Chapter Text
An Unexpected Visitor
Ginny was going to chuck the rolodex into the bloody bin.
Or perhaps she’d ask Hughes - the office manager - if she could use the paper shredder first, destroying each of the little cream cards into small little ribbons.
And then set the ball of shorn strips on fire until they were incinerated to ash.
No; she couldn’t burn it. That wouldn’t be smart. The office was already sweltering as it was, even with the windows open and the cross-breeze doing what little it could to appease the building’s occupants.
Shredding it and tossing it into the bin would be the best option.
Instead, however - and absolutely more logical - Ginny ducked down to collect the fallen name cards to shuffle them back into a somewhat neat pile - she’d worry about reorganizing them later - and bent a second time to retrieve the plastic rolodex holder, tossing it onto the already cluttered desktop.
Ever since they’d installed the ancient computers onto each of the writers’ and editors’ desks the previous month, Ginny felt she’d been less productive than they’d promised.
Hell, the amount of times she’s already had to rearrange her desk was likely the reason five of her articles were late to the main editor’s desk.
If it would’ve fit, she’d have chucked the large monitor into the bin bedside the name cards. But Hughes would probably have a fit about it, if Ginny actually tossed it. He’d be angry that the trash was overflowing - perhaps more so at the lack of recycling.
“Did you find it, then?” asked her boss, Eleanor Howe, owner of the building and Editor-in-Chief for the Honiton Herald.
Ginny had been hired by the woman herself just over a year ago - having the luck to stumble upon the job listing while she’d sat, loitering, in a small café in town of St. Ottery Catchpole in an effort to escape the chaos of the Burrow.
It had been Victoire’s first birthday and nearly all of the Weasley-clan had been in attendance. It wasn’t… bad to be near all of the family and their friends, but Ginny found herself often struggling with the odd sense of being overwhelmed when the home was over-crowded.
Something that hadn’t been an issue when she was younger; but now…
And so Ginny often found solitude in the small square of St. Ottery Catchpole - at the small bookshop when open, the family-owned grocers, or the quaint café shop, The Grazing Cow Cafe.
The café's owner had been kind enough to allow Ginny to use the telephone ( being one of the top customers probably helped) in order to call the Honiton Herald’s receptionist and set up an interview with the head editor.
Ginny had gotten the job.
And a month later, thanks to the somewhat jammy salary, Ginny had been able to find a small - cozy, honestly - flat a few blocks from the office. A much improved commute compared to the hour-long bus ride she had to take each morning and evening.
Her mum had thrown a fit when she’d brought it up - and the row that had ensued had practically shook the house - but after some gentle support from her dad, the three of them had sat and leafed through the flat’s pamphlet together, Ginny kowtowing to her mother’s idea of decorating plans ( she could - and did - change it later).
Ginny had, however, put her foot down on activating a Floo connection, no matter how much her mum insisted it was needed.
The idea of a simple method of entry for uninvited guests did not settle well with her, at all.
Besides, she didn’t quite like the notion of requiring the Ministry of Magic’s approval to do so - they’d have wanted her address and an explanation why it was needed.
There were other methods of transportation, she had assured her mother. Muggle transportation. The Knight Bus, even. Side-Apparition, if necessary.
Which also resulted in the newly installed telephone in the Weasley’s kitchen, screwed into place just beside the backdoor. Ginny could now call for pickup anytime she needed, if required.
Now, why would she need pickup, you wonder?
Because she didn’t have magic.
Not since after her First Year and the… messy wreckage incurred by You-Know-You.
All Ginny could recall - beyond low, dulcet reassuring tones and pale skin - was a devastating terror that had curled deep within her chest and had settled there - tight, choking, and numbing, all at once.
She’d woken up at St. Mungo’s after having passed out in Dumbledore’s office after Harry had rescued her, Ron, and Lockhart from the Chamber.
Her ‘magic-locked coma’, as the Healers had diagnosed it, had lasted nearly a month. It wasn’t until she tried to summon a glass of water at her hospital bedside that they’d discovered she couldn’t connect to her magic. She couldn’t even cast a blasted Lumos to see in the dark.
This revelation led to another month in the hospital as the healers and specialists tried to determine what happened.
Soon after, the healers had attempted to revive her magic, by performing a spell that was meant to pull her magic to the surface - which led to another ‘coma’ where Ginny had been asleep for a fortnight.
Her mum and dad had her discharged quickly after that, rejecting any other proposals or suggestions from the healers.
By the time she’d settled back into her room at the Burrow, she had already missed the train to Hogwarts. The school term had started without her - which was fine. Completely fine.
Without her magic, it wasn’t like there was much for her to learn there anyway.
Instead, her mother had kept her home to homeschool for that year - which was decidedly not the proper path for the two Weasley females to venture together. Her mum was too impatient, Ginny too stubborn when told to do homework.
It also hadn’t helped much that it felt impossible for Ginny to work past any feelings of resentment being in a home… steeped in magic.
And while the Psych Healer her parents had sent her to validated her feelings, she had lost a part of herself when she lost her connection to magic. She had the right to mourn the side of herself she no longer had. She had the right to grieve the loss of apart of herself she’d grown expecting to have access to.
Even watching her mum spell-repair of her dad’s old trousers caused a small heartache.
And soon enough, Ginny was certain her mum could see it in her expression, each time she’d caught them using their wands. Her mother’s own expression would often fill with pity and apology - the emotions only irking Ginny more.
So what, then? She couldn’t use magic. It was a fact that she had worked hard to accept.
And anyways. It wasn’t like she was dead. She had plenty of more to do with her life than sit and wallow about what could have been.
Which then led to Ginny being enrolled at King’s School, a well-established boarding academy for both boys and girls, a two hour walk outside of St. Ottery Catchpole. The Headmaster was (disappointingly) nothing like Professor Dumbledore and her Head of House was (fortunately) the exact opposite of McGonagall (and much younger).
It had been easy enough to fall into step with the other students - if a little awkward at times, trying to catch up with the Muggle-style of ... living.
Even when her Mum called her home every fortnight to spend the weekend, re-up her supplies ( it’s not like they went to the Muggle grocers often ) and sent her back with camouflaged Pepperup Potions and Dreamless Draughts, returning to school became easy like a routine.
Ginny assumed immersing herself would have been the easiest path.
And it had been… easy, that is.
Easy to make friends, easy to acquire a best mate or two in order to gossip with. Get a decent boyfriend to snog for a fortnight and move on. Easy to make good grades that earned her a scholarship for the following year, and the years after. Easy to help win tourneys for the King’s Owls and practically obliterate any of their football opponents from other schools.
But the problem was that Ginny had felt like she’d watched it all outside of herself.
As if she were watching an aquarium filled with a school of fish and other sea creatures, living their lives and enjoying swimming - but distorted by the thick glass keeping the fish safe. The closer she pressed her nose to the glass, the harder it was to see.
“Ginny?”
She jolted, upending the haphazard pile of cards she’d set on her desk across the top of it. “Shit,” she huffed, trying to grab at them before any fell onto the floor.
Eleanor chuckled, crossing her arms as she leaned her hip against the desk. “What’s got you distracted?”
A dry laugh of her own escaped as she reshuffled the cards and aligned them. “Sorry, Eleanor. I don’t think I’ve managed to lose any. Wouldn’t hurt for you to move on past a rolodex though, would it?”
The Head Editor waved her off. “I’m attached. What’s going to happen when all these computers power down and we can’t turn them back on?”
“Wasn’t that what they said about the printing presses back in the day? Look at us now.”
“Look at us now,” the older woman hummed in agreement, glancing around the empty office with a wry grin. “What’re you, eighteen? Just out of the cradle? I don’t think it’s right to sound so war-torn this young.”
“Nearly twenty, I’ll have you know,” Ginny said with a sniff and a smirk, tucking the contact cards back onto the rolodex’s spindles.
“Ah, yes,” Eleanor said, settling onto the desk more comfortably. “Birthday’s next week - right after your brother’s wedding, yeah?”
“That’s right.” Ginny shoved the rolodex to the opposite corner of her desk, where her elbow wouldn’t knock it over - but she couldn’t make promises on behalf of her coffee cup, now sat precariously at the edge beside the rolodex. “Are you sure you don’t need me here that weekend?”
Eleanor raised her hand to wave her off again. “I’ll have Thomas cover your ads and column if you need to stay with family longer. It’s not a problem at all, truly. I don’t think you’ve taken a single day off since I’ve hired you.”
“Strong work ethic, ” Ginny said wryly, repeating the words from her own grim resume that Eleanor hadn’t looked twice at when they’d met for the interview.
“So glad that it was true,” her boss replied with a smile, straightening. “Speaking of, I’ll let you grab the Letters Box this weekend to work through with that Strong Work Ethic. Mind locking up once you’re through them?”
Ginny glanced over her shoulder towards the front of the office-space, catching sight of the box built beside the front door into the wall - installed so that the front of it hung outside, allowing any of the local townspeople to drop suggestions, tips, or requests into it. “Didn’t I -”
“Nu-uh,” Eleanor refuted before Ginny could say more, shaking her finger as she pushed herself away from Ginny’s desk. “I know the rotating schedule. It’s your turn.”
“But I swear I just -”
“That was Mary,” Eleanor chided.
“But -”
Eleanor shook her head, grinning. “Thomas before that. And Liam the week before. Which means it’s your turn this week.”
Ginny exhaled, laughing slightly at being told-off indirectly by her boss. “Alright then, it’s my turn.”
“Thank the Lord it’s Friday, right?”
Eleanor was already walking away, her heeled-sandals click-clacking on the linoleum floor as she followed the path back towards her office. “Take them home and read them, if you want. We just have to make sure they’re addressed by next column’s due.”
Ginny’s nose wrinkled at the idea of taking home the notes written by random townspeople. They were often complaints about other neighbors or disorderly conduct - or the occasional crude drawing by one of the annoying teens who lived around here. Like hell she’d take those home.
Shoving back from her desk, Ginny stood with a stretch, arching her back in an effort to alleviate the tension that had long ago settled in the top of her back between her shoulder blades.
Though the runs she’d taken in the morning seemed to appease the strain her desk job inflected, it did little to prevent any of the muscle soreness she experienced huddling over her keyboard and notepad.
Eleanor kept her own desk drawer well-stocked with pain meds; though the woman was perhaps only aged just past forty. She offered the drawer to any of the employees as needed; but often retaliated by making that employee respond to the denied dating ads that were submitted biweekly.
There was even a tiny card taped to the front of the drawer; Paracetamol for Piercing Headaches, Aspirin for Agonizing Body Pains, Gaviscon for the Gut. Price: Snubbing the Skivvies. Eleanor loved her alliterations - though she wasn’t always the best.
Ginny avoided the drawer as best as she could; made easier by the notion that the vitamined Pepperup Potions her mum brewed for her to take daily could have adverse effects.
She’d taken one that morning, actually - like she did every day - as she cooked herself some eggs and sausage - with enough left over so that she’d have some for dinner later.
Ginny considered stopping by the nearby café on the way home to grab a croissant; it’d be easy enough to make the leftovers into a sandwich.
It’d be kismet if the owner happened to drop another coupon flyer into the letters box, truly, Ginny mused as she walked up to the door and bent to twist at the letter box’s fastener. It stuck, as she was familiar with, and had to finagle the knob - until it finally gave-way, dropping a series of papers, parchments, and envelopes onto the floor in a cluttered pile.
“Brillant,” she murmured to herself, kneeling to collect the stray pieces of papers and carelessly bundling them into her arms.
It didn’t matter; she’d have to sort through them anyway. Half of them would probably end up in the bin. She secured the pieces of paper into the crook of her elbow and - shivered, an odd sensation rolling over her as she stood.
Anxious, she examined the street in front of the Honiton Herald more closely.
The Post Office was closing, its workers walking out the front together to lock the door behind them. The small sweets shop was open, bustling with a wave of young kids. The corner shop across the office was slow - she could see the teen behind the counter flipping through a magazine lazily.
There was a sudden flicker out of the corner of her eye; but when Ginny looked closer, found nothing.
Brushing off the peculiar feeling, Ginny turned her back and returned to her desk, dumping the pile of papers onto it, the parchments spilling over onto her keyboard.
“I’m heading off!” Eleanor called, exiting from her office and shutting off the light behind her. She had her large bag tucked over her shoulder, jacket tied around the straps. “You won’t stay too long, will you?”
Ginny settled back into her chair, smiling wryly. “As my boss, I don’t think that’s what you’re supposed to be encouraging.”
“But I’m a wonderful boss,” the older woman proclaimed, sliding her sunglasses onto her nose. “And you’re paid an hourly wage.”
A wonderful thing, really; a benefit that Ginny managed not to overindulge in for fear of getting fired. “Fair enough. I plan on getting through this rubbish pile and then I’ll head out.”
“Save the really good ones for me,” Eleanor reminded as she walked past Ginny’s desk towards the door. “Have a good weekend, Ginny.”
“See you Monday,” Ginny called as her boss escaped through the front doors.
At the sound of the doors falling closed, Ginny inhaled slowly, twisting her hair into a faux-ponytail in order to keep it out of her face as she began to sort through the stack.
Lechy sketch. Lechy sketch. Mrs. Tierney complaining about the Bin Pick-up Schedule again. Mrs. Tierney complaining about the community garden’s overgrowth (also again). Another lechy sketch.
Ginny exhaled, setting the useless notes into the throw away pile and leaning back in her chair to relax for a moment, reaching back to adjust the hair that had fallen out of her makeshift twist.
Perhaps she’d get it trimmed, she considered, running her fingers over the harried ends. It had been ages since she’d cut it - it was probably the longest it’s been.
Her mum, however, would probably throw a fit. With Ginny’s presence as a bridesmaid in Percy’s upcoming wedding, her mum had made a comment regarding how pretty her hair would look in waves down her back; but Ginny knew the root of the comment had been prompted by the open-back design of the mauve dress.
It wasn’t low, exactly, but between the dip of it at her waist and the thin straps of the dress, it was a lot of revealed skin.
But in all honesty, Ginny had loved the garment; it was a breezy, light dress - perfect for a summer wedding. Though it had fallen to the floor like a set of traditional robes, it was modern. Muggle, practically.
Penelope had been keen on having the styles already picked; Ginny was happy to comply. It sat in the closet of her room back at the Burrow, waiting to be worn in a week’s time.
Her stomach twisted slightly as she considered this - where in seven days, she’d be back in the Burrow, staying the weekend to assist with the planning and execution of the festivities.
It wasn’t like she hadn’t been the Burrow; they have Sunday dinners each week. She helped her mum babysit Victoire (if enough notice was given).
But staying there was… another matter.
Straightening in her seat, Ginny purposely set those train of thoughts aside, resuming her initial task of auditing the pile to pull any unserious submissions and chuck them in the bin.
Café Coupon (brilliant - she pocketed it). Notice of the local library’s renovation. Lechy sketch. She had to squint to truly appreciate the artistry of it. Opening of a new boutique on Coventry Road. Bus Schedule Complaint from Mrs. Tierney.
Ginny paused at the next one, turning over the envelope in her hand. It was a heavy parchment, but crumpled, as if it’d been smashed a few times. She sighed impatiently, recognizing the scrawl of the ink when she slipped the letter from the envelope.
You won’t be safe for long.
It was another threatening note, in a series of notes that had been received over the last few months; the office had received at least a dozen. When the first letter had arrived, Eleanor had approached it cautiously, taking the threat seriously by calling the local police.
They’d sent two officers to retrieve it - and the small forensics office at the police station had examined the letter for any clues.
They had found none; or at least, nothing to provide evidence as to who the perpetrator was. The ink was untraceable. The parchment, though odd and uncommon, could be purchased at any craft store.
And so Eleanor had tacked the next one up on the breakroom’s corkboard, putting the letter on display as a reminder to ignore any threats against telling the truth for justice and knowledge. She’d brought them all into the small space of the breakroom to rally for the cause.
Jean, the journalist who handled the cooking and living section, had scoffed, complaining under her breath. “What truth does the Honiton Herald broadcast? Tidy your yards and tie down your bins during spring storms?”
Ginny had snorted in reply, covering the sound in the depths of her mug as Eleanor gave her a chiding look.
“While this is obviously some tosser off of their rocker,” she said before Ginny could escape from the room. “Be careful, yeah? Report any odd instances you see.”
But none had come, really. Just more ink-written warnings steeped in ominous tones.
You’ll regret what you’ve caused.
You started this, I’ll finish it.
In the present moment, Ginny crinkled the parchment up into a misshapen ball, testing the weight between her hands. Spying the trash bin by the breakroom’s doorway, she squinted with one eye to take aim, pulling her arm back and releasing the ball.
It arched perfectly, flying through the air and landing squarely in the middle of the trash bin.
Pleased, Ginny grinned, spinning back in her chair to work through the rest of the pile as quickly as possible, organizing the stack in a manner of Review Monday, Toss in Trash, Give to Hughes to Shred.
Content with the work accomplished, she dusted her hands free of any invisible grime and stood from her chair, retrieving her tote from the back of it and tossing it over her shoulder.
Shoving her chair in, she gave her desk a last onceover before turning off her desk lamp, turning on her heel to head towards the door, pulling the extra set of keys she owned from her purse. Flipping the light switch, the office behind her went dark - illuminated somewhat by the still-bright sunset of the summer evening.
When Ginny pushed through the front door, she was dismayed to find that outside was just as humid as it had been in the morning - meaning her flat would be probably worse when she arrived back at it.
With a sigh, she turned back around to make sure the door shut securely, sticking her copy of the office’s key into the lock to twist - and just as the Letter Box had done, the lock required a special style of wriggling to finally engage, the teeth of the key catching as she pulled it out.
An unbidden shiver overcame her for a second time that evening, prompting her to twist on her heel, immediately surveying the surrounding area for anything out of place.
But again - nothing peculiar stood out to her -
Until -
She caught sight of a man standing beside the light post across the street, wearing a long, dark cloak.
A wizard.
Struck by the realization, Ginny’s brow narrowed as she strained her eyes to focus.
Though there was quite the distance between them, she was able to identify the glint of glasses, set beneath a fringe of wild, black hair. Her breath was stolen from her chest as Ginny’s mouth dropped open.
“Harry?”
His eyes widened, surprised.
Harry Potter was standing on the main street of Honiton.
Apprehension slid into Ginny’s bones as she slowly comprehended what was occurring; though only one question blared brightly in her mind.
Why was Harry Potter standing on the main street of Honiton?