Chapter Text
Chapter One: The Girl Who Bowed Too Late
Ginny Weasley had learned to become invisible.
She moved through the castle like a breath of wind—quick, silent, gone before the nobles noticed her. No eye contact. No opinion. No mistakes. That was the code of the lower staff at Windsor Citadel, home of the wizarding royal family.
She’d started as a scullery girl at sixteen. By twenty-one, she had earned enough trust to serve in the upper halls—dusting crystal chandeliers, turning beds in royal chambers, and polishing floors that had once been walked by the founders themselves.
But she had never expected to serve the Prince.
Today, she was late.
She rushed through the east corridor, tray in hand, auburn hair escaping its braid, cheeks flushed. The corridor that led to the private royal quarters was lined with stained glass and portraits of dead kings—all watching her as if they knew she didn't belong.
She knocked once, then entered.
And he was there.
Harry James Potter, Crown Prince of Magical Britain, stood by the window, his robes half-removed and his back to her. The sunlight caught in his tousled black hair, and for a moment, he didn’t look like royalty at all—just a man. Young. Quiet. Lonely.
Ginny cleared her throat, bowed—too shallow, too late.
He turned.
Their eyes met.
She was supposed to lower hers. She didn’t.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I apologize, Your Highness,” she replied, setting the tray down on the small table. Her hands trembled slightly, but she willed them still. She’d served baronesses, governors, foreign dignitaries. But Harry Potter was different. The Chosen One. The Prince. The unreachable.
“You’re new,” he said, stepping closer.
Ginny didn’t move.
“No, Your Highness,” she said. “I’ve served in the east wing for nearly a year. This is my first day in your service, that’s all.”
He tilted his head, studying her. “And they’ve been keeping you from me all this time?”
A strange heat crept up her spine.
She bowed her head again. “We don’t speak to the royals, sir. We just serve.”
“And yet,” he said, “you’re still speaking.”
She swallowed. “I’ll be gone in a moment.”
“I hope not,” he said softly. “I rather like the way you don’t flinch.”
Ginny turned to leave, but he called after her.
“What’s your name?”
She hesitated. “Ginny.”
“Ginny,” he repeated, as if testing the sound. “I’ll remember it.”