CHAPTER THREE
Is the gonna break the locks
Take a look inside the box
Knowing that she could release Pandora's shame
Ginny took the message with trembling hands, shuddering as a shaft of wind blew through the alley, lifting a few strands of her long, coppery hair and setting it dancing. It seemed to blow straight through her as she turned the message over in her hands, searching for a name she knew wasn't there.
It was magically secured, a tiny fingertip-sized lock placed at the place where the folds met. She'd seen its like only a few times before, and only when valuable things were being sent by owl. Biting her lip, she placed her fingertip to the lock, gasping as it popped open immediately.
She parted the sheets of paper quickly, her curiosity swamping what little caution she may have had. What she wanted was a solution to the riddle, a name to affix to the words, a face to look on in her dream-
That's something entirely different, she insisted, shoving the thought away as she withdrew a small packet from within the parchment. Clumsily, she tried to open the unfamiliar packet and sent things scattering all over the cobblestones.
She bent down, her head whipping around to make certain no one was watching her, and began scooping the papers up off the ground. As she picked up one of the strange documents, however, her breath left her in a huff and she sat hard in the middle of the alley, her hand shaking violently.
One part of the packet, a small folder, had fallen open on the sidewalk. On it was a slightly outdated picture of her, a strange, still photograph that she knew to be the type that Muggles took.
A photograph of her, but it stayed perfectly still, unblinking, unmoving, unbreathing. It was like, she thought, seeing a picture of yourself when you were dead. Tearing her eyes away from the oddly gruesome photo, she looked at the careful printing under it. Her full name was printed across the page along with other information that made her mind reel-her date of birth, her birthplace, her mother's maiden name.
Strangest of all was the signature, her own handwriting right down to the flourish on the ending "y".
Slamming the folder shut fearfully, she looked at the other things she'd gathered. One was a pamphlet detailing something called an "airline," and the other was some sort of pass. The parchment itself, however, was perfectly blank. No name, no message. Only the Muggle papers she held in her hands with her name blazoned all over them, her name and private information.
Who knew so many things about her, she wondered? And who would bother to use them? She opened up the crested folder once more and brushed a tentative finger over her face in the picture.
What did that face, heart-shaped and freckled, surrounded by a sleek mass of tumbling red hair, hold for the person who had sent it all to her? What possible fascination could come of such an ordinary face-a face like all the other Weasleys?
Not caring for the small, flattered thrill that sent through her, she shoved the materials into the parchment, muttered an incantation to re-lock it, and hurried into Flourish and Blotts.
~~~
"The Wonderful World of Muggles, Muggles and Their Habits, Mysteries of Muggles?" The shopkeeper eyed her over his spectacles as he totaled up her purchases. "I was under the impression, Ms. Weasley, that you were done with schoolwork and that your father was the only one in the family who had this particular… affectation."
She smiled as sweetly as she knew how, shrugging innocuously. "Well, you know, you're never too old to learn something new. I thought I'd check out some of the things Father had been going on about." And Merlin save her for lying, she thought. But it just wouldn't do to go on telling everyone-or for that matter, anyone-what was happening.
They'd think she was mad. And when it came right down to it-wasn't she?
Welcome to the game
What's in a name
She spent the evening locked in her room, books spread across her bed with the things she'd received by owl that day. The passport, as she'd learned it was called, was deadly accurate, right down to the date of birth. Magical births weren't quite as closely documented as Muggle births, which was something else she'd found out, so it puzzled her as to how someone could have so easily obtained her date and place of birth. Her mother's maiden name was hardly much of a problem-everyone in the wizarding world knew one another, especially…
Especially purebloods, she thought, her face blanching. Purebloods always knew other pureblood families, nearly by heart. Family trees were as common in the home as fireplaces, sometimes even more so.
"Nearly all the purebloods are gone," she told herself angrily, slamming shut the book and tossing the portpass… make that passport… aside.
The smaller piece was an altogether different matter, however, and gave her the beginnings of a clue.
It was a plane ticket, a voucher to ride on one of those great winged trains she'd heard tell of. As she stroked a finger over the glossy black print of the ticket, she read the destination out loud. "Boston, Massachusetts." It had an awkward sound to it, an altogether American sound. It was a place of patriotism, she learned, a place of revolutionaries and memories of the past.
But she knew no one in America, and no one in America knew her. So why the invitation? Why the ticket? She'd be a fool if she thought the letter and the airline ticket weren't linked-they most certainly were-but how?
It's not bloody likely she'll do anything. Her brother's voice, casual and unintentionally mocking, made her wince.
Not bloody likely, eh?
Well, it seemed someone in America thought otherwise.
~~~
"America?" Molly leaned over the table, her eyes concerned. When Ginny had called the impromptu Weasley family meeting, she'd been pleased; after all, it was so hard to get the family in one place these days. But the last thing she'd expected was to hear her little girl, her baby, say she wanted to go to America.
It was, Ginny found, much easier to lie than she'd anticipated. "Well, yes," she said, looking imploringly first at her mother and then her father. He was the soft spot. He was the one she'd counted on for this whole argument. For now, however, her big brothers had things to say.
"You can't very well go alone," Charlie said in a near-growl. "A little slip of a thing like you?"
"I'm an adult, Charlie," she put in, noting how surprised they all seemed at her action. If Ron had decided to go to America, everyone would bloody well congratulate him.
"She is, to be exact," Percy put in precisely. When everyone looked at him, his eyes widened. "What? It's the fact of the matter, isn't it?"
The twins seemed supportive, though they couldn't seem to pin it down to a single thought.
"You'll have to bring us back plenty of ideas, Gin-"
"We hear they're brilliant with the tricks and all over there-"
"And while you're at it, pick us up a few American girls and bring them back, eh?"
"Enough!" Molly said, slapping a hand to the table. "Virginia, dear, are you sure you're feeling quite well?"
That was another cup of tea altogether. No, she wasn't feeling quite well, but she wasn't about to say that to her mother. No, Mum, you're quite right. I'm not feeling well, in fact I'm feeling distinctly unwell. I think it's possible I've gone mad with sexual frustration or perhaps just mad from boredom. Say toodles, won't you?
"I'm feeling fine, Mum. It's only that-" And here started the act she'd quite carefully calculated the night before, on the spur of the moment.
Spontaneity was what everyone thought she was lacking, then she'd bloody well make a decision at a blink.
"It's only that I've watched Father study the Muggles for so long, and I know America's simply full of marvels. Think of the things I could learn, Father!" She placed a thin-fingered hand over his large, clumsy one and smiled. "I'd bring you back all sorts of souvenirs."
"Blackmail," Bill observed pleasantly, his lips quirking. He wasn't as daft-or at least as gullible-as the rest of his family, and he knew there had to be something else going on with little Virginia. She was the baby of the family, she was the sole princess of the Weasley kingdom, able to twist them all around her finger with a single glance. It was an ability she hadn't used since she was very, very small.
In short, Bill would gladly eat one of his mother's famed sweaters if there wasn't more to the story than she was telling them. But he wasn't about to call her bluff. She'd never had the independence that the boys had, and he couldn't blame her for trying to get it.
And in the end, only Ron had one last thing to say. "Well, then," he said, seeing acceptance drift over his parents. "Pick up some American Quidditch souvenirs for me, eh?"
She must be dreamin as she boards a plane
And flies into her fantasy
Muggle studies. What a load of Dungbombs.
She let herself be amused by her family's gullibility as she sat in Heathrow. If she let herself think too long or too hard about where she was, she'd bloody well scream. After all, she was surrounded by giant panels of glass, hundreds of Muggles talking too bloody fast and too bloody loud, and she was on her way to a city she'd never heard of in a country she'd never seen.
And why?
Because the dreams had kept coming, night after night, nap after nap, and she'd found herself addicted to them in a matter of a few days. And if there was anything Ginny Weasley didn't like, it was being addicted. It was being led by the nose by someone miles away who thought they were cute or clever or…
In control.
Ignoring her mind's rejoinder, she fiddled with the latch on her suitcase and looked down at herself for what seemed to be the millionth time. Though she was just checking to make sure her clothes looked all right-plain, white cotton blouse and a Muggle skirt made of some sort of thick, awkward material called denim-the direction of her gaze made her thighs grow lax and heat arced into her stomach.
How many times in her dreams had she looked down, just so, to try and see him?
To try and catch a glimpse of the man to whom she was coming.
Don't you mean for whom you're coming?
Her mind really was yammering a bit too much. Thinking that, it was nothing short of a relief to her when they called the flight to Boston Logan. The words sounded magical to her, though they were tinny and overly loud through the airport's sound system.
And this time, when the voice whispered Come to me into the sensitive cup of her ear, her mouth formed the response "I am."