Chapter Text
Minerva McGonagall had never been known for her patience. She tolerated neither squabbles nor rule-breaking, and she certainly never gave Ginny the impression that she was the forgiving sort.
Still, Ginny never thought she would be the one to push the Transfiguration professor over the edge. She was usually too subtle — unlike the twins — to get caught.
But apparently, tonight wasn’t her night.
She knew as much the moment McGonagall’s nostrils flared and she turned sharply… not on Ginny, but on her sudden and most unexpected partner in crime.
“Mr Potter,” McGonagall said, voice dangerously even, “would you care to explain how, precisely, your fist came into violent contact with Mr Smith’s face?”
Harry blinked innocently. “I... tripped.”
McGonagall’s eyebrow twitched. “You tripped.”
“Exactly. It happens. Gravity. Very rude, very sudden.”
“Five points from Slytherin for your cheek, Mr Potter.”
Harry sighed, but continued smoothly. “You see, Professor, I was up late yesterday. Detention with Mr Filch — You know how it goes. So I’m afraid my balance was somewhat compromised today. Unintentionally. Mr Smith’s nose simply... got in the way.”
McGonagall closed her eyes as if praying for strength. “You can work twice as hard in detention tonight to prevent any future accidents. Fifty points from Slytherin.”
Then she turned to Ginny. “And you, Miss Weasley — would you care to explain how Mr Smith’s own mucus attempted to smother him?”
Ginny looked down, shuffling her foot, and then met McGonagall’s gaze with wide, innocent eyes. “Zacharias had a runny nose, Professor. And as the kind, considerate classmate I am, I thought I’d help. I may have… miscast. Silly little me.”
Behind McGonagall, Harry snorted. Ginny bit the inside of her cheek to hold back a grin.
“Detention for you as well, Miss Weasley. Twenty points from Gryffindor.”
“Only twenty?” Harry muttered darkly.
“If you have any further objections, Mr Potter,” McGonagall said, sharp as a blade, “you’re welcome to lodge a complaint with your Head of House.”
Harry’s scowl deepened.
“As for you, Miss Weasley,” she added, tone laced with disappointment, “I would have expected more from one of my lions.” She turned on her heel. “Come, Mr Smith. Off to the infirmary.”
Zacharias trudged behind her, grumbling. As McGonagall strode off, she shot one final, withering glare at the two miscreants she was leaving behind — both of whom were trying, and failing, to look remorseful.
Harry leaned slightly toward Ginny. “Serves him right,” he muttered. “That curse was impressive.”
Ginny beamed at him. “Why, thank you. Comes in handy more often than you’d think.”
Harry shook his head. “And they say Snape’s the biased one.”
“Planning to report it?”
“Not likely.” He grinned. “You’ll just have to make it up to me.” He started walking, tossing her a casual wink over his shoulder. “See you tonight, Weasley.”
The portrait swung open, and Ginny stepped into the Common Room.
She was dead on her feet. If she skipped that Defence essay due tomorrow, she might just squeeze in an hour of sleep before detention. Right now, all she wanted was to drop her bag, crawl into bed, and pretend other people didn’t exist.
No such luck.
Before she could sneak away, Hermione waved her over.
“Hey, Ginny. How’s it going?”
“Like every other day.” Ginny rolled her eyes.
Neville perked up from his homework pile. “We’re heading to the kitchens after this. Want to come?”
“Can’t. Got detention.”
Hermione nearly dropped her book. “Detention? Ginny Weasley — what did you do?”
“I may have bat-bogey hexed Zacharias Smith.” She said it proudly, chin lifted.
Ron and Neville burst into laughter. Hermione looked scandalised.
“Why on earth—”
“Didn’t like what he said.”
“Doesn’t matter what he said,” Ron grinned, clapping her shoulder. “Serve him right!”
“That’s what Harry said, too!”
The room temperature dropped. Ron’s face twisted.
“Harry? What Harry?”
“Harry... Potter, I think.”
“What were you doing with Harry Potter?”
Ginny crossed her arms. “After I hexed Smith, he tried to jump me from behind. Harry ‘tripped’. Right into Smith’s face.”
“You see?” Hermione added. “He helped her. Not the best method, but…”
“Don’t worry, little Ronnie,” Ginny said sweetly. “I can handle myself.”
“You’re fourteen. And he’s a Slytherin! You can’t trust him!”
Ginny raised a brow “You mean like your idol, Mad-Eye Moody? Or Viktor Krum? Or—should we start tearing down the poster shrine?”
“That’s different!”
“How?”
Ron looked desperately at Neville. The other boy hesitated.
“Well... he’s not awful, I guess,” Neville muttered. “But I’ve heard he’s a sweet-talker. Got a few girls wrapped around his wand.” He winced as Ginny kicked his shin. “I mean—around his finger. Finger!”
Hermione sighed, not even looking up. “Don’t buy the rumours. I’ve worked with him. He’s nice. Bit sarcastic. You’ll get along.”
“You worked with him?” Ron sputtered.
“Yes, Ronald.” Hermione raised an eyebrow. “What’s your problem?”
“He’s a Slytherin! Why would you talk to him?”
Ginny leaned in close to Ron’s ear. “Would you rather she study with someone else? Someone... ginger?”
Ron turned crimson.
Hermione shut her book with a snap. “We had joint assignments in Ancient Runes and Muggle Studies. Maybe you’d know that if you’d actually signed up.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You’re not my father, Ronald. Nor my keeper.”
Ginny nodded along beside her, arms crossed in sisterly solidarity. “Exactly what she said.”
Ron opened his mouth, but Ginny beat him to it. “You don’t have to like it. That’s the best part.”
“He attacked Neville! He can’t be trusted!”
“Neville attacked him first,” Hermione said flatly.
“You’re defending him now?!”
“I’m stating facts.”
“It wasn’t even a duel,” Ginny added, smirking. “Two spells. One was a shield charm.”
Neville flushed. He slammed his book shut, muttering something under his breath as he stalked off.
Ron glared after him, then turned his glare to Ginny. “Look what you did!”
“What did I do?” she huffed.
“Hit a nerve, probably.” Hermione said, eyes still on her page.
“Wanna let me in on the secret?”
“As if I know. He never told me.”
A brief silence settled between them.
“Is there something I should know?” Ginny asked quietly. “About Potter, I mean.”
Hermione smiled slightly. She turned back to her book, added almost absently, “Both of you are menaces.”
Ginny came down from her dorm fifteen minutes before detention — no more, no less. She wasn’t about to rush. Scrubbing cauldrons wasn’t exactly worth the sprint. Honestly, she’d much rather be curled under a blanket with a decent book. (Yes, contrary to Hogwarts legend, there was actually a second Weasley besides Percy who liked to read.)
But peace, as usual, was too much to ask for.
Neville sat sprawled on one of the loveseats in the Common Room. The moment he spotted her, his face lit up.
Ginny groaned internally. Of course. Exactly what she didn’t have the patience for — someone in a good mood.
“Ginny! Hey!”
She tried to breeze past him like she hadn’t noticed. No such luck. She stopped, closed her eyes, inhaled slowly, and turned to face him.
His bright, bashful smile clashed hard against the deadpan expression she forced over the scowl, trying to claw its way out.
“Hi, Ginny,” Neville said, slightly breathless. “What are you doing here?”
She stared at him. Silently.
Did they not already go over this earlier?
“Right,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Detention. With… him.”
He trailed off, clearly hoping she’d say something. She didn’t.
Silence stretched like hexed chewing gum.
Neville’s cheeks flushed. “I just… wanted to say. Be careful. Don’t trust him.”
Ginny rolled her eyes. “Another one. How many warnings am I going to get tonight?”
“ I-we-we just worry about you.”
“There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Of course there is!” Neville insisted. “We don’t want you to get… seduced!”
That did it.
Ginny stared at him. Then slowly blinked. Opened her mouth — Closed it again.
She exhaled. A long, slow, deliberate breath through her nose.
“And what exactly is it to you?”
Neville blinked.
“W-what?”
“What’s it to you?” she repeated, voice quieter now, sharper. “Maybe keep your nose out of my life, Neville. Unless you want your nose ending up like Smith’s.”
She didn’t wait for a reply.
She spun on her heel and stormed out of the Common Room — boots hitting the floor strongly than necessary.
Behind her, two familiar figures stood frozen at the stairwell, having just come down from their dorms in time to catch the tail-end of the explosion.
Ron winced. Hermione arched an eyebrow.
And Neville?
Neville just sat there, staring after her, the colour drained from his cheeks.
Hell, she hexed a boy today for talking down to her. What made anyone think she’d melt over a bit of attention?
Ginny calmed down a little by the time she reached McGonagall’s office. The walk helped — short, quiet, torch-lit.
She didn’t care if Neville or even Ron meant well. She hated it when people tried to mess with her life, like she was some naive girl who needed managing. She could make her own mistakes, thank you very much — and hand out her own Bat-Bogey Hexes when necessary.
She stopped just short of the door and leaned in, listening.
No voices. Maybe Potter wasn’t there yet.
Good.
She couldn’t let a Slytherin beat her to her own Head of House. As a matter of principle.
She took a few steps back and leaned against the stone wall, watching how the torchlight shimmered on the suits of armour nearby. Shadows stretched like slow-moving ghosts across the corridor. Her jaw clenched.
Everyone thought they knew what was going on. Like she was just another silly girl waiting to be swept off her feet. What did they think she was? Some lovestruck bint with pudding for brains?
Just because Harry Potter looked like trouble wrapped in leather and charm didn’t mean she’d throw herself at him like a lovesick fairy.
She wasn’t that kind of girl. She had dignity. Standards. Self-respect. And brains.
Still, despite what Hermione had said, Ginny had no idea what to expect. She didn’t really know Potter. Not well. He passed her in the corridors sometimes, and sat a few tables over in the Great Hall. And of course, there was Quidditch. Hard to forget that part — the youngest Seeker in a century, they said. Even she could admit it was impressive. Then there was that incident last year. When Neville had tried to curse him. Now that had been a scene.
“Boo!”
Ginny nearly jumped out of her skin. She spun around, hand flying to her chest. “Ho—how?” she gasped. “How did you—?”
Harry grinned, utterly unrepentant. “That wouldn’t be fun if I told you all my secrets, now would it?”
“That would be fun if you didn’t try to kill me with a heart attack!”
He paused, then tilted his head in mock concern. “Scared? But… you’re a Gryffindor!”
The tone. That look. She’d seen it before — on Fred. On George. Nothing good followed it.
Ginny narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t mean—”
“I mean, maybe you’re not Gryffindor at all,” he continued thoughtfully. “Hufflepuff, maybe? They walk in packs. Safety in numbers and all that.”
She opened her mouth, but he kept going.
“Honestly, you should try it. Wouldn’t want to trip into another Slytherin ambush.”
That was it.
“Can you shut up and let me speak for once?” she snapped.
The silence that followed was glorious. She drew a breath, a string of creative insults already queuing in her brain — when the unmistakable sound of a throat clearing froze her solid.
She turned.
McGonagall. Arms crossed. Eyebrow raised. Mouth tight enough to slice stone.
“Do you have anything to add, Miss Weasley?”
“…Err. No, Professor.”
“Very well. Now, come with me.”
As they began walking, Harry leaned in and whispered, “If I said half of what you just did, she’d have taken fifty points.”
Ginny whipped her head around, her hair catching him square in the face. “Very deservedly!” she huffed, stomping after McGonagall.
Harry just chuckled under his breath and followed.
McGonagall left them alone with a sigh, a glare, and instructions so vague they were practically begging to be ignored. “Polish the plaques. No magic. No vanishing spells. No explosions, Miss Weasley.”
Then she vanished, like all good authority figures do when things are about to go sideways.
Ginny grabbed a rag and sighed. “How thrilling. Manual labour with a Slytherin.”
Harry leaned against a dusty display case. “You’re welcome. I bring class and intrigue to any setting.”
She rolled her eyes. “You bring migraines and hexes.”
Ten minutes in, they hadn’t killed each other. Ginny considered that progress.
Then Harry, of course, went feral.
He wandered off to the back, where a row of mannequins stood draped in old uniforms and ancient Quidditch robes — some so ridiculous they looked like cursed carnival props.
“Oi, Weasley,” he called. “How do I look?”
She turned. He’d shoved a grotesque, feathered hat on his head and was making a duckface at the mirror.
“Like a deranged hippogriff impersonator,” she replied dryly.
“Good. That was the vibe.”
He struck a pose.
Soon, she was by his side. Curiosity was her fatal flaw.
They rummaged through the pile like two kids in a costume shop gone rogue. Ginny pulled out a pair of tattered Ministerial robes and threw them over her shoulders like a cloak.
“Madam Weasley, Minister of Accidental Catastrophes,” Harry announced, bowing low.
“And you must be my loyal assistant,” she said, tossing him a set of goblin ceremonial armour. “Harry, the Extremely Confused.”
“I feel seen.”
They caught themselves laughing — too loud, too hard. It hung in the air between them. Suddenly, Ginny’s smile faltered.
“Why are you actually being nice to me?”
Harry blinked. For a second, the armour he wore wasn’t just physical.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because you’re a Slytherin. And I’m… not.”
He looked at her then properly. “Maybe I like proving people wrong.”
A beat of silence passed. “Maybe,” she echoed, voice low, “so do I.”
They’d laughed too much. That was the problem.
Now, silence hung like a fog between them as they returned to their half-hearted polishing duties. Ginny scrubbed a tarnished Quidditch cup with aggressive focus. Harry sat slouched near the House Elf Relocation Award (1924), tapping the edge with a cloth but not really cleaning anything.
Every now and then, one of them would glance at the other.
Then immediately look away.
Then glance again.
Ginny hated it. Hated how warm her face still was. Hated that her heartbeat was trying to convince her she’d just enjoyed herself. With him, of all people.
“You’re weird,” she muttered finally, just to break the tension.
Harry looked up. “I prefer ‘enigmatic.’”
“No, definitely weird. You act like an arse most of the time, but then you pull out… this.” She gestured vaguely at his ridiculous hat, which was now perched jauntily on one of the trophies.
“It’s called range.”
She snorted despite herself.
“Seriously, though,” he said more quietly, “you’re not what I expected either.”
Ginny blinked and narrowed her eyes. “What did you expect?”
“A smaller version of your brothers. Loud. Reckless. Possibly feral.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
“And what am I, then?” she asked, folding her arms.
Harry hesitated. Then said almost too sincerely, “Actually funny, once in a while. Sharp-tongued nightmare.”
Ginny stared. “Is that a compliment?”
“Terrifyingly so.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“Well. You’re… not entirely a tosser, either.”
“Now that’s romantic.”
A few moments passed.
Ginny went back to scrubbing a plaque. Her voice came softer this time:
“Why are you really nice to me?”
Harry looked down at the cloth in his hands. Twisted it once. Twice.
“Because you look like you’d hex anyone who wasn’t.”
She smiled at the floor.
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” he said, “but it’s still true.”
They didn’t speak much after that. The kind of silence that comes not from awkwardness, but from the strange calm of knowing you’ve both said too much.
But when McGonagall came back and raised an eyebrow at the crookedly-dressed mannequin in Ministerial robes and the goblin armour lying on the floor, neither of them said a word.
She didn’t ask. She knew better.
“Detention served,” McGonagall said briskly, already locking the trophy cabinet with a sharp flick of her wand. “You’re dismissed.” She turned on her heel and swept out without another glance, her robes snapping behind her like a warning not to test her further.
Ginny and Harry stood in the sudden quiet, neither moving. McGonagall’s footsteps echoed for a while until they faded into silence.
Ginny crossed her arms. “Well. That was... enlightening.”
Harry smirked and leaned against a nearby display case, arms folded casually. “Enlightening? I’d call it thrilling. Who knew trophies scrubbing could be so intimate?”
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
There was a pause—not awkward, just weighted—before she tilted her head slightly and asked, “A Potter in Slytherin… how on Merlin’s pants did you end up there?”
“Ah, you see, the Sorting Hat had decided that I was already too bold and rule-breaking for my own good and said I ought to highlight my other attributes.”
Ginny bit her lip and nodded slowly, “I can see. Though I wouldn’t call egocentrism a good attribute.”
Harry looked at her for a long while with a stony expression, then a small smile appeared on his lips. “That’s the catch here, my dear. I would be totally overpowered if I were humble on top of my other qualities.”
“Overpowered?” Ginny snorted, “I would rather call it barely bearable.”
Harry grabbed his chest and looked at her, a mock expression of hurt on his face, “The hardships of greatness,” he said, shaking his head, “A price I’m willing to pay.”
“And quite delusional to that. Not very Slytherinish.”
“That’s a Gryffindor’s trait, I know. Suits you very well.” Harry tilted his head, studying her. “You know, for someone so quick to insult me, you sure enjoy my company.”
Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Maybe I just enjoy your suffering.”
“Masochist.”
“Sadist.”
They stood there, grinning.
Harry had this smile, the one that made her insides start to turn in a way-too-pleasant way. “So, should I worry about an angry boyfriend wanting to beat me up for spending the night with his gal?”
Ginny blushed against her will at the implication but gracefully managed to smile, “Nah, my brothers made sure all the boys stayed away.”
“Really? So there’s nothing between you and oh-so-perfect golden boy?”
Ginny burst out laughing, “I may have once had an innocent little crush when I was ten. Okay, eleven,” she added at his raised eyebrows, with a light blush gracing her cheeks, “But I grew out of it, fortunately. So no, you don’t need to worry about any boy. My brothers, on the other hand…” She added, grinning evilly.
“Good.” He said, matching her smile, “I won’t be bored, then. Oh, and as we speak of brothers, isn’t this your brother Reginald there?” He pointed over her shoulder, and Ginny immediately turned around. There was no one there.
She turned back, already preparing a snarky retort, but there was no Harry. No sound. No footsteps. Just an empty corridor. Only the faintest movement — a ripple in the shadows — caught her eye as if the hallway itself had exhaled.
He was gone. Like smoke.
“Where did he go?” She said aloud to herself, looking at the place where Harry vanished into thin air. She couldn’t understand how – it was a mystery, just like many things about him. It irritated her, not knowing a thing about him. But it also fascinated her, the way he carried himself and the whole enigma surrounding his persona.
Too bad that it was probably the only chance to get to know him. She doubted that they would have an opportunity to meet again in a friendly, or without animosity, for that matter, manner.
She stared a second longer, cheeks still warm.
“Git,” she muttered.
But the smile that tugged at her lips betrayed her.