Chapter Text
“Excuse me, Rita?” Ginny croaks.
Rita turns back briefly but continues walking. “Not now,” she says dismissively, waving her pink-clawed hand to shoo Ginny away.
“This will just take a moment,” Ginny continues, following the blonde woman down the hallway of the Daily Prophet offices. “It’s about the article you wrote, the Diagon Alley piece I’m editing.”
Blonde curls swinging, Rita turns on her heel and groans. “If you must,” she says, clearly put off by such a distraction.
“Well, the thing is, Mr. Cuffe wanted 300 words, and this is close to 1000. And one of the shopkeepers you spoke to has had a well-known case of spattergroit and hasn’t been in his shop for nearly three months, so…”
“Charla is your name, right?” Rita asks, looking Ginny up and down as she peers over her glasses.
“Ginny.”
“Well, Jenny, since you’re new here, I’m sure you have no idea how busy I tend to be. I don’t have time to be doing silly edits on a piece that is perfectly fine as it is. If you must, just clean it up.” She twists a piece of hair that has fallen into her face back into place in the intricate nest on the top of her head.
“It’s more than just an edit, it’s a major rewrite, some of these quotes are absolutely dreadful.” Ginny replies, her voice clipped.
“Just fix it.” Rita says, narrowing her eyes at Ginny, then inspecting her manicure. “And do me the favor of never bothering me with such trivial matters again, or perhaps I should mention your inability to do simple editing to Barnabas.” With a perverse smile, she walks away once more, disappearing down the next hallway.
Ginny can feel her chest and cheeks becoming warm. It takes everything in her not to run after the woman and shove the trash she calls an article down her throat. She knows that surely that would not only end her career in writing, but could have repercussions for the rest of her family working in the ministry.
She takes a deep breath and walks back to her cubicle, tossing the parchment onto the desk. Seeing that it’s nearly noon, Ginny retrieves her lunch sack and heads to the solarium.
A forgotten corner of the Ministry, the solarium reminds Ginny of the greenhouses at Hogwarts. Plants drape over a ledge near the ceiling, a small babbling water feature sits in the center, and in a corner tucked behind some thick vines is a table and chairs conjured there specifically for lunch.
Ron and Hermione are already there, and it seems they have already tucked into their food.
Ginny drops herself into one of the chairs between her brother and friend with a huff.
“Why so glum?” Ron asks just before bringing his sandwich back to his mouth.
“Is it that horrible Rita Skeeter again?” asks Hermione.
Ginny nods. “Rewrites, again.”
“Let me guess,” Hermione says, crossing her arms. “You’re just going to do the rewrites again and not say anything about her exasperating use of her Quick Quotes Quill?”
“It’s not like saying anything about it would fix things. Rita’s articles are the most popular for the whole Prophet. There’s no way Cuffe will take my side when she’s making him so much money.”
“By lying,” says Hermione matter-of-factly.
“It is my job,” Ginny says.
“You could tell her where to put it,” says Ron, not looking up from the sports section of the Prophet. “It’s hard enough to take her seriously in those gaudy outfits. She looks like Aunt Muriel’s dogs if they were to get caught wrestling behind those awful chartreuse drapes of hers.”
Ginny laughs. “Not if I ever want to become an actual writer, Ron,” she says, shoving a few crisps into her mouth.
“You’ll get there someday,” Hermione says encouragingly. “From what I hear, there are plenty of writers looking to retire soon.”
“I wish Ol’ Kempstone would retire already,” Ron says. He smacks the paper in front of him. “Every match he complains about how ‘lethargic’ and ‘lazy’ the Cannons look, and it’s just not true!”
Ginny rolls her eyes. “The Cannons went 0-1-10 last year, Ron, and the only trade they made in the offseason has been on the injury list since the preseason.”
“No one ever gives them a fair shake! Not even you, my own sister!” Ron offers Ginny a look of disgust. “The other Aurors give me shit all the time, and that’s with Goldstein being a Harpies fan and everything. We all know Tony’s only a fan because they’re all birds.”
“Birds that beat your Cannons handily by over 300 points last season, if I recall correctly,” Ginny teases.
“If you two are quite done,” Hermione inserts, “I have some really great news about my research into the legal issues surrounding centaurs in Britain.”
A piece of paper charmed into an elaborately folded airplane hovers in the air in front of Ginny. Ginny unfolds the paper quickly.
I’d like to see you in my office as soon as possible.
BC
“As much as I’d like to hear about it, Hermione, duty calls.” Ginny stands. “Ron, you’re welcome to the rest of my lunch.” Ron smiles in appreciation as he chews. Ginny swipes the apple from her lunch off the table and shoves it into her mouth. I’d hate to be fired on an empty stomach, Ginny thinks.
Ginny vanishes the core of her apple just as she exits the lift for the executive Ministry offices. She mentally steels herself for what she can assume is a thorough tongue-lashing for offending the rainmaker of the Prophet.
After checking in with the secretary, Ginny enters the double doors to Mr. Cuffe’s office. He is intently scribbling something onto parchment, his wispy combover wafting back and forth with each stroke of the quill.
“If this is about Rita’s article for Diagon Alley…”
“Forget about Rita and her article,” he interrupts, replacing the quill into its ink. “I have something else for you, Miss Weasley. Sit,” he demands.
Ginny is relieved to not be fired, albeit disappointed she didn’t get to give a piece of her mind to Cuffe.
Cuffe leans back in his chair and checks his pocket watch. “What do you know about the Black Family?”
Oh, nothing, thinks Ginny. Just that one of them tried to kill me. “Not much, I’m afraid,” she lies smoothly. There’s a lot of those that fought in the battle have chosen not to share with the public. Especially with known gossipmongers.
“But you’re familiar with Sirius Black?” Cuffe says, eyeing her warily.
“I know he died last year and had a huge fortune to his name that hasn’t been distributed yet.”
“Ah, then you know what is necessary.” Cuffe leans forward in his chair and rests his elbows on the desk. “What I want to know is why an inheritance the size of Black’s has not been claimed yet. Magical law suggests that the next closest heir receives the fortune, possessions, and holdings, yet the representatives at Gringotts have been cagey about why no one has stepped into the role yet.”
At the mention of Gringotts, Ginny’s curiosity is piqued. “Is there no living heir?” she asks, knowing all too well that many wizarding families were torn apart in the war.
“That’s the issue,” Cuffe says. He tents his fingers in front of him. “There are multiple living heirs according to the Ministry’s records, yet no one has been given the inheritance. That’s what I need you to find out.”
“Who exactly are the living heirs?”
He grins, something Ginny finds a bit unsettling. “From what I’ve seen of their family tree, the closest living relative is Draco Malfoy.”
“He’s a Death Eater, isn’t he?”
“It is speculated he was involved in their efforts,” he says.
Ginny tilts her head and asks, “Who else is an option?”
“Well,” says Cuffe with a chuckle. “Apparently there are two. One is the son of the late Auror Nymphadora Tonks. She’s Mr. Malfoy’s cousin on his mother’s side. The other is Harry Potter.”
“Harry… Potter? As in…”
“One and the same.” Cuffe finishes. “Savior of the Wizarding World, Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One. We’re just not sure why he’s in the conversation at all.” Ginny’s face must have given away her surprise. “Now you see why I need this covered! So, can I count on you?” Cuffe leans back in his chair and laces his hands together on his chest.
Ginny recovers, resting her face more naturally. “Not to curse myself in the foot, Sir, but I have to ask… why me?”
“Well,” he starts, and Ginny assumes he is stalling until he can come up with something that sounds reasonable. “All of my regular writers are otherwise… occupied this week.”
“You mean for Christmas,” Ginny deadpans.
“Er– yes.” he confirms. “Besides, I know you’re young and hungry, and I’m sure your personal connections will serve you well in investigating this story.”
So that’s it. It’s because Bill is my brother.
“Sure,” she affirms. “To me, this sounds like quite an assignment. Is this to be considered my first assignment as a new staff writer?” Ginny asks, knowing that this might be her only chance at leverage. Go big or go home.
“I suppose that could be an option,” he drawls. “However, I would need to see the finished article by Christmas Eve. We’ll see where you go from there.”
Not exactly satisfied, Ginny decides to press her luck once again. “But I’m sure I will be getting a generous stipend, considering the urgency and this busy time of year?” Cuffe blanches at this, but Ginny doubles down. “It would be a shame if no one could cover it just because of the holidays. This could be a sellout piece.” She throws her long red hair over her shoulder as if to assert herself further.
“I suppose that could be arranged,” Cuffe huffs. He reaches into the top drawer of his desk and pulls out a small square of parchment. He scribbles something on the scrap and signs it, then shoves it at Ginny. “Take this to the Office of Ministry Employee Notes, they will get you a stipend there. You’re to leave tomorrow. That gives you eight days to figure out what is going on. I want the full report owled by Christmas Eve.”
Snatching the paper off the desk, Ginny smiles for the first time in their conversation. She stands and confirms, “Christmas Eve.” and walks out of his office.
_____________
With a soft pop, Ginny lands in the garden of the Burrow. The galleons she was allotted at OMEN jingle in her pocket as she settles. She smiles as the familiar smell of her mother’s chicken and ham pie wafts towards her. Her stomach growls at the scent, and she remembers she’s only had an apple and a bag of crisps today.
Unfortunately, the feeling of dread completely eclipses the sweet nostalgia. This assignment will mean that she will likely miss all of the family gatherings up until Christmas. The idea of telling her mother she won’t be around to decorate the tree, wrap gifts, or help her with the holiday feast sounds less agreeable than getting hit in the head with a bludger. But maybe the good news about her first solo story will be enough to convince her it’s worth it?
Ginny is not confident that will be the case.
As it turns out, Molly Weasley is not worried in the slightest. While cleaning the kitchen after dinner, her mother assures her that the ill-timed assignment was ‘not a worry’ because she was sure Bill would give her all the information she needed and she could join the festivities within a few days.
Whether avoidant or hopeful, Molly’s outlook on the situation seems unlikely to Ginny. From her father’s knowing look from the end of the dinner table, he agrees.
“I think this is a great opportunity, Ginny. A chance for you to spread your wings,” Arthur smiles.
“Spread her wings?” Molly rebutts. “She’s already left us with only Ron in the house, and he can’t even bother to make it to supper! How much more spreading would you like, Arthur?”
“Molly dear,” Arthur coos, “we are incredibly lucky to have se- six wonderful children that have accomplished so much more than we could have ever dreamed for them!” At the mention of her children, her mother stops her scrubbing in the sink. Ginny thinks she hears a sniffle before her mother responds.
“I suppose you’re right,” she whispers. Molly casts several spells to set the dishes to washing themselves and bustles out of the room.
“Don’t mind your mother,” Arthur reassures. “This time of year and their birthday is always going to be the hardest for her.” He sits in thought for a moment as Ginny stares down at her plate. “I never know whether to say we have six or seven children,” he says wistfully. “Fred is still my son,” he explains, “but he is no longer with us. I wish I could just ask him what he prefers.”
“Fred would probably say, “Well, Dad, it depends on whether you count that tosser Percy or not. And do we count our dear Ronniekins since he was hatched from an egg?”” Ginny waves her hands about in her best impression of the twins.
Arthur laughs at that. He rises from the table and stands behind Ginny, his hands on her shoulders. “We are so proud of you. You do what you need to do, and I’ll make sure your mother understands that this is what’s best for you.” He kisses her on the head and walks to follow Molly’s path into their bedroom.
He stops just before entering. “But with the impressive stipend you managed to negotiate, it wouldn’t hurt to get your mother something nice from London while you’re there.” Ginny smiles back at him and nods.
_____________
The Ministry Magical Transportation office is absolutely bananas. Ginny finds herself being tossed about by travelers from all over the world lucky enough to be starting their holidays early. She glances at her watch, calculating how much time she has until the press conference starts. Her goodbye from the Burrow was less tearful than she expected, but waiting for Molly to load her down with snacks for the journey delays Ginny more than she prefers. Only 45 minutes until the press conference begins, she thinks, stepping forward in line for the International Floos.
After crossing through security and showing her shiny new credentials, Ginny is ushered to a specially marked floo. She supposes the extra effort was made because the press conference will be taking place in the home of one of the potential Black Family heirs, Malfoy Manor. Just as the floo attendant gestures for Ginny to step forward, a tall man barrels past her, causing her to drop her credentials and a cheese sandwich her mother sent her with.
“Excuse me!” Ginny shouts at the man. He’s quite unkempt, his dark hair going in a million directions, and a beard that hasn’t been graced with a comb in some time.
The man grabs a fist full of floo powder and steps into the fireplace. “I’m sorry, I really have to go,” he says to her, expression unreadable beyond his sunglasses and mane.
“The rest of us waited in line!” Ginny gestures to the witches and wizards behind her.
“I apologize,” he reiterates, tossing down the floo powder in front of him.
“Selfish prick!” Ginny shouts just as he is engulfed in green flames.
The people waiting in line around her are mumbling similar sentiments, most of which are fellow journalists.
“Seriously?” Ginny huffs to no one in particular. She follows his suit just the same, scooping a handful of floo powder and disappearing into the floo network in green flame.
_____________
The ballroom in the Malfoy mansion is abuzz with press, Ministry officials, and representatives from Gringotts. Ginny finds a seat near the edge of the room, catching the eye of her oldest brother, Bill. He winks at her from his place on the dais at the front of the room. The assembled parties that join him on the platform are a unique group. The pale, platinum blonde man she knows to be Draco Malfoy stands at the far left, nose raised in the air as if disgusted at this congregation in his home. Beside him is a portly man with greying hair who is talking to a young boy beside him with hair the vivid purple of her mother’s foxgloves. On the opposite side of the young boy stand two grumpy-looking goblins, one that looks to Ginny to be a twin of the other, only smushed. Beside them is her brother, long Weasley red hair, his favorite old trench coat, and some mismatched dangling earrings. They make quite a collection.
The crowd in the ballroom is beginning to get a bit rowdy when a small woman bustles into the room and whispers something to Bill. He nods and the woman rushes over to the door, ushering in the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt. The Minister steps up onto the dais, towering over everyone there. He stands between the purple-haired boy and the goblins and presses his wand to his throat.
“Thank you all for coming. I know a lot of you have traveled a great distance to be here, but I’m sorry to announce we’re going to have to cancel the press conference.”
If Ginny thought the crowd was unreasonably loud before, she was mistaken. Members of the press begin to stand and shout in outrage.
The Minister gestures for all of them to sit down before speaking again. “We are unable to continue the proceedings as it stands,” he says, his deep, amplified voice more than compensating for all those still murmuring in the crowd. “Harry Potter is… unavailable at this time.”
The crowd collectively groans, with one member shouting, “More like he’s avoiding the press!”
Ginny looks around, the boisterous crowd agreeing with the wizard who stood. Another wizard stands in the row ahead of her. “If the young Mr. Tonks does not have an of-age Pureblood guardian, he is not eligible for the inheritance, correct?” he asks.
The portly man reddens and looks down at the boy beside him with a tight smile.
The Minister shakes his head. “I can assure you all that the kind goblins from Gringotts” he gestures to his left side, “have informed me that the final decision will be made by Christmas Eve, with all of the unresolved legal issues taken into consideration.” He lets a small smile slip, probably reflecting on the obviously contradictory description of the goblins beside him. Bill’s smile is less hidden.
Mr. Malfoy steps forward on the end. “The official transfer will take place at my family’s annual Christmas Eve Ball. Should I, the rightful heir, be chosen, I will be sure to let the press know immediately,” he says with a sickly smile.
Ginny gets a chuckle from Bill’s ill-hidden disdain.
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Malfoy,” Shacklebolt confirms.
Another voice rises above the crowd. “Then where is he?”
Ginny isn’t exactly sure, but now seems a better time than never to get her shot at a question. She stands and thrusts her hand into the air.
Recognition flashes on The Minister’s face. “I’ll take a question from the red-haired woman on the end.”
“When are you rescheduling the press conference? The decision affects many aspects of our world’s businesses and livelihoods, and I am sure it would be more assuring to the people if the press knew as soon as a decision is reached.” Despite her voice being shaky, Ginny is somewhat impressed she was able to remember some of what her brother was able to inform her about.
“We don’t have any plans to do so at this time,” The Minister answers. The gaggle groans again.
“Is it possible to get an interview with Mr. Potter?” Ginny presses.
The press around her laughs, as if she’s been caught with her knickers around her ankles.
“There will be no interviews with Mr. Potter,” The Minister replies.
“I will be available for limited interviews, however,” Malfoy says, “just speak to my press coordinator Jenille if you would like an exclusive with the future heir of the Black family.” He points to the woman that let The Minister into the room, and she waves meekly at the crowd.
“Well, with that, I think we are done here,” Shacklebolt says. “Thank you all for coming.”
After saying a quick hello to Bill before he departs with the goblins, Ginny follows her colleagues down the hallway to the visitor floo. As she waits in line, she gazes around the opulent space, realizing this was probably the nicest place she would ever visit.
Down an adjoining hall, she sees the portly older gentleman and the purple haired child walking. They hadn’t said much at the press conference, but Ginny realizes that if they were positioned on the dais with Malfoy and the Gringotts representatives, there is a chance that they may have more information as well.
She briefly stops to ask a woman in servant’s robes where the closest loo is before following the trio down the hallway. Portraits of frowning wizards and witches follow her movement, some whispering to themselves. She realizes she needs to make a move quickly before they become suspicious and inform one of the corporeal inhabitants of Malfoy Manor that there is a suspicious woman lurking around. Tucking her press credentials into her coat pocket, she ducks into an empty room to her right.
The room almost looks like a museum; gigantic pieces of art depicting famous moments in British wizarding history line the walls. The windows are draped in rich black velvet, and the flooring is an intricate wood pattern. Vases, jewelry, and trophies sit in enchanted lit cases around the room. Ginny becomes caught up in reading the names on the plaques and misses the quiet footsteps behind her.
“Is Miss lost?” a croaky old voice asks.
Ginny turns on her heel, nearly whipping herself in the face with her ponytail. She looks and sees no one until a small, grizzled house elf appears from behind a suit of armor.
“Miss should not be in here,” he states, slowly inching toward her.
“Oh, I… I was supposed to be…” Ginny stammers.
“Ah, Kreacher, are you in here intimidating one of Mr. Malfoy’s guests?”
Ginny’s attention is pulled to the new voice, and she realizes it is the older man from the dais at the press conference.
Kreacher mumbles something incoherent before replying, “of course not, sir.” The last word is uttered– no, spit– at the portly man, who is regarding Ginny from over his spectacles. Kreacher bows ever-so-slightly and shuffles out of the room, and Ginny wonders if she’s making it up or hearing the house elf mutter profanity under his breath.
“Don’t mind Kreacher, he’s just not that fond of me and my kind,” the man says with a wide smile. “Ted Tonks,” he says, offering his hand out to Ginny. “And you must be the new Quidditch coach for my grandson!”
Out of what she imagines is just muscle memory, Ginny manages to extend her hand and shake Ted’s. She is fairly sure what she has been doing constitutes trespassing, and being caught doing it in a home like Malfoy Manor has her nerves completely shot.
“E– excuse me?” she stutters.
Ted points at the green and gold striped scarf around her neck. “I reckon you’re a Holyhead fan, no?”
Ginny reaches up and grasps the scarf, looking at it as if she has just realized she’s wearing it. C’mon Ginny, she chides herself. Get it together. This is your shot at your dream job. “Yes, yes of course. That’s me, the coach!” she says, mustering just enough confidence that the words are no longer coming out noticeably shaky.
“Ah, Ted, there you are. I was just…”
Ginny freezes as a man she recognizes walks through the doorway. The wild-haired man who jumped in line at the floo office stands next to Ted, a smile on his face. He is no longer wearing sunglasses, instead wearing a pair of round spectacles. “You,” he says with an air of amusement.
Ted looks back and forth between the two of them. “I get the impression that you two have already met! How do you know each other?”
“Our paths have crossed,” the man replies.
Ginny takes a moment to look at him, his eyebrows raised over green eyes, his tanned skin, the unruly black hair, those round glasses, a scar above his…
And then it hits her.
Harry Potter.
“Selfish prick, at your service,” he says, mock-bowing at her.
“I am so sorry,” Ginny says, realizing she has stumbled into way more trouble than she thinks it may be worth.
“I am the one who should apologize,” Harry says with a laugh. “I suppose I should’ve waited my turn and I wouldn’t have earned the title.”
She’s not sure what to say to that. She’s not a big believer in idols, but Harry is the savior of the wizarding world. He was the Boy Who Lived and the Chosen One… and her childhood crush, only she never imagined being face to face with him.
As a young girl, Ginny would steal her mother’s copies of Witch Weekly and read all the articles about the mysterious Boy Who Lived. At the tender age of one, Harry had defeated the most evil wizard of all time, Voldemort, by simply surviving the killing curse. He was reknowned across the wizarding community, not only in Great Britain, but all over the world, and Ginny was smitten with the idea of a kid who defied all odds for the greater good.
Harry was all but unheard of for years, tabloids, newspapers, and radio programs all speculating on where he had gone. Ginny became a detective in her own right, taking any small clue about his whereabouts or fate and stringing it together in her diary. One might say it was her first foray into investigative journalism.
His absence, of course, ended around Ginny’s sixth year in school, when it was revealed that Voldemort in fact had not been dead. Harry’s return to the wizarding world came with all kinds of rumors– that he was secretly just an Inferi, that he was prophesied to be the Chosen One to defeat The Dark Lord, that he’d run off to South America to run his own brothel, or that he’d simply been mad since the moment he watched his parents be killed in front of him.
Ginny didn’t know what to believe. That is, until he returned and killed Voldemort and promptly disappeared again. Perhaps out of her foolish fondness for him as a child, she wanted to imagine that he was simply shy, but the papers chalked it up to him being a playboy.
After the defeat of Voldemort, Harry was seen ‘galavanting’ around the world, often seen with beautiful women, traveling to exotic places, and famously dodging the paparazzi as if it were a game. The only thing she didn’t know was why Harry was even in the conversation regarding the Black family fortune. To her knowledge, he wasn’t related to the Malfoys or any of the other prominent (and mostly deceased) Black family.
In the midst of deep thought, Ginny realizes the two men in the room are staring at her expectantly. She must have zoned out, completely missing anything the two of them said.
“I’m sorry, what?” she asked.
“We were just wondering who you were,” Ted replies.
“Ginny,” she blurts out, “Ginny… Granger.” She isn’t sure why she lies, but she imagines with a last name like Weasley, her family line will immediately become apparent when combined with her bright ginger hair. Not that their family is important, mind, but her father and one brother do work at the Ministry, one brother Gringotts, and another brother is an Auror. She assumes the surname will have her immediately recognized in normal circles, and she silently thanks Merlin that people that live in houses like this probably aren’t acutely aware of her brothers’ joke shop.
“Nice to meet you formally Miss Granger,” Harry says, a smile still playing at his lips. He turns to Ted. “Has she met Teddy yet?”
“I don’t believe so, have you, Miss Granger?” Ginny shakes her head. “You’d know if you had, I’m afraid,” Ted chuckles. “He’s a firecracker, just like his mother.” Ted stares into the distance with a sad smile.
“Perhaps Kreacher can take you back to my home then?” Harry suggests. “Ted and Teddy will be staying with me over the holidays, and I’m sure you don’t want to stay here in this frigid, awful house.”
Ted seems to come back to the present. “Yes, certainly she should stay with us at…” he opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He chuckles in spite of himself. “Well, I suppose you’ll have to be the one to tell her, eh Harry?”
“Of course. Kreacher?” Harry calls out. Kreacher pops into the room and bows before Harry.
“Yes, Master?”
“If you would, please, take Miss Granger to the second guest suite.” Harry glances at Ginny. “Do you have any bags?”
Ginny pats the pocket of her coat. “Shrinking charm,” she says, a tentative smile reaching her lips.
“Clever,” says Harry. “I suppose I will see you at 12 Grimmauld Place, London, England.” He leans in to quietly whisper the address to her. Ginny nods and follows a beckoning Kreacher, trying to squeeze between Harry and a pedestal holding an ornate glass container. In her attempt to not touch Harry (for fear that any semblance of her asinine former crush will resurface), her elbow grazes the pedestal, causing it to sway. Ginny whips around to try and catch it but instead finds herself tripping over her own foot and toppling with the pedestal onto the ground. Her elbow lands squarely on half of the glass container, shattering it and subsequently causing her elbow to be freckled with glass and blood.
“I am so, so sorry!” Ginny gasps, holding her elbow. “I hope this wasn’t too expensive!”
Ted and Harry regard each other, Harry speaking first. “To be quite honest, I think it’s just a butter dish from some fancy Lord in France,” Harry answers. “No worries, I doubt Malfoy will notice one of his countless treasures has disappeared.” Harry brandishes his wand and vanishes the pieces of glass, including the ones embedded in Ginny’s elbow.
Harry kneels beside Ginny and holds out his hand. “May I see?” he gestures towards her elbow. Reluctantly, Ginny sits up and bends it painfully toward him. She watches as he performs a somewhat complicated spell and the tiny cuts knit together nicely.
“That should be better,” he says, standing. Ginny feels her elbow, no sign of the cuts or jagged pieces of glass.
“I wish I’d known whatever spell that was back when I was playing Quidditch in school. Come to think of it, my mum would have appreciated it for my brothers.”
“Perhaps I could teach you sometime.” Harry grins and offers her his hand. She takes it, and stands, a brief electricity running through her from the contact.
“Thank you, I would like that,” she says briskly. She then ducks her head before he can see the blush spreading across her cheeks and follows a grumbling Kreacher into the hallway. Before turning the corner, she looks back to find Harry still looking at her.
_____________
A restless sleep and two meals in her room later, Ginny is penning a letter to Hermione (mostly regarding the likelihood that she will end up in Azkaban for trespassing and fraud) when she hears a knock on the door.
She opens it to find Kreacher, his arms clasped behind his back.
“Master Teddy is ready for his first lesson.” Ginny stares at the house elf, suddenly realizing she must now put her lie to the test.
“If Miss would follow Kreacher, Kreacher will take Miss to the quidditch pitch.” Kreacher bows, mumbling something Ginny assumes is less than favorable under his breath.
“Oh, well, of course!” Ginny hastily rolls the parchment she had been working on and shoves it into her knapsack. She slides her wand into the side of her boot and strides to the door while pulling her long hair into a ponytail.
“If you are ready,” Kreacher says snidely, offering his elbow to her, “take Kreacher’s arm.”
Ginny tries to assess the moment, wondering if Kreacher, a house elf of no more than two feet tall, is genuinely offering his arm to her to walk her to the pitch. It’s not like she grew up in a household with fine imported draperies, delicate antique china, or servants– what precisely is the protocol here?
She decides the best plan of action is to just pretend she knows these customs. Ginny leans down slowly, looping her left arm through Kreacher’s right, and no sooner does she contact his clammy skin than she feels the familiar pull at her navel of apparition.
Before she can even open her eyes, Ginny hears the crunch of the frost-covered grass of the pitch. She can feel the sun on the top of her head and a crisp breeze on her cheeks. Opening her eyes, Ginny looks down to Kreacher to thank him for what she considers the smoothest apparition she has ever experienced, but before she can open her mouth, he is gone with a soft pop.
Well, that eliminates the need for small talk.
_____________
The Potter Quidditch pitch leaves little to be desired. Ginny thinks of The Burrow’s own quaint paddock in comparison to the huge– and seemingly underutilized– pitch before her. The grass is lush and manicured, there are small rolling hills for spectators to recline on either side of the pitch, and what appears to be a groundskeeper’s house by the far end.
Even the broom storage looks more like a country holiday home in comparison to the little shed she’s used to at home. The sheer size of the place makes it that much more difficult for her to find the reason she’s here in the first place.
Where is Teddy?
She continues to look, eventually resorting to searching the shrubbery to see where he might be hiding. Ted did mention he enjoyed a prank.
Ginny nearly gives up on the mission just before peeking behind the last hedgerow, only to see the twitching nose of a dark grey wolf. She jumps and falls on her bum, then quickly tries to stand again and regain her footing. The wolf’s head begins to rise behind the hedgerow, and is it laughing?
Sure she’s either about to be attacked by some terrifying werewolf or simply hallucinating, Ginny screams. The head of the wolf continues to rise, revealing the body of a lanky young boy. The wolf-boy steps out from behind the hedges, his face gradually morphing into that of Teddy.
“What, you don’t like wolves?” Teddy asks, a snide grin appearing on his face.
“I don’t mind them,” Ginny answers, trying to regain control over her heart and breathing. “I just don’t prefer them to be one and a half metres tall and connected to the body of a wizard.”
“I’m 170 centimetres thank you very much,” Teddy says in a huff.
Ginny follows Teddy onto the pitch where the Quidditch balls sit in their trunk along with a couple brooms on stands. She wonders at him as his hair morphs from the dark grey of the wolf into a bright, almost neon blue.
Suddenly, things make a little more sense.
“Your mother was Nymphadora Tonks?” she asks him.
“And what if she was?” Teddy doesn’t turn around, instead unclasping the trunk and removing the quaffle.
“I heard she was brilliant,” Ginny said brightly. “My… friend,” she stumbles, realizing giving away Ron’s identity might as well give hers away too, “trained with her in the auror program before…”
“Before what?” Teddy asks sharply. “Before she was murdered alongside my father and grandmother by my own aunt?”
“I… I only meant before he graduated, I’m sorry for…”
“My loss?” Teddy finishes, his jaw set and teeth bared. Ginny thinks perhaps he looks even more like a wolf now than he did before.
“If you’re just going to sit here and cry about my dead parents, I can just leave now. I don’t need another weepy, nosy woman here to convince me to face my grief. I hardly want to learn how to play quidditch anyway.”
Ginny is surprised, if only by his sudden admission of his feelings, not the sentiments he shared. She straightens up, determined to prove that she is not just another ‘weepy, nosy woman.’
“Actually, I was going to say that I was sorry for bringing it up.” Ginny looks around and takes a deep breath. “My brothers always taught me that the pitch was a perfect place to express our feelings.”
Teddy glares at her. “I’ll tell you right now that I won’t be blabbing about my feelings to some stranger I just met on a quidditch pitch of all places.”
“Who said anything about talking?”
_____________
By the time the sun reaches its peak two hours later, Teddy and Ginny are joking around, tossing the quaffle back and forth while daring one another into increasingly more difficult feints and dives.
Ginny has since removed the thick woolen jumper her mother made for her and discarded it far below where they hover over the pitch. She peels the long hair of her ponytail off of her neck where she’s been sweating. She’s never been so thankful for her brothers’ line of athletic gear, a thin black shirt which she wears now.
Teddy pulls up beside her, his mouth and nose still transfigured into a beak.
“I’m still not sure it’s legal to use that kind of intimidation tactic on the pitch,” Ginny laughs.
Teddy swipes at the air as if to dismiss her. “Pfft. The avian respiratory system is perfect for higher elevations. Besides, if I fly fast enough, no one will know the difference!” He swipes the quaffle from Ginny’s hands and speeds towards the opposite rings. Ginny pulls a hairpin turn and flattens on her broom to catch the blur of turquoise hair. She leans further forward and begins to catch up, now hearing the cackling from Teddy in front of her…
BONG.
BONG.
Ginny pulls up, breaking suddenly as Teddy’s shot swooshes right through the center hoop.
“What the hell was that?” she pants. Her heart is racing and she’s not sure if it was the chase or the sound that caused it.
Teddy zooms up beside her and his face shifts back into its natural state. “The lunch bell,” he laughs, dragging his fingers through his bright, curly hair. “Since there’s not really room for a Quidditch pitch in the middle of London, Kreacher got a remote bell set up so we don’t miss lunch.”
The pair touch down on the pitch, and Ginny waves him off with a promise to meet him to eat lunch once she gets their equipment settled in the broom shed.
Said ‘broom shed’ is more like a ‘broom cottage’, Ginny thinks. It’s probably about the size of the entirety of the living areas at the Burrow, if not a little outdated and cobwebbed. If she really were the quidditch instructor, she would have to see to it that this guest house was restored. She drags her fingers over the ornate carving of a snake into the mahogany divider between broom stalls. Someone must have really loved quidditch to have put this much effort into designing what is a glorified storage building, she thinks.
“Admiring the wood?” a voice asks.
Startled once more, Ginny jumps and turns to see Harry in the doorway. He has a broom thrown jauntily over his shoulder and a wicked lopsided smile plays on his lips. If Ginny didn’t know better, she might think he looked almost playful.
“It’s a shame that such a beautiful place should fall into such disrepair.” Ginny reached for her ponytail and smoothed it.
“I admit I’ve been a bit busy to tend to the maintenance of the broom shed,” Harry scoffed.
Oh, so he’s going to play the savior-of-the-wizarding world card, then? Good thing I’m ace at exploding snap, Ginny thinks.
“I’m just so surprised that with all of the gorgeous facilities here, there is no one to come fly with Teddy, who is a natural, by the way. Why even have loads of money if you’re not going to use it?”
As soon as it left her mouth, Ginny was sure she had hit a nerve. Harry’s cheeky grin transformed instantly into a frown. This was the moody face she’d seen in the papers.
“It’s not your money, now is it?” he asked. “Isn’t that why we hired you? Are you ashamed to be working under such conditions? Is this environment not suitable for you?” He paused, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her. “Or are the galleons we’re giving you an offense to your talent? Have you seen the priceless heirlooms within Grimmauld and assumed you could bargain to increase your wages?” He takes a breath before continuing on, voice lower than before. “Seeing as you’ve already broken an heirloom today, perhaps I am the one that should be consider a deposit for you to stay here.”
Truth be told, Ginny had no idea how much this job paid, but it had to be more than The Prophet was providing for the amount of work she did for no credit. His accusation felt harsh, but Ginny saw something deeper than anger. Was it hurt?
“Of course not, sir.” Ginny replied, her head down. And for the first time in this whole scheme, she felt somewhat ashamed of herself.
“There’s no need to call me sir,” he responded.
Ginny glances back up at him. His face had softened somewhat, but she still senses a deeper pain. She supposes that perhaps money could be a sore subject for a lot of people, not just people that grew up as poor as she did.
“My comment was in bad taste, I didn’t mean any harm by it.” she blurts, feeling her cheeks warm.
“Then maybe you should leave the spending of the money to people who possess it.”
With that, Harry turns on his heel, mounts his broom, and soars into the air.
What the fuck have I gotten myself into?