attempt at protecting you after experiencing a trauma –
Amycus was picking up the paperback from Ingrid’s bedside table.
“Good evening, girls,” he said, “I trust you’ve been made aware of our new routine, eh?”
The girls chanced swift glances at one another. No one wanted to speak, and no one wanted to meet his eyes. Evelyn was shivering a little in her thin nightgown, her arms crossed over her chest protectively.
Alecto giggled shrilly. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us here,” she said, delighted.
“Center of the room,” Amycus barked, rapping his knuckles against Ingrid’s bedside table, “hands by your sides, eyes on the wall. You will not move, you will not speak.”
Ingrid was the first to comply, scrambling away from Amycus. The others followed, Evelyn’s trembling hands falling to her sides. Abstractly, Ginny felt a stab of compassion for her dorm mate’s vulnerability, but her mind was still sluggish and dull, as if she’d been drugged. The girls stood in a line, shoulder to shoulder. Forsythia’s pinkie finger brushed the side of Ginny’s hand, and Ginny released a shuddering breath. Amycus’ eyes glittered in the dim light from Alecto’s wand.
“Each evening,” Amycus began, “you will stand straight with your hands by your sides, and Alecto will perform an inspection of your belongings. And I,” he paused, delighted with the discomfort radiating off of the girls before him, “will ensure your compliance.”
He didn’t seem bothered by the lack of response from the girls. Alecto was somewhere behind them, shuffling through desks and wardrobe drawers, humming to herself every once in a while. She had conjured a small crate and charmed it to float around after her like a needy pet. When she crowed in victory, Ginny couldn’t help but flinch. Amycus halted his pacing in front of her and leaned forward, breath ghosting her face as it had so often during detention, and his lips peeled back in an approximation of a smile that revealed stained, crooked teeth.
“Concerned, are we?” he breathed, and Ginny wrestled her own expression back under control but couldn’t quite wipe the defiance from her eyes. Amycus licked his lips obscenely, darted his eyes over all of Ginny in a manner that made her want to peel her own skin off, and then he was gone and Alecto was back, her crate of contraband bobbing menacingly at her shoulder. In it were Evelyn’s stock of dungbombs and Ginny’s copies of The Quibbler, retrieved from their hasty hiding spot beneath her mattress. All Ginny could feel was a rush of relief – that they weren’t the athame, that they weren’t Fleur’s letters, or, most damningly, the t-shirt that fell to her thighs which she had worn every night for weeks after Harry had left – his name was scrawled on the inside tag with Muggle ink, Potter, and Ginny had taken such comfort in the worn, dark blue fabric that she hadn’t found it in herself to leave it at home. Alecto was speaking again, far off and fuzzy, handing out detentions to all of them, something about how one piece of contraband in a dormitory implicated not only the girl who’d kept it but the girls who’d harbored her secrets, but Ginny was breathing slowly.
The Carrows stomped out, leaving behind the faint, stale odor of something gone rotten, like their magic itself was curdling in their veins. As their footsteps faded, Ginny slid to the floor, legs crumpled beneath her, and let out a sharp, humorless laugh.
“Merlin,” she gasped, as if the desperate laughter had released her voice, “Merlin this is real, isn’t it?”
Evelyn sank down beside her, and then Forsythia and Ingrid too, a circle of trembling girls who were just beginning to grasp the reality of their situation, just beginning to understand how very few protections there were left at Hogwarts. Ingrid started leaving her empty cauldron by the door that night, the thought of it clattering onto its side if someone entered unannounced a small comfort. Evelyn slept in a sweater and fleece pants from then on, despite the castle’s consistent warmth. None of them got much rest.
***
It was that same week that the last of the tentative normalcy Ginny had clung to finally shattered. Detention was held on Thursday and Ginny was grateful that the burns that had crawled up her hands, arms, and neck had faded to pale scar lines that mostly managed to hide amongst her freckles. (The rune on her chest – she tried not to look at it, or touch, or remember it was there. She had not picked up her athame since Samhain, and her journal, now thick with experimental runes and Daily Prophet cutouts, hadn’t left her bookbag.) That Thursday, though, she was in good – if fragile – spirits. Neville and Seamus had reached a breakthrough with some of the older students and their modified shield charms; she’d had a letter from Fred and George; smoke sessions with Forsythia had become a regular occurrence for the older D.A. members; and Luna had parted ways with Ginny after a particularly ridiculous Muggle Studies lesson with a sweet and spontaneous peck on the cheek that had left Ginny feeling as though she’d gulped down an entire bottle of fizzy drink without pausing to breathe. Detentions with Amycus were something she had a handle on – they were hellish and left her skin crawling, yes, but they were, at this point, predictable. Amycus, unlike his sister, was not all that creative. And as her dorm mates would all be serving different detentions, at least they wouldn’t be asked to practice curses on one another.
When she stepped into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, though, she felt her confidence take a swift kick to the stomach. Amycus stood at his (new, polished oak, not an ill-advised rune in sight) desk, as expected, but with him, to Ginny’s horror, was Olivia. Tiny, eleven-year-old Olivia with her soft, round face and her slight lisp that she’d yet to outgrow, who fell asleep at the last D.A. meeting with her head on Ginny’s shoulder, who teamed up with Oliver to sneak her a napkin full of her favorite pear tarts when they’d had them for dessert while Ginny was in the hospital wing. She sat at a desk, front and center, back ramrod straight and eyes full of a fear that Ginny knew all too well.
“Miss Weasley,” Amycus said, sounding as though he was quite pleased with himself. Ginny edged towards Olivia slowly, as though approaching the particularly angry rooster her mother had brought home the summer before her fourth year.
“Good evening, Professor Carrow,” Ginny said, still able to feel a flash of pride when her voice remained steady. She was right next to Olivia’s desk now, and she casually laid a hand on it so that her arm sat just in front of Olivia’s face. She felt small fingers curl into the sleeve of her robes.
“I am going to give you a choice this evening, Miss Weasley,” Amycus said, as though he was being extraordinarily indulgent, “but either way, you will be doing exactly what I ask of you by the end of our time together.”
“That’s a rather optimistic prediction, Professor,” Ginny said sweetly, and for a moment, that searing rage that Amycus had displayed when her own rune had surged once more unexpectedly nearly overtook him once more.
Instead of responding, Amycus beckoned both Ginny and Olivia to him. Ginny approached, angling her body in front of Olivia’s as they came to stand before Amycus. He grinned.
“Miss Weasley,” he said mildly, as though greeting her in passing, “you are falling behind on your coursework this year. Lack of participation will not be tolerated. As such, you’ll treat tonight’s detention as a make-up lesson. Wand out!”
Ginny could feel her fingers tingling as if she’d been sitting on them. She flexed them carefully and then pulled her wand from her pocket.
“On my count, you will make your choice: cast the cruciatus curse on Miss Lance, or allow me to demonstrate on our young friend myself.”
Olivia let out a strangled whine of distress, and Ginny shifted more fully in front of her.
“Not much of a choice, really, is it?” Ginny said, and Amycus downright beamed at her.
“And so you’ve made your decision, yes Weasley?” he sneered.
There was something searing and insistent crawling its way up Ginny’s throat. She glanced over her shoulder at Olivia, who was watching her intently.
Olivia’s mom was a muggle. Olivia’s mom was a muggle who lived in Devon. Olivia’s mom was a muggle who, if Ginny was remembering Olivia’s chatter correctly, was a children’s librarian, and had a cat named Parsley, and a lovely singing voice. And that made Olivia a half-blood, and therefore, to Amycus, entirely too disposable.
“Three,” Amycus drawled. He had drawn his own wand, and was toying with it.
Ginny locked eyes with Olivia. The young girl’s tears had spilt over and were tracking down her cheeks. Her lips had turned white. She mouthed something desperate at Ginny, something like Please, but she didn’t know if Olivia was begging for Ginny to get her out of there or begging for her to get it over with.
“Two,” said Amycus.
Ginny swallowed whatever was clawing at her throat, and it sat like lead in her stomach, but she had, in fact, made her choice. She threw a small smile and a wink in Olivia’s direction, and before the word “Three” was all the way out of Amycus’ mouth, she’d flung her wand arm out and shouted a curse she’d never thought she would use.
You have to mean it, Harry had said dully the day after the battle at the Ministry, that’s what Bellatrix said, after –
Ginny, apparently, had meant it. A violent spray of red erupted from her wand like broken blood vessels, and it connected with Amycus’ own wand arm. He cried out when it did, his body seizing as though he’d been hit by lightning, and then he was crumpled on the floor, breathing hard. For one insane moment, Ginny thought he was sobbing, but then he barked out a laugh – he was delighted.
Olivia’s hands were clasped over her mouth.
“Run,” Ginny said, not taking her eyes off Amycus. Olivia ran.
***
Amycus wasn’t on his knees for long. He surged back to his feet, grinning madly, spittle dripping from his mouth and that rage, that terrifying, all-consuming rage set free by Ginny’s use of an Unforgivable – even if she’d used it on him.
“Oh well done, Miss Weasley,” he rasped, mopping the sweat and spit from his face with the sleeve of his robe, “we have broken you in rather spectacularly, haven’t we?”
Ginny found that she couldn’t quite move. She’d felt this before – in the dorm the other evening, under Tom’s thrall, after the worst of her nightmares the summer after her first year – but this time, there was a terrible knowing that went along with it. There was nothing and no one to stop Amycus, and he was not stopping. He backed her towards the wall and she went, tripping over her own feet until the rough stone was the only thing holding her up. He brought a hand to her chin, lifting it to force her eyes on his, and then his wand was wedged into the small, too small space between them, digging into Ginny’s ribs painfully, and then she might have laughed herself because clearly, she’d never known pain in the first place. It was everywhere all at once, in every single nerve ending, twisting at her temples with a hot poker, flaying her alive, and very, very distantly she could hear someone screaming.
And then it stopped. It stopped, and the relief was nearly too much, but the echoes of that pain returned all too quickly to sit just beneath her skin and –
Ginny threw up. Amycus was still pressing her to the wall, still with that lurid smile even as her vomit smeared his robes and her own and dripped onto his shoes.
“That won’t do,” he said, eerily calm. His hand was at the front of her robes now, a little blurry. Ginny’s head had gone fuzzy and her ears were ringing. Pinpricks of pain flared and abated throughout her body. She ought to move away – she ought to kick, to scream –
She had screamed. She had screamed, and no one had come.
There were spots like pygmy puffs dancing around the edges of her vision. Amycus was removing her sick-stained robe, and then he was removing his own.
Ginny remembered this feeling too. This hazy, dark, almost-nothing. Your brain is only trying to protect itself, the Mind Healer had said. There is nothing at all wrong with you, the Mind Healer had said.
Bloody brilliant job her brain was doing. Brilliant job her body was doing, of protecting itself. For the second time in her sixteen years, a man removed her autonomy so completely that she felt as though she had been detached from herself. She watched, as if it were something mildly interesting that was happening to someone else.
***
Ginny did not move until nearly twenty minutes after Amycus had left. He hadn’t undressed fully, he’d only shoved his trousers down just enough and shrugged off his dirty robes, so it had taken nothing more than a quick scourgify after he’d tucked himself back into his pants for him to look entirely as she’d known him just minutes ago. And then he’d patted her, almost comfortingly, on the arm and said, Well done tonight Miss Weasley, and then, Your sweet friend is safe as long as you allow her to be, and if she’d been more present in her body she may have vomited again. And he’d left. Swept out of the room with a jaunty step. Ginny did not move. She listened to his footsteps receding, and she stared at the grandfather clock in the corner. It was loud when it ticked, something that had annoyed her during exams held in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom for as long as she could remember, but now she was overwhelmingly grateful for the tether the noise provided. It ticked, and Ginny began to breathe, slow and deep. The cold seeped into her skin, and she could still feel the ghost of the Cruciatus ripping tiny holes in her insides and her thighs ached as though she’d been on a broom for hours –
Determined to halt that train of thought before it could get too far, Ginny began to move. She adjusted her clothing, but she found that it itched wherever it touched her skin and it burned wherever it didn’t. She tested her legs, one at a time, and then her arms, and then she pushed herself to her feet, and she found herself standing.
Well done, Ginny. You’ve managed to get yourself covered and upright, so you’re roughly on par with a toddler.
The vitriol in her thoughts was familiar, something she had heard relentlessly during Tom’s time in her mind. It had persisted for long after, but she was supposed to have tools, ways to soften that voice and reframe its words, things that her Mind Healer had told her over and over again until she had begun to believe him. They were gone, for the moment. Ginny didn’t much feel like searching for them.
Something had her hesitating at the door, as though leaving this room and stepping into the corridor, heading to her dormitory, seeing another human being, anything she might do from here on out would cement what had just happened. If she stayed here, in limbo, with the ticking clock and the threefold discomfort of the cruciatus, her own cooling sick, and that burning, raw feeling between her thighs, then it wasn’t yet real.
It’s not real, Tom had crooned, and it had been comforting to hear him say so, to have someone else to tell her that it was only first year stress, that the flashes of terror her body remembered even when her mind didn’t were just homesickness or bad dreams or something else equally benign. It’s not real, she told herself now.
Ginny pulled her wand from her pocket. “Scourgify,” she said, surprised at the anger in her own voice. Her robes remained stubbornly stained. “Scourgify, scourgify, SCOURGIFY –”
“Ginny!”
Neville and Forsythia were in the doorway. Neville was staring at Ginny in trepidation, taking in her rumpled clothes and the tears streaking her face. And Forsythia –
She looked at Ginny with a terrible knowing.
“I can’t – my wand won’t – my magic won’t work,” Ginny choked out, holding out her hands helplessly as though showing them her wand might fix the problem.
“Scourgify,” Neville said, horribly quiet. He was shifting on his feet, beginning to piece together the scene before him, beginning to understand that something had happened here, and Ginny could not bear to look at him any longer. Ginny smoothed a hand over her now-clean robes and then over her hair, and tucked her wand back into her pocket.
“Ginny –” said Forsythia.
“Later,” Ginny said, and she felt a surge of affection for her dorm mate when the girl offered her a tremulous smile and left it at that. “Olivia?”
“She’s safe,” said Neville. “I took her to the Room. She was…Ginny, she wasn’t making a whole lot of sense, but –”
“We need to get her out of the castle,” Ginny said, and as the words left her mouth she knew they were true. Amycus’ final threat still rang in her ears. Her mother is a muggle who owns a cat and likes to sing songs by a band called The Beatles and holds weekly storytimes with the children of Devon.
Forsythia took her arm and the three of them left the room together.
***
Luna, Hannah, and Astoria were sitting with Olivia in the Room of Requirement. The Room had provided a fireplace, and Hannah had brought some tea from the kitchens. Olivia was curled into Hannah’s side, and Ginny’s heart twisted when she saw the puffy eyes. As soon as Ginny and her companions had closed the door behind them, Olivia was up and hurtling towards Ginny. Ginny caught her easily, doing her best to suppress the protesting of her sore body. She gathered Olivia into her arms and stroked her hair gently, just as Bill had done a hundred-thousand times for her.
“It’s alright, Olivia, it really is,” she whispered, doing her best to believe the words herself.
“Why would you do that, why – why – WHY?” Olivia howled, pounding her tiny fists into Ginny’s sore ribs, and someone cried, “Olivia!” but Ginny was already sinking to the floor with Olivia gathered to her chest, murmuring vague, soothing half-sentences. Olivia went limp in Ginny’s arms but continued to hiccup out sobs.
“You should’ve just cursed me,” Olivia mumbled into Ginny’s robs, no longer clean and now covered in snot. Ginny forced her chapped lips into something resembling a smile and shook her head.
“You knew I wouldn’t,” Ginny said.
“You could’ve just not meant it,” Olivia protested, her voice losing some of its ire.
“He would’ve cursed you himself,” Ginny said, and Olivia let out the weariest sigh.
“I know,” she said, and then she pulled back, wiping her face furiously. Ginny stood and helped her up as well. Their companions were sitting by the fire again, heads bent low.
“Olivia,” Ginny said, as they started towards the others, “we need to get you out of the castle. He won’t – he might come for you again.”
Olivia, to Ginny’s surprise, did not protest. She just sank back down into her spot beside Hannah and said, “I need to get a message to my parents.”
***
By the time the message was prepared, it was nearly curfew. Ginny volunteered to take it to Aberforth herself, but Luna had insisted upon coming with her. Hannah and Astoria had hurried to their respective dormitories, but not before they pulled a promise from Ginny to meet up the following day during lunch hour, and Neville and Forsythia walked a still-shaky Olivia back to the Gryffindor towers. Ginny and Luna were left to creep down the secret corridor behind the portrait of the young girl, who had gone ahead to the painting at the other side of the corridor to let Aberforth know they were coming.
The letter in Ginny’s pocket was addressed to Olivia’s father. Her parents were no longer together, but, according to Olivia, they remained good friends. Hannah had suggested sending it by muggle post to Hannah’s mum as an additional safety measure, and Ginny had nearly cracked a smile at the thought of Aberforth Dumbledore in his faded, stained wizard’s robes standing in the midst of a muggle Post Office and attempting to navigate the transaction in his usual unpolished manner.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Luna said softly from behind Ginny, as though she were commenting on the weather.
“What?” Ginny snapped, feeling the panic rise up again in her chest.
“Whatever happened in the Defense room, with Amycus Carrow. It wasn’t your fault, and you did what you had to in order to survive.”
Ginny hesitated, turning the words over in her brain. Luna didn’t – couldn’t – know. Not all of it. But the Unforgivable…
“Whatever it is, I forgive you,” Luna said, “if that’s what you need to hear.”
“It is, I think,” Ginny said softly. Luna squeezed Ginny’s hand, and then pushed open the portrait hole. Aberforth, who appeared to have been arguing with the girl in the portrait, stood with his arms crossed and an obstinate look on his face.
“What now?” he grumbled, and Ginny waved the letter at him with faux-cheer.
“Got a message that needs secure delivery,” Ginny said.
“See that, lad,” Aberforth said to his ever-present billy goat companion, “we’re Owl Post now!”
The billy-goat continued chewing absently at the edge of the kitchen table. Ginny plopped down in the chair next to him and gave him a scratch by the horns.
“Can you send it or not?” she asked as the goat’s teeth wandered ever-closer to her school robes.
“Have at ‘em, mate, might just burn this set anyway,” Ginny muttered to the creature.
Aberforth sent her an incredulous look and muttered, “Don’t encourage the beast, lass, it’ll go to his worthless head,” but took the letter regardless. He squinted down at the address, his bushy eyebrows twitching as though they had a personality all their own. “Muggle post?” he asked, and Ginny nodded firmly.
“Owl Post is being monitored far too closely, and she’s got a muggle mum. We need to get her out of the castle, Abe, the Carrows have set their sights on her.”
“What’ve I told you about calling me –”
“Mr. Dumbledore, sir,” Ginny quipped with a guileless smile.
“Abe it is, then,” Aberforth said, glowering. “You oughta know, girl, outta my brother’s snot-nosed brats, I despise you the most.”
“You really ought to despise us equally,” Luna said from her spot by the portrait, where she had been peering into the portrait girl’s eyes as though they were communicating telepathically, “it’s not very nice to play favorites.”
Aberforth jumped a little at the sound of her voice.
“I’d forgotten she was there,” he muttered to Ginny. “Gives me the willies, she does.”
“She has that effect, yeah,” Ginny said, very fondly, and Luna beamed at her.
“Best get back to the castle,” Luna said, “one never knows how much time one has until it’s quite run out.”
“I’ll have it sent out in the morning,” Aberforth promised. Ginny tugged her tattered sleeve from the billy goat’s mouth and saluted.
When the girls turned back to the portrait, the girl was sitting cross-legged in the field of flowers, and she was looking straight at Ginny. For a moment, Ginny understood why it looked as though she and Luna had been communicating – because it felt as though the girl was doing the same with Ginny. Sweet girl, something about her said, do not let this consume you. Ginny shook her head and blinked, and the girl’s eyes were once again unfocused. The portrait swung open, and Ginny and Luna crawled into the corridor once more.
“What’s her name, Abe?” Ginny asked, pausing as she crouched in the portrait hole, brushing dirt and dust from her hands onto her robes.
“Arianna,” Aberforth said. “She was the best of us Dumbledores, I’ll tell you that.”
“Of –”
“I didn’t call for questions, you nosy lass,” Aberforth grumbled, so Ginny turned back towards Luna and the corridor, and the portrait swung closed behind them.
“Next time,” Luna said, “you ought to ask for the billy goat’s name instead,” and then she took Ginny’s hand, entwined their fingers, and began humming a tune under her breath.
***
The days that followed Ginny’s detention with Amycus Carrow were sluggish. Ginny dragged herself from one class to the next, listened to Alecto drone on about the barbarism of muggle medicine, forced herself to look Amycus in the eye every time she sat down in his classroom (and very much did not look at the spot on the floor where she’d sat, the spot where her sick had been –), forced herself to eat the tasteless food that Neville heaped on her plate at mealtimes. He’d been steadfast and kind, and he hadn’t asked, and Ginny was grateful for his stalwart presence at her side. Her dorm mates had settled into a routine of sorts with one another, with Ingrid and Forsythia orbiting around Ginny even as Evelyn stubbornly carried on as though the Carrows didn’t paw through their things each night and their classes hadn’t been overtaken by terrorists. Ginny had to admire her mental fortitude, if nothing else. Only in the evenings after the Carrows’ searches did Evelyn’s fear break through her cool facade.
Her dorm mates were speaking in low tones in their circle on the floor – now a nightly tradition. Ginny had yet to join them, as she’d opted to take her turn in the bathroom last. She sat on the edge of the clawfoot tub, staring resolutely at her feet so that she wouldn’t have to look at the pair of blood-flecked knickers on the floor. Her toes were painted green – Hannah had painted them a week ago in the Room. Green was from before. Suddenly, she wanted to scrub it off. Scourgify still evaded her stubbornly, and she’d only managed a handful of weak spells in the last couple of days. Her magic felt knotted up behind her breastbone, and it hurt every time she swallowed. She rummaged in a cupboard for a polish remover potion and some cotton swabs instead, and sat cross-legged on the green and white tiles. Her hair was still wet from the shower she’d taken, hanging loose and soaking into the back of Harry’s t-shirt. It still smelled a bit like him, like sunshine and molasses and broom polish, and it, more so than any bath had in the past several days, made her feel a little cleaner.
Forsythia knocked as Ginny tossed her second used cotton swab into the bin by the sink.
“Gin?” she called from just outside the door.
“Yeah?”
The door cracked open, and Ginny found she didn’t have the energy to refuse her dorm mate entrance. Forsythia slipped inside and closed the door softly behind her.
“Hey. Just – just checking in on you, I guess,” she said, and Ginny kept her eyes on her toes. There was a stubborn bit of polish on her left foot’s big toe that she was scraping at with a fingernail. Forsythia swallowed audibly, and Ginny could feel her eyes roving first over Ginny and her apparent war with the green nail polish, then to the knickers on the floor next to her.
“Could you get me another pair from my trunk?” Ginny asked quietly, still avoiding Forsythia’s eyes.
“Oh! Sure, uhm…on your cycle?” Forsythia asked doubtfully. Ginny could feel that knot of magic and dread rising in her throat.
“No,” she choked, blinking hot tears out of her eyes and tossing the final cotton swab towards the bin. Silently, Forsythia slipped out of the bathroom.
Ginny half-expected her not to return, but when she did, she was holding three things: two small jars, and a fresh pair of knickers, black so that they wouldn’t stain, and soft so that they wouldn’t chafe. She handed them over as Ginny stood. She slid them up her legs and finally met Forsythia’s eyes.
“What are those?” she asked softly, gesturing towards the vials in Forsythia’s hands.
“Oh. These, uhm…Ginny. I don’t want to assume – I mean, I’m not sure exactly what –”
“Whatever you’re thinking,” Ginny said, voice still quiet, “is…probably not far off.”
Forsythia winced.
“Mugwort concentrate,” she said, “makes for an inhospitable womb. And turmeric and yarrow, to promote healing, and to help with the blood.”
She uncorked first the mugwort, and once Ginny had downed the bitter concoction with a grimace, she handed over the milder turmeric and yarrow. Forsythia tucked both vials into the pocket of her dressing gown, and the two stood just a metre apart.
“Oh, Gin,” Forsythia breathed, and she opened her arms, and Ginny fell into them with a heavy, shuddering breath. They stood that way for a while, while Ginny felt the knot in her chest start to loosen.
“I wish I could crawl out of my own skin,” Ginny murmured.
“I know,” Forsythia said, with such firmness that Ginny was certain she actually did know.
“Wish you didn’t,” Ginny choked into her shoulder. Forsythia just smoothed a hand through her still-damp hair.
“Me too,” Forsythia murmured, “but you’re not alone.”
They stayed there for a long time. Ginny slipped her own dressing gown over Harry’s shirt and took the risk of sleeping in it that night. She wasn’t certain she’d be able to sleep otherwise.
Foamingriver on Chapter 1 Wed 20 Nov 2024 06:50PM UTC
Last Edited Wed 20 Nov 2024 06:50PM UTC
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princessofshazabah on Chapter 2 Thu 13 Feb 2025 01:22AM UTC
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Dealer_Narc_of_Salvation on Chapter 2 Wed 23 Jul 2025 03:44AM UTC
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