Chapter Text
I watched my twin sister sleeping, my head swirling with so many restless thoughts I'd been trying in vain to push away for the past few days. We looked so alike, and yet we couldn't be more different. Only a few small details set us apart: her straight hair versus my waves; her light hazel eyes against my storm-grey ones. But in temperament, she was the one who perfectly matched the family's values.
It didn't bother me that I was different. That I didn't spend my afternoons climbing trees and watching my brothers on their brooms as they tried, under the guise of "training for the new school year," to knock each other to the ground. I wasn't interested in Dad's constant tales about the latest Muggle inventions, though I was always eager to hear news from the Ministry where he worked. I cared about the future of the magical world — the world I lived in, and which I'd soon fully become a part of.
Pale orange sunlight crept into the room I shared with my sister, making her small frame shift irritably beneath the blankets. I tugged the curtains closed to cast her face back into shadow. Shuffling a little on the hard windowsill, I kept my eyes on the sunrise.
Last night, Ginny had spent hours telling me about Hogwarts — the school of witchcraft and wizardry we'd be going to together for the first time in just a few days, accompanied by most of our brothers. She'd bounced on her bed, giddy with excitement, until nearly midnight while I listened absently. I couldn't share her enthusiasm. Truthfully, I was scared, and I envied my two oldest brothers, who'd been living their own exciting lives abroad for years, far from the family duties they'd already fulfilled. I was only just about to start mine.
I knew perfectly well how much I didn't fit into this family — even if it was obvious at a glance that I belonged to no one else. I was one of them, and fiercely proud of it, yet there was always this fear that someday something would set me apart and push me out of their circle. My interests, my goals — they were different. And no matter how stubbornly Mum tried to convince me that character was what mattered most, I couldn't believe her. Mainly because my very nature went against the family ideal, something everyone was willing to overlook or simply ignore.
On the horizon, a strange speck appeared, at first nothing but a blur moving closer at impressive speed. Soon, it became clear: light blue, four wheels. A small smirk tugged at my lips and I shook my head in mock disbelief. There was one thing I'd always be endlessly grateful for in this family — the older, male version of me and my sister: Fred and George.
They were the family pranksters, constantly scheming ways to trick someone, usually Ron. He was only a year older than me, heading back to Hogwarts for the second time. Last year, he'd made a best friend — someone Ginny considered the most fascinating person on the planet. All summer she'd spoken of nothing but how she'd walk the same corridors as the famous Harry Potter, maybe even sit with him at the Gryffindor table.
Personally, I thought the whole "The Boy Who Lived" incident was absurdly overhyped. No one really knew what had happened that night or how a one-year-old had managed to defeat the greatest dark wizard of our time. Calling him a hero seemed ridiculous to me. And honestly, it grated on my nerves how, ever since he became Ron's best friend last year, everyone praised his presence and friendship like it was the greatest gift we could hope for.
I heard Mum's heavy footsteps and muttered scolding through the door as I kept my gaze on the four figures approaching the house. Among them, of course, was Harry — and my mood sank a little at the thought that the next month would probably revolve entirely around him.
A small, round figure with a mop of fiery curls stormed out of the house toward the newcomers. I watched the muffled argument through the glass, not daring to open the window in case it woke Ginny. Mum turned back toward the Burrow, and the boys reluctantly followed her inside. The front door slammed so hard it rattled the whole house, and Ginny jerked upright in fright. I hurried over to reassure her.
"Morning, sis. We've got a guest," I told her softly, forcing a smile.
"Who?" she mumbled sleepily, sitting up. She glanced around the shadowy room. "Can you open the curtains?"
"Of course." I pulled the heavy, flowered fabric aside, ignoring her question. She'd figure it out soon enough. Light flooded our little room, revealing the wall of Quidditch posters on her side, and my crooked shelves stuffed with books on mine.
Most of my collection was classic literature — Doyle, Wilde — because that era felt close to the magical world we lived in. Unlike Muggles, we held on to traditional values. I was a devoted reader, and my oldest brothers, Bill and Charlie, had left me many books when they moved out. I could easily study from advanced textbooks, though Mum disliked it. Mostly, I stuck to classic English prose and wizarding history. I had to admit, though — Muggles had a wonderful imagination, capable of creating brilliant stories full of love, tragedy, and life.
Ginny, still searching for something suitable to wear, eventually hurled one of her Christmas sweaters into the corner in frustration and stormed out of the room in her nightdress. I crept to the half-open door, listening to voices drifting up from the kitchen. A moment later, a startled shriek rang out, followed by hurried footsteps on the stairs. Ginny burst back in, cheeks flushed, shooting me a look of pure indignation.
"I did not deserve that. You could've warned me," she hissed, dragging her fingers through her hopelessly tangled hair.
I fought to keep a straight face and failed, smirking as I held out my blue summer dress in a peace offering. She took it with a reluctant snatch, and soon we were both giggling about our newest houseguest before settling at the window — though it was mostly her trying to calm down.
Downstairs was silent now, which did nothing to relax her. She sat tense, unwilling to risk running into her "dream boy" by accident. I couldn't resist teasing her about it; she often compared me to the other twins in the family, the ones who mercilessly poked fun at her crush.
"Where is everyone? I can't hear a thing," she wondered aloud, rubbing her chin in exaggerated thought.
I knew exactly what she was doing. I shrugged and stayed put.
"Not even from the window. Doesn't that seem strange to you?" she pressed.
"No," I replied flatly, though the corners of my mouth betrayed me.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" She finally burst, grabbing my arm and shaking it. "Please, go check!" That did it — I spluttered with laughter, sending her wiping her sleeve in mock disgust.
From below came the unmistakable rumble of Dad's voice — he was home from work. Ginny and I pressed ourselves to the crack in the door to listen. It sounded like the whole family was gathered again. Mum wasted no time launching into a tirade about stolen flying cars and the irresponsibility of her three sons.
We heard Ron's voice on the stairs, accompanied by someone else. Ginny froze, glued to the doorway, peeking out eagerly. The moment footsteps passed, she slammed the door shut with such force they'd have to know she'd been spying.
"That was Ginny," Ron called back. "You've no idea how weird it is seeing her shy—" The rest was lost.
Ginny groaned, pressing her forehead to the door. "I've humiliated myself," she moaned, still hunched in the world's most uncomfortable position.
I patted her back, then pulled on my favourite green jumper — the one Mum had knitted for me last Christmas with a big letter F on the front. I'd asked for it oversized, so it hung loose and airy, and I wore it almost constantly. When Ginny didn't move, I took her shoulders and steered her gently toward the bed. She didn't protest.
"I'll bring you some breakfast, oh dishonoured one," I said dryly. She answered with a pitiful groan and flopped into the blankets.
Downstairs, Dad was at the table reading the Daily Prophet . Mum was at the counter, buttering bread. Fred and George lounged on the sofa, heads bent together in quiet conspiracy. They looked up and nodded when they saw me.
"Morning!" I greeted brightly, trying for cheer despite the morning's earlier thoughts weighing on me.
"Hello, Frankie. How are you today? Got your Prophet here," Dad said, placing a rolled-up copy beside him. I sat down next to him with a small smile.
"Franny, cheese or veg on your bread?" Mum asked, smoothing a hand over my wavy hair.
"Both, please." She nodded, setting to work. Ginny liked hers the same way — maybe it would help lift her mood.
"Any idea what your brothers were up to last night?" Mum went on, slicing cucumbers.
"Oh, come on, Mum. Frankie wouldn't judge us. We even thought of taking her along — but she wouldn't have fit in the car," Fred said, winking at me. I couldn't help smiling back.
George joined in. "And you wouldn't want us dragging her to Surrey and back on the roof." I frowned at him, so he added hastily, "Or Harry!" Mum, still with her back to them, missed the point entirely.
"Go on, provoke me. As if I'd let you cart the famous Harry Potter on the roof of a flying car," she sighed, shaking her head as she set a full plate in front of me.
"Yes, Mum, I saw them from the window this morning. I'll take this up to Ginny," I said, my tone a little sharper than I meant. I grabbed the paper, kissed Dad's cheek, and slipped out with the plate.
Back upstairs, Ginny was leafing through a battered magazine. I set the bread on her nightstand. She reached for it, then froze halfway, eyes flicking up.
"Something wrong, Frankie?" she asked softly. She knew I hated talking when something was bothering me.
I shook my head, forcing a smile, but the lump in my throat was stubborn, and my eyes burned with angry tears I refused to let fall. I blinked them away, snatched my worn history of Hogwarts from the shelf, and balanced the bread on top.
"Going outside." Without waiting for a reply, I headed back down.
The kitchen looked exactly as it had three minutes ago. Mum opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off.
"I'm going to read outside. Don't wait for me for lunch."
Her hand caught my shoulder before I reached the door. "You can't vanish for the day, Franny. We have a guest, remember?"
"That's why I'm going. I thought I'd stay out of the way for someone so important." My voice was cool, my gaze steady.
"What are you talking about? No one's saying—" she began, but Fred interrupted.
"Let her go, Mum. She wants to be alone." George nodded in agreement.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded, turning to them — and I seized my chance, slipping out the door before she could stop me.
I didn't slow until the house was well out of sight. Only then did I let my pace ease, my thoughts catching up with me.
Not far from here stood my favourite tree — the one with a low branch just high enough to serve as a makeshift bench. The sun only reached this spot in the early morning, making it perfect for watching the day begin. I'd spent countless mornings here, but never for a reason as petty as fleeing the house.
I wasn't hungry, so I crumbled my bread and tossed it to a flock of sparrows, who swooped down from the shady branches nearby. My history book rested uselessly in my hand; even that couldn't distract me. Instead, I perched on the rough wood and watched the tiny birds squabble over every crumb.
Guilt kept circling in my head — the sharp words I'd thrown at Mum — but it was tangled with a sting of resentment. She'd all but ignored me in favour of our famous guest. Maybe I wasn't the daughter she wanted, like Ginny, but I didn't deserve to see her protect Harry Potter more fiercely than her own child. I scowled at the birds, though they seemed blissfully unaware.
After a while, the soft rustle of footsteps reached my ears. Someone was coming. I wanted to be alone, but I had two choices: stay and face whoever had come from the Burrow to check on me, or climb higher into the tree and wait to see who appeared between the trunks.
I chose the first. I didn't want to look ridiculous if it turned out to be someone I wouldn't mind talking to.
From behind the tall hedge stepped Fred. Relief loosened the knot in my chest.
"Hey, younger female version," he greeted with a grin, coming over. "You always hide in the same place — easy to find."
I gave him a tentative smile and glanced over his shoulder. He caught the movement and laughed.
"I know, weird, but I didn't bring him. George is at home, trying to convince Mum to be nice to you when you come back."
I shot him a mildly irritated look. "You're not here to drag me back, are you? Because I'm not going, Fred. I don't want to talk to her, and I definitely don't want to see him ." The last word left my mouth with a curl of disgust.
Fred blinked at me. "Where's this coming from, sis?"
He hopped up onto the low branch beside me. I hovered awkwardly for a moment before realising I was being ridiculous and sat down too. Fred hadn't done anything wrong.
"I know Ginny talks about him constantly," he said, "but I don't get why you're more than just mildly annoyed like the rest of us."
I met his eyes, weighing how much I could tell him. Turning away, I took a slow breath. The urge to say it's my business was strong, but he was only trying to listen.
"You know you can tell me anything, right? I won't judge," he added.
That gave me enough courage to start. "I just think the whole family's going overboard with the praise and admiration. He's not that extraordinary. Mum overlooks what Ron did, even though he was right there beside him the whole time. She acts like we've got some special privilege now that Potter's our friend, but I think it'll just drag us into danger." I searched Fred's face for a reaction. No dismissal — just sympathy and understanding. "I don't trust him, Fred. That's all. First year at Hogwarts and he-who-must-not-be-named shows up? I don't even want to imagine what's next."
"What you're saying makes sense, Frankie. I'm not going to tell you to give him a chance — that's up to you. I just don't want you making trouble for yourself with Mum or the others," he said with a half-smile, throwing an arm around my shoulders.
"I know I'm not like Ginny... I know what people say about me when I'm not there. I've got different opinions than everyone else," I mumbled.
"For the record, George and I don't say anything about you. We like that you're weird," he said, shrugging with a chuckle.
"I'm not weird!" I protested, though a flicker of relief warmed me — at least not everyone judged me.
"You are. And it's great. You know, neither George nor I are exactly prime examples of Weasley perfection. Percy this, Percy that, why can't you be like Percy?" Fred finished in an exaggerated imitation of Mum's voice, and I couldn't help but laughing.
Percy — the third-oldest — was about to start his sixth year as a prefect, with plans to work at the Ministry alongside Dad. Always shut away in his room, for reasons unknown, he was still the shining example for his younger brothers. He was also the dullest person alive.
We spent a few minutes making fun of him until we were both breathless with laughter — loud enough, I suspected, to carry all the way back to the Burrow. When we finally calmed, I gave Fred a weary look.
"I really don't want to go back yet."
"You know you'll have to eventually," he said, standing. "I'm not bringing your dinner out here."
I frowned, thinking it over. He was right, but I'd only just escaped. I didn't want to return with him — Mum needed to know I'd meant every word.
"I'll come for dinner," I said at last. "I can manage without lunch."
Once Fred left, I finally felt calm enough to open my book. The rest of the world faded away as I sank into the pages, my mind wandering to the ancient halls I'd be walking in just a month's time.
I barely noticed the sun pass its peak and begin to dip again. I was thirsty, a little hungry, but the hours outside slipped by easily. When I finally lifted my eyes, the sky was taking on a purple glow. Dinner time.
I stood, brushing off my skirt, and jogged toward the house. Halfway down the steep slope near the garden, my foot skidded on a patch of dry leaves and I landed hard on my backside with a loud yelp.
"That's karma, you know," Mum's voice teased from over the hedge. She was smiling, though. A moment later she was at my side, helping me up. "I hope you never run off like that again, Franny. You didn't make me very happy this morning."
I dusted off my trousers and met her tired eyes. My irritation over everyone's fawning over Harry was still there, but I couldn't bring myself to take it out on her. Her heart was too kind. I sighed, ready to explain, but she squeezed my shoulders and pulled me into a half-hug.
"You don't have to apologise. Something's obviously bothering you, but it's up to you if you want to talk about it," she said gently.
Then her expression darkened as she looked past me. I followed her gaze — a handful of ugly garden gnomes were waddling back through the hedge. Mum stamped her foot in frustration.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake. I told them this morning to clear the garden properly!"
She strode off, snatching up the nearest gnome and swinging it high over the hedge. Others followed in quick succession. I joined in, and together we uncovered an entire infestation. Mum muttered under her breath that she'd make the boys pay for this, which made me laugh — though I couldn't help feeling a little sorry for them.
By the time we returned inside, the sky was burning red with sunset. Mum ordered me to wash my hands, then set a plate on the table: a slice of lemon pie and a few warm sausages. It seemed everyone else had already eaten. From the living room, Dad's voice carried as he commented on the programme playing on the wireless.
I took a generous forkful of pie and let the tart sweetness fill my mouth. Lemon desserts were my weakness, and I thanked Mum between bites. She seemed in better spirits after our gnome battle; before heading to join Dad, she pressed a kiss to my forehead and smoothed my hair.
Left alone in the kitchen, I polished off every crumb, then cut myself a second, smaller slice. Two glasses of water later, I headed upstairs to get ready for bed.
The third-floor landing creaked under my steps as I slipped into the room I shared with Ginny. The light was low. She was already in bed, but the moment I closed the door she sat up, eyes fixed on me in a way that told me neither of us was sleeping until she said her piece — and I already knew I wouldn't like the topic.
The next week was... complicated. Harry seemed to spend every waking moment in the Burrow with my family, making it nearly impossible to find a quiet moment alone with any of them. Whenever he was around, they peppered him with questions, showered him with stories, and lavished him with kindness. Mum cooked as if preparing for a feast every night, even digging out her grandmother's old cookbook to try recipes I'd never seen before.
Dad, on the other hand, kept him busy with endless questions about life with Muggles. I lost my seat at the dinner table entirely, slipping in an hour later just to avoid the circus.
The official introduction came one particularly rowdy evening. Fred and George were holding court, telling the younger boys — and Harry — all their best first-year stories. Mum and Dad were outside in the garden; otherwise, she would have shut them down at the first outrageous detail.
I wasn't with them. I could hear the laughter from upstairs, but I stayed in my room. Ginny was down there, of course, probably looking like a lovesick fool.
Unfortunately, I got hungry. Time to face the music.
I pulled on one of my favourite jumpers — emerald green, with tiny beige flowers embroidered on the sleeves — the sort of oversized knit Mum had worn when she was younger and passed down to me. Warm and comfortable enough to sleep in.
On the last step of the staircase, I paused. The voices were all in the kitchen; there'd be no avoiding them.
I rounded the corner, and five pairs of eyes landed on me at once. Percy, as usual, was shut away upstairs.
"Frankie! We were hoping you'd show up," Fred called, his eyes dancing with mischief. He knew exactly how much I didn't want to be here.
I smirked faintly and headed to the counter where bread and cheese waited.
"You know, you two haven't met yet," Ron said behind me. I had to resist the urge to throw the cutting board at his head. Instead, I turned slowly, shooting him a withering look before fixing a polite smile on the bespectacled boy with the famous lightning scar.
"Hi, Harry." I extended my hand across the table. "I'm Frankie."
"Nice to meet you," he replied, a little startled, shaking my hand. "You're Ginny's twin, right?"
At the far end of the table, Ginny choked and tried to cover it with a cough.
"How could you tell?" I asked dryly, leaning against the counter and biting into my bread. Fred and George snickered.
"Well, you've got different eyes, and her hair's straight — yours isn't. Those two are practically identical," he said, nodding toward the twins, who both immediately drew breath to protest.
"Except I'm the better-looking one," George began, puffing out his chest.
"Not a chance, brother. Everyone says I'm the better-looking one," Fred countered, tossing an imaginary mane of hair over his shoulder.
"You see, Harry," I cut in while they bickered, "this is the magical world — some things even we can't explain. Ginny and I are the same, and yet completely different." I shrugged, stepped behind my sister, and leaned down to whisper in her ear, "See? He was looking at you."
Her face went redder than her hair, and she dropped her gaze to the table. I smiled, gave the room a small wave, and retreated to my bedroom with my bread in hand.