CHAPTER SIX- The First of the Visits
And here is the hinging point, where things could have gone a different way. But really, it feels more like a hub than a hinge; many things could have happened to me at that point, had I acted differently, had I decided differently, had I chosen something else to do, to say, to be.
There are days when I am overwhelmed with joy and I think things had to happen the way they did. There are also days when I am overwhelmed with less desirable feelings, and I think the idea of fate, of kismet, if you will, is a load of bollocks.
What is the difference between fate and free will?
When it's free will, it's your fault. When it's fate, it's someone else's.
~~~
"Miss Weasley, really, your father asked us to-" The thin, nervous-looking Ministry appointee sitting at the entrance of Azkaban jumped up from his post, started to follow her, then eyed his desk. Follow or stay? He settled the matter by snagging her by the arm and edging back toward his desk. "Just a moment, Miss, your father asked that we not let you-"
Her immediate reaction-no surprise-was to jerk her arm away and tell the man what to do with her father's requests. It had nothing to do with him, really, or even to do with her father, but was just a Weasley reflex. Instead, she patted his hand and smiled dazzlingly. "I'm here on business, Mr. Ottley. From St. Mungo's?" As though to prove her point, she waved a voluminous green sleeve in front of his eyes.
Ottley's watery blue eyes widened and he released her, rubbing a hand over his thinning dark hair. "Beggin' your pardon, Miss," he said humbly. "On'y next time let me know before you go bargin' in, eh?"
"Agreed." She barely managed to turn her back to him before rolling her eyes.
Her feet carried her down the corridors as surely as they had yesterday, taking the proper turns toward the prisoners' area of the fortress. This time no one stopped her, and no one owled Arthur. Official business, she thought, had its perks.
"Kingsley," she said warmly, noticing his eyes narrow in a wary flinch. "I'm here on directive from the hospital." It seemed true to her, unwaveringly so; she was there to accomplish something and then she could leave.
Subversive thoughts, subversive intentions.
He'd had more than his fair share of mind-work in his years as an Auror, and Kingsley saw something-a flash, a glint, a twist-in the young woman's brown eyes that gave him pause. He had no reason to doubt her, really, but it was almost as though she were telling a lie unknowingly. He spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. "What is it you're needing, Ginny?"
And as she told him what she needed, Kingsley saw the flash-glint-twist in Ginny's eyes grow stronger, and with it grew his worry.
~~~
She hadn't actually expected the disciplinarians at the prison to just give her the parts of Draco Malfoy's wand, but what else had they to do with it? It was unusable in its shattered state, thrice-charmed and thrice-cursed against any sort of repair, and she was Arthur Weasley's daughter. If she could give the wand to someone who could use it for good, the no one saw any harm in the matter.
She could have left once she had the pieces of the wand, once powerful, now pitiful, but Glennys had said one other thing…
A bit of knowledge about the wizard who cast them here…
"I need to speak with him, Kingsley," she said, placing a hand on his sleeve as he prepared to walk her straight past the prisoners' corridor and out to the front. "It's imperative."
And as soon as she spoke the words, it really was imperative. All the questions she'd not bothered to ask the day before seemed urgent when paired with the shattered wood in her pocket, when viewed as a whole with the injured at St. Mungo's.
Muscles clenched and fluttered in Kingsley's massive jaw, and for a moment, a bare moment, he tried to probe her mind, to find out exactly what the Weasley pauper princess was trying to do. As soon as he tried to touch minds with her, however, she turned hot brown eyes, sparking with indignation, up to his.
"I beg your pardon," she said coolly. Hadn't she felt that before? Hadn't someone else done that, leading her around Hogwarts, sending her places she shouldn't be with actions she shouldn't take? "I'll thank you never to do that again, Mr. Shacklebolt. Let me in, and then I'll be on my way."
His dark skin flushing, he muttered a few words, conjuring the chair and newspaper that Arthur had established as a standard for visitors, and then ushered her in. He was tempted to give her a time limit-it was within his authority-but in a rare instance, Kingsley was reluctant to do as he pleased.
Truth be known, Kingsley was a bit frightened of the Weasley girl.
She took her place against the wall opposite Draco's cell, and everything else seemed to fall away. His pose was identical to the one of the day before: straight posture, intent gaze, hands folded over his lap. The blanket on the cot seemed untouched, and nothing had been added or moved in the cell.
"Why did you do it?" she spoke finally, crossing her arms over her chest to ward off a sudden chill. There was no movement, no recognition that he'd heard her, but she knew he had to have. He simply continued staring at the wall, blinking only occasionally.
Ginny's temper was already peaked by Kingsley's completely uncalled for (and uncouth) mental display, and being ignored by the fallen elite in front of her did nothing to assuage that boil.
"You're already damned," she said between clenched teeth, stepping forward and striking a fist ineffectually against the glass. "You may as well help those who remain." She opened her mouth to speak more, to tell him precisely what she thought, or perhaps even to plead, but her mouth dropped open in a sharp gasp.
The pocketed wand pieces were thrumming, sending mild jolts up and down her hip and thigh.
Where her words had failed, the call of his wand succeeded, and two dazed silver eyes shot to the front of the cell and focused on her midsection.
He could feel it, so close.
So far away.
Ginny stumbled back, her hand involuntarily wrapping around the chair Kingsley had conjured, and she dragged it back with her one step, two, and then her knees buckled, spilling her into it, the combined power of the wand and the gaze rendering her incapable of solid stance.
Her reflection shimmered in the glass in front of her, suspended between them, as he turned his attention back to the stones of the wall. She met her own eyes in her mirror image and felt her breathing run shallow.
She in green outside the cell, he in red inside, her robes a brighter, more garish shade of Slytherin, his a more searing shade of Gryffindor.
Her eyes crossed with the effort of focusing on the transparent image of herself and she felt momentarily sick.
Was it right? she wondered. Was it just for him to be in there, staring so bloody peacefully at absolutely nothing while she sat out and suffered in her ignorance?
"You don't deserve the peace you have," she said in a low, disgusted tone, and spat where the glass met the floor. "And I don't intend to let you have it." No longer trembling, she snatched up the newspaper she'd unwittingly landed on and painstakingly ignored the damnable emissions of energy coming from his power long past.
Taking a deep breath, Ginny cast an amplification charm on herself and began to read.
She figured if he'd not answer her, then he'd at least be forced to listen to her.
If she'd not learned anything else from the twins, she'd at least learned how to be an annoyance.
~~~
She read for two hours, until dusk began to fall, her voice, though strong, growing hoarse. She'd read each article at least twice, and guards had stopped by now and again to watch her vengeful vigil.
Somewhere at the end of the first hour, though, the heat had left her, and her eyes had started to stray from the type to the cell in front of her, looking for a reaction, any reaction. But still he sat, unmoving and unmoved, unspeaking.
Though it would have shamed her to admit it, and she'd never do so out loud, Ginny was forced to give up; however, she did so with grace, folding the Daily Prophet as it had been and placing it square back in the chair, standing now on steady legs.
"This isn't finished," she stated, but her voice was rough around the edges, the threat ineffectual. She turned and walked down the corridor, robes billowing out behind her, chin held high.
The guards turned and watched her go, and all were silent for the exit of Azkaban's first and only visitor.
And the imprisoned whom she had visited, in her wake, glanced at the chair she'd vacated, unnoticed by those around him.
~~~
An exercise in futility.
I clearly remember trying to fight Charlie as a little girl, my tiny fists flying, my tangled mess of hair clouding my vision, and oh, how he laughed and laughed and laughed. He would stand just a bit away from me, holding out his hands and good-naturedly tugging on the ends of my hair, laughing as I swung high, higher, and as high as I could reach, but never touching him.
Never even grazing him.
They teased me about that for years to come, little Ginny with so much fight in her and nowhere to put it.
I was no stranger to futility.
But there came a day when, even in good-natured playing, I was able to reach my older brothers.
Futility only has power against those who allow it.
But oh, I never understood how some things can make you feel so useless, so pointless. There are things so big you cannot reach them.
They reach you, and they never stop reaching you no matter how far you run.