Disparaissant by sunday

Rating: R
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Draco & Ginny
Book: Draco & Ginny, Books 1 - 5
Published: 06/10/2004
Last Updated: 07/12/2004
Status: In Progress

AU. When Ginny Weasley was twelve she disappeared without a trace. Now four years later, a girl
is found walking along a motorway in Cambridge. She has no memory of who she is or what she's
doing there. Now the past is about to catch up with those who have tried to forget and live without
her. Written with Mayachild.




1. Prologue
-----------



Ron was unutterably bored. Whilst not normally being one to get bored in Diagon Alley, he found
himself actually looking forward to going home. Not surprising really, since the other two shoppers
accompanying him were a certain Molly and Ginny Weasley. Add to that the idea that the principle
object of the trip was to buy dress robes, and you had a specifically Ron-sized purgatory. “Dress
robes...” shuddered Ron internally. *Maroon* dress robes. Arrgh.

It wasn't that he didn't realise what Molly was trying to achieve. He knew his parents
were feeling guilty over what had happened to Ginny over the progress of only her first school
year. Goddamnit, they all were. But it wasn't even as if Ginny seemed the least bit interested
in shopping at the moment. He made a desperate effort to distract Molly.


“Look, there's Quality Quidditch. Couldn't we have a quick look around inside?”


”Ron dear, you know we couldn't possibly afford -“

“I know that. Just let me have a look...”

Molly glanced worriedly at Ginny, who shrugged charitably and smiled, “Go on, mum. We've
dragged him around all day. Let's give him a break and go and look at the brooms!”

Molly smiled at her daughter and followed to where Ron was staring with the rest of the crowd
outside the window in wonder at the collection of glossy racing brooms in the window, Ginny next to
her.

Ron looked at his sister's face and felt happier. She'd always been a passionate Quidditch
fan, especially with five brothers who all played the sport. It was good to see her smiling.

He turned back to the brooms. They really were beauties; finely produced Cloud Catcher 88s, with
polished mahogany handles and sleek twigs forming the tail. Way out of the Weasley budget of
course, but who cared about that.

“Are you sure these brooms are meant to go as fast as the label says?” his mother enquired, a
worried look on her face. “Ninety miles an hour seems a little speedy.”

“Of course they are, Mum. How else is Harry supposed to catch the snitch?”

“Really?” Molly looked doubtful. “I hate to think of Harry racing about on those brooms. It
sounds awfully dangerous.”

“Oh mum, you are a worrier. Harry can look after himself or they wouldn't have let - Oh.” He
paused, and began to look up and down the street. “Where's Ginny gone?”

“Did she go inside?” asked his mother.

“I don't think so...” replied Ron, peering into the shop.

“Well then,” said Molly, beginning to walk increasingly quickly towards the corner of the
street, making towards Gringotts, “Where is she?”

Ron looked up at the slight edge in his mum's voice and saw fear fill her eyes as they turned
the corner to find nothing. Molly scanned the crowd and turned to Ron. “Right,” she began sternly,
“I'll look in the shops. Ask as many people as you can if they've seen her.”


The next hour was the worst of Ron's life. After searching Diagon Alley endlessly, there was
still no sign of her.

“You'll have to contact the ministry,” advised Barnabus Marner, an employee of the ice-cream
stand outside the pub, who had become part of the impromptu search party that had formed as the
search became less and less fruitful. “Your best chance is to contact the services and get some
aurors on the case.”


A woman who worked at the Department of Magical Trade lent them her portkey and his mother used it
gratefully. Ron followed her silently as his mother hurried through the endless corridors and felt
relief fill him slightly as his dad rushed round the corner. That feeling was quickly crushed as he
overheard his parents' conversation.

“Molly, we need to put her down as missing. McGivern. said that they can't put her down as
being kidnapped until they have more evidence,” his father said, worry etched into his voice.

“What do you mean, more evidence?” Molly replied hysterically. “They can't think Ginny's
run away! She was unhappy because of what happened, but not enough to...”

“I know Molly, I know. I'm so sorry,” Arthur replied as Molly fell in to his arms. She began
to cry and as Arthur wrapped her into a hug Ron heard her whisper, “Please tell them to find my
baby. Please.”

Ron quickly turned away. He couldn't stand seeing his parents like that. And for the first time
in ten years Ron Weasley sat down and cried.

The next morning the front page was full of the story, with the headlines screaming news of
Ginny's disappearance.

But Ginny Weasley was never seen again. After the Great War, when Harry finally defeated
Voldermort, her parents were given hope. Maybe Voldermort had taken her captive and he'd kept
her alive as a trophy. But she was not found, and so her name was placed with the hundreds of
others who had died. And slowly people began to forget about a little girl called Ginny Weasley.
But her family never did, and every night they prayed that their little girl would be given back to
them. And every night their prayers went unanswered.

The months pass, and a shiver of pain runs up Arthur Weasley's spine as he listens to his
wife sobbing next to him on the bed. Four years now, and a shroud of darkness lies heavy on them.
Such sorrow that cannot be resolved. Until one autumn day...

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2. chapter two
--------------



A/N: The story is written with Mayachild.

A/N 2: The word met in the third chapter is correct as it means Metropolitan, which is the
police force in London and it's suburbs.

The girl shivered slightly under the rain as she clenched her coat more tightly around her.
She'd been trying to hitch a lift for the last thirty minutes and was no closer to getting to
London.

Hearing an engine she quickly held her hand out, thumbing to the white Vauxhall Omega that sped
towards her. To her relief, it pulled up about a hundred yards ahead.

She hurried along the road and caught sight of the man at the wheel. He had on a white shirt
with a small met police badge on his lapel, and a pair of shabby black trousers. He leaned out of
the window, concerned.

“What on earth are you doing out here love?” he exclaimed, leaning forward to open the car door
for her. “It's dangerous!”

“I'm sorry but I really need to get to London,” she replied hurriedly, taking the seat
beside him. “There was no-one else to take me.”

“Student, are you? Not a good idea to go hitchhiking alone - little slip of a girl like
you.”

He laughed at the look she gave him and sent her a reassuring smile. “It's alright love. I
know you college students - think you're immortal, or something. That's why I stopped.
Better that a police officer takes you to the station than some weirdo you can trust to try an take
advantage.”

“I don't need help, Mr...”

“The name's Pete, and I'm an officer of the Cambridge county police force so don't
worry. I'll get you to up into town and then we'll see about getting you a bus to the train
station. How about you tell me your name and we'll see about some money for you to travel,
eh?”

She nodded, showing a few loose notes in her pocket and a battered bus pass.

“Your name, love?

The girl hesitated. “My name?” *My Name.* The words swam in her mind.

“*My name*...” She trailed off.

Pete gave her a questioning look and his face was suddenly deadly serious. “You're not a
student, are you?”

The girl stared out into the rain splattering down on the windshield.

“Look - if you're trying to run away...”

“I'm not.” She spoke firmly. “And I do know my name. It's Gwen. At least... I thought it
was.”

Pete frowned. “You thought it was? What's happened to you, Gwen?

“I don't know. There was a car accident...and doctors and... I can't remember any more
that that.”

“Nothing at all?”

Gwen shook her head. “No.” she said softly, “all I know is that I was involved in a car
accident. And that my next of kin is in London. That's all I was told.”

Pete's eyebrow rose. “Didn't social services contact your family? Why weren't the
police involved?”

“I told you, I don't remember!” Gwen replied with a certain sharpness.

“Alright, alright,” said Pete, “No need for that. Just let me think what to do.”

He was silent awhile, as the rain poured down.

Finally he spoke. “Right. We're nearly at the station and I don't want to let you go
without at least contacting your family's solicitor. They must have some record of you there so
I think we'll get you in there, check it out and get you something to eat.”

“Oh no you don't have to. It's just I've never been to Cambridge and I don't
know my way around.” Gwen said desperately. She suddenly felt like crying. She had no memory and
she didn't even know who was waiting for her in London.

“Don't worry about that. This is important and you definitely need a good square meal and
some advice before you go on. Besides, I've just finished my morning shift and I'm expected
back about now.”

As he said this, Pete turned the wheel and swung into the car park of a large grey but fairly
modern office building. “This is it.”

“Here?” asked Gwen uncertainly as she shut the passenger door and followed him

through the revolving doors into the entrance lobby.

“Yup.” Pete pressed the button for the lift. “Couple of months back the station got smashed into
by a couple of yobs - completely trashed. We're stuck in here for a few months.”

The lift arrived with a bright ping and they stepped in as the doors slid apart.

As the doors opened at the third floor Gwen was immediately confronted with a sudden hub of
noise akin to a beehive. There were at least forty people in the office, at desks, answering
phones, filing, shouting-

“Pete,” called a bright brummie accent from the corner where its owner, a pretty peroxide blonde
was typing efficiently at a laptop. “I put the Mitcham report on your desk ten minutes ago. `Fraid
there's an awful lot of paperwork to be done before Amy Elders goes to court on Thursday.”

Pete laughed. “And good morning to you too Jenny. I'll get that report sorted but could you
ask Allie to take the papers?” He gave Gwen a wink. “I've got to sort something out with the
boss.”

“She's not going to like that,” warned Jenny, “You'd better watch out at lunch!”

“Just try her, okay?” Pete called over his shoulder as he led Gwen through the cubicles over to
a large swing door. She followed him down a long white corridor, up a flight of stairs to a door
with the words `*John Spencer, Superintendent*' printed on a neat placard.

Before Pete could knock on the door it swung open to reveal a solidly built man of about six
foot. He looked to be in his late fifties with steel grey hair and intimidating blue eyes.

“Ah, Campbell,” he said, beckoning him to come in. “I was just about to send someone out to look
for you. We've got a new problem with the Markham case. Turns out Alan Nielson didn't check
the files properly and now the defence have found a loophole in Soames' contract at-” He
spotted Gwen, who was unconvincingly trying to blend in with the wall. “Who is this, Campbell?”

“This is Gwen. I found her walking along the motorway whilst on patrol. I've taken her in to
give her something warm and then she's on her way to London.” Pete said fixing her with another
of his smiles.

Gwen didn't like the way Sergeant Spencer was looking at her. He had a slight frown on his
face as he studied her, but seeing her glare he turned his penetrating eyes away from her and spoke
into the intercom. “Can you come up for second, Joan? I've got a job for you.” Releasing the
button, he turned back to his officer.

“Right fine. We'll put her downstairs for a while. But I need a word with you.” He crooked a
finger at Pete who turned apologetically to Gwen.

“I'll come and see you after this. I'll be down in about 15 minutes tops, ok?”

At that moment, a rather anaemic looking young woman with spectacles stuck her head round the
door.

“Yes sir?”

“Take this young lady down to the canteen, will you, and get her something to eat.”

“Right you are, sir,” she replied, beckoning to Gwen, who followed her uncertainly, feeling all
the time the stares that followed her.

“Good,” remarked Spencer shortly, “That makes things a lot less complicated.”

“What do you mean, Sarge?” asked Pete doubtfully, watching his sergeant first lock the door and
then rummage through a cabinet, removing a hefty file and sitting back down at his desk..

“I mean, Pete, that Gwen is far more than an ordinary run away.”

“Well yes, I know that. She can't remember anything about herself for a start, and anyone
can see that Social Services have no idea about the car crash she's survived. She's
probably lying to me as well. I know that at least.”

“But do you?” Spencer asked. “I think there's a great deal I have to tell you before you
leave this room.”

“What?”

“Pete, how long have you been a police officer?”

“It's six years come January, but what has that got to do with-”

“Well then, you've probably known that someday we would have to talk about Ministry
business.”

“Sarge?”

“About your other qualifications. Your first job.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I will make
myself perfectly clear; your post as a Junior Obliterator for the Staffordshire council of
Wizar-”

“How do you know about that?” interjected Pete in an astonished whisper. “I was told I'd be
working alone - single posting for Muggle relations and Military business…”

“Again, you had your orders; I had mine.”

“So you… You were here to watch me? And you're…?” Pete drew breath at the realisation.
“You're…” He found no other way to express it. “Like me?”

“I have Wizarding blood, if that's what you're asking. Half and half, if you're
particular. Joined the force straight after my Auror exams. When I turned forty they offered me a
post here, and since there wasn't much an aging Auror could do besides wait for younger ones to
better him, I took it.”

“Why didn't you ever tell me?”

Spencer shrugged. “It was never important. I suppose you had the same guidelines as I did? `Work
your way up, guide the hand of the Muggle forces, use Memory Charms as sparingly as possible?'
My orders have always been to inform you only when absolutely necessary; when the situation had to
be dealt with by more than two persons.”

“Two persons?”

“Of course.”

“You don't mean…You can't seriously…Joan too?”

Spencer nodded. “A McKinnon by marriage. Squib, I'm afraid, but that's never stopped her
helping us.”

“My God…” breathed Pete disbelievingly. “Are there any others here?”

“Just the three of us.”

“Jesus.” Pete put his head in his hands, his breathing slightly shaky. “And you say that
*now* you have something to tell me?” he asked.

“It may seem sudden, I know.”

“Damn right it is,” replied Pete, a touch of frustration in his normally cool voice.

“How much do you remember about the end of the war?”

“*More* questions?

“Yes and it's important that you tell me the truth,” returned Spencer firmly. “Don't try
and hide the fact that you don't know much; I know as well as you do how little the ministry
informs those working with the Muggles.”

Pete furrowed his brow for a few moments. “As you say, I only know what they told me.” He
shrugged. “The Dark Lord's death, the arrest of his prominent followers, the last attack on the
Ministry… Not that they let me have the details.”

Spencer looked grim at the memory. “Desperate attempt, that was. Blew open an entire wall in the
east wing, they did; tried hold out as long as they could. They didn't last long - only a few
days - but they still managed to kill about fifty people in the process. There were only five of
them occupying the building, as it turned out and all pretty junior as well. The last five Death
Eaters left in the country, or supposedly.”

“Why supposedly? The Ministry didn't let any get away, surely?”

“Not intentionally, no. Of course, we all knew that Lucius Malfoy was as guilty as they come,
but as usual, the man could out-wriggle an eel. Luckily for him, he was so far up the hierarchy, he
knew that they were heading for disaster and backed the right horse accordingly, changing sides at
the very last minute. But as I say, even after the last attack, there were Death Eaters left in
hiding.”

“How?” asked Pete incredulously. “Where? Who would protect them?”

“No-one knows. In fact, most in the Ministry don't believe it, because all that remains of
the records of the Dark Lord's following are a very few confessions from dying members. What
most don't realise is that the Death Eaters were by no means an entirely united group. In his
earlier years, HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED cultivated a following, mostly from the company he kept at
school, dissatisfied purebloods and so on. When He disappeared for several years in his early
twenties, most lost faith. Only a small number, about two or three, of those who still believed He
would return still kept an association with each other. Called themselves the Enigme, and kept
watch for when their Master returned. Naturally, when that day did come, they were furious.”

“They expected rich rewards?”

“Exactly. They hoped to be honoured for their unshakable faith but the fact was that they all
were fairly uncharismatic and mediocre Wizards, compared to many of the rest.
HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED wasn't going to waste his time promoting them.”

“And the result was?”

“Well, nothing for a while. According to the sources we have, they stayed pretty quiet within
the ranks for the months that elapsed, even during the first war against the Muggles. The defeat of
their Master was the last straw for them, and they abandoned hope of his glory. But about three
years after the Harry Potter entered Hogwarts, the members of Enigme began to plan something
separate; a mission; a raid that would win them glory and fame; the respect they deserved from
world. They hoped to gain a bargaining chip against the Ministry and to make a claim for power
themselves.” He paused.

Pete leaned forward, intrigued. “Go on.”

Spencer hesitated. “That's when our sources on Enigme stop talking.”

“Then what was the use of telling me all this?” asked Pete distractedly.

“If you'll be patient I'll tell you. The only information we can gather further is that
the mission was planned for sometime in late May.”

“But that's only a few days before the Dark Lord was ressurected - ”

“Precisely. The attempt was carried out successfully, and only a few days later, everything
they've been working for collapses. Pretty disappointing for them, and with no choice but to
hide from the wrath of a Master they'd given up on.”

“Well yes - but surely you can't prove they ever carried such a mission? There are any
records.”

“No there aren't,” replied Spencer grimly.

“There you are then. You can't prove it.”

“Oh yes I can.”

“How?”

“Because every attack that took place in that time has been accounted for. Every single case has
had responsibility claimed for it by a captured Death Eater. Except for this one.”

He held up the photo that lay on the pile of papers in front of him. Pete gasped. The face
grinned out across time - straggly red hair, bright eyes, the mass of freckles…

“Gwen,” he whispered disbelievingly.

“Oh no. Not Gwen,” said Superintendent Spencer. “Ginny. Ginny Weasley.”

Please review and let me know what you think.

Thank you to my beta Mornings-broken-angel who took the time to read this and sort it out.

And to anyone who reviewed. Hope the second chapter was as enjoyable as the first!

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3. Chapter Two
--------------



Gwen clutched the polystyrene cup of hot chocolate tightly in her hands. She felt apprehensive.
Joan had done everything possible to make her comfortable, but there was no denying it. The feeling
increased when John Spencer walked into the large canteen. He looked worried, but when he saw her
and Joan sitting near the back, he immediately lost the look and acquired a neutral expression.

He headed over to their table.

“Right, thanks for doing this, Joan. If you'd sort out the calls to the authorities...” He
looked at her meaningfully.

“Oh!” Joan nodded, catching some hidden meaning in his words. “I'll get on with that.”

“As for you,” he turned to Gwen. “I'm afraid we need a word with you. Just a small problem
with your files. Nothing to worry about.”

Gwen, seeing the reassuring smile he sent her, immediately felt dread clench her stomach.
Nevertheless she stood up, if a little shakily.

“Okay. You don't mind if I bring up my drink?”

“No problem.” John replied shortly, indicating for her to follow him.

Gwen sent Joan a swift smile and followed John up the several flights of stairs she'd come
down to get to the canteen.

When they reached his office, the door opened on a pacing Pete who jerked to a stop when he saw
them. He turned to John, a questioning look in his eyes.

To Gwen's surprise, John ignored Pete's look and sat behind his desk. After offering
them both seats, which they took, he began to gather material from a file, papers spread across the
desktop that Pete had clearly been perusing. After a few moments, he looked up and spoke.

“I wish to begin by saying that we will be completely honest. I will tell you no lies. All I ask
in return is that you give me the same courtesy. As Officer Campbell knows, and as you probably
have guessed, I did not ask you to come up here to discuss your records. As far as I can see,
everything is clear. Your parents moved with you to Cambridge shortly after your sixteenth birthday
and the car accident you experienced occurred on the sixth of September.”

Gwen, who had been listening silently to all of this, glanced up at John, who had paused to
observe her reaction.

“What happened next?” she asked softly.

John rubbed the bridge of his nose and his eyes became hard. “You were thrown from the car with
a pretty bad leg injury but nothing more serious than that. The lorry your car hit head-on killed
both of your parents immediately.”

Gwen shuddered involuntarily as the sickeningly hollow sensation deepened. She felt nauseated
and weak. “I...I don't want to...”

Pete put his hands on her shoulders. “John,” he appealed, “She's not ready for this...”

“She has to be. The Ministry wants to question her within the next hour and I won't let her
face them without knowing as much as they do.”

“Ministry?” asked Gwen faintly.

“I will explain,” replied Spencer, “But you must understand what I tell you first. The hospital
that took you in kept you for a few weeks, and contacted Social Services when it became clear you
had no remaining family in the area and were under the age considered legal for you to live without
a guardian. Therefore they searched for any next-of-kin. The only family member listed was living
in London and I presume you were headed there when Pete picked you up.”

“Yes, they told me about a woman... Miss Agnes Marple, they said she was a great aunt or
something...”

“A great aunt by marriage, in fact, not that it matters anymore...”

“*Matters*?” asked Gwen, fear and doubt creeping into her voice. “What are you
*talking* about?”

“I have to make some calls,” said Spencer, standing up. “Campbell will…” He hesitated.

Pete nodded. “It's alright, sir.”

And with that, he left. As he made his way down the corridor, he felt a certain discomfort but
knew that he had done the right thing. Pete knew what to say and when to say it.

ï‚»

For a few moments all that could be heard were the muffled footsteps of the superintendent
walking away.

“There's a reason in all this,” began Pete slowly, “Why we kept you, I mean. There's a
reason why we couldn't let you go to London, and it's not because of your memory or your
records. It's because you never would have found what you were looking for.”

“Why?” asked Gwen, her eyes wide. “Is she dead? Is that it?”

Pete told her what he'd hoped not to have to utter. “She never existed, Gwen. Your parents
falsified the data and destroyed their own birth certificates.”

She took a painful gasp of air. With an effort, she spoke. “Then what did he mean, `it
doesn't matter any more'?” Gwen asked quietly. Her eyes were cast down, but her voice was
self-contained and steady. Pete remained silent for a few seconds. “Don't think you can avoid
it,” she continued in the same strangely-controlled way. “I won't let you keep the truth from
me.”

“What did he mean?” she repeated, a slight tremor of anger coming into the question. “You heard
him; you've got to tell me.”

Pete found himself defending Ministry rhetoric. “Gwen, the right people will give you the
information you need. It won't be the same if I tell you now.” He paused for her reply but none
came. “I just don't feel this is my decision to make.”

“Then whose is it?” she shot back fiercely. “Your boss's decision? My parents' decision?
Because it certainly isn't mine, and if you won't tell me, then - then you're just a
coward!”

“I only found out about this whole mess an hour ago! What makes you think that I would want to
keep a story like this in my head for a moment longer!”

“But it's *mine*!” shouted Gwen, finally giving into the sobs forcing their way up her
throat. “And it's the only one I've got! Don't you see? It's only - my parents - I
can't tell you, it's all mixed up and… all I can remember are shadows. I can't see
their faces, I don't hear their voices; it's all I can do to hold onto one memory, because
every moment I'm afraid of someone destroying it…”

Pete grasped her shoulders tightly as she began to shake from the force of her tears. She looked
up into his face, her pale cheeks glistening with tears.

He became aware of the intense vulnerability of that face, of its fragility, and yet at the same
time, of its strength. He wondered if anyone had ever kissed that face and seen the tenderness in
those coral green eyes. Pete could bear it no longer and spoke.

“Ginny, I…”

He felt the sobbing girl's body tense in his arms. The next sentence she uttered was barely
audible.

“*What did you call me?”*

“It's…” Pete forced himself to finish, “What I should have been calling you from the very
beginning.”

For what seemed like hours, she remained motionless. At last, slowly but deliberately, she sat
up, wiping the tears away from her face. When she spoke, it was with the voice of certainty.

“Then begin again.”

ï‚»

“Your name is not Gwen Brightly. You were born Ginny Weasley and you are the only daughter of
Molly and Arthur Weasley. Four years ago you disappeared without a trace from the world of your
friends and family. No one has seen or heard from you until now.”

“I was kidnapped?”

“We think so. By Death Eat -” he hesitated. “By a terrorist organisation, enemies of the state
and your family.”

“Why?”

“You were to be a bargaining chip. They hoped to use a hostage for political gains, revenge,
just plain hatred; I don't know... It's hard to explain.”

“I don't understand. Why didn't they contact anyone?”

“Because before they could make their demands, their cause fell apart. The leader they had hoped
to supplant returned and they had no choice but to hide themselves and everything connected to the
kidnapping, including you. They found a couple; sympathisers to their cause who kept you hidden in
their own home.”

“My parents...”

“Yeah. I'm sorry; I really can't imagine what this must be like for you.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I've got to face this.”

Pete looked up as the door opened, catching sight of his superintendent looking in on them. In
his hand was a family-sized box of Kleenex tissues. Seeing Ginny's tear-stained face, he looked
down at it awkwardly.

He gave a wan smile. “Too late,” he said placing the box on the table and sitting down again.
“How much have you told her?” he asked Pete, matter-of-factly.

“Everything but the `W' word, I'm afraid.”

“Oh God, and that's the hardest one to explain,” sighed John Spencer, turning to Gwen.
“Look, I wish we had more time, but I need to prepare you. I'm very sorry, but that isn't
the whole story, and you know what the world's like. Doesn't stop for anyone, least of all
the youngest of seven children.”

“*Seven* children?”

“Yes, and at one time all under fifteen - Lord bless your poor mum - but that's another
thing you're going to have to get used to if you choose to go to London and meet your parents.
And of course, there's your school, if you want to go back to it.”

“My school?” She put her head in her hands. “I… I don't know. How can I choose? I mean, I
don't even remember - ” She looked suddenly horrified. “I can't even remember what I
learned…”

“Well, that's one less thing to worry about,” remarked Spencer darkly.

“Pardon?”

“It's no use worrying about that now. I'm afraid that the next part of your history is
entirely out of the realm of what you'd believe if I told you now. The only way to show you is
to let you experience it for yourself.”

To her utter astonishment, he turned his attention to the box of tissues in front of him. He
gave the Kleenex box a sharp tap, checked his watch, and began to speak, enunciating very
clearly.

“Superintendent Spencer checking in at 10:48, requesting immediate service for a Miss Ginny
Weasley to Kings Street lobby reception. Thirty seconds please. I repeat, thirty seconds and
counting.”

John Spencer looked up and gave what, in his case, amounted to a smile. “I think it's time
to go.”

Pete gave a cheerful grin, hoping he wasn't showing any trace of the worry he felt. “I guess
this is goodbye.” He accepted her hug, and she began making for the door.

“Hang on a minute.” Spencer held her back by the shoulder. “You'll be needing one of these.”
He held out the small cardboard box.

“A tissue?”

“Believe me, you won't get there without one,” he reassured as she took one.

“I really don't see why - ” She stopped as suddenly as if she had been hit in the stomach.
All around her the world was dissolving; melting away like lemon sherbet and clocks in a Dali
painting...

ï‚»

When her world swung into focus, it was to the cheerful grey of a smooth floor. She was crouched
on all fours as if she had fallen from the clear sky, though for the life of her she couldn't
remember having fallen. She lifted her head groggily, her eyes slowly adjusting to the scene around
her.

It appeared to be a large and modern business lobby, rather like an exclusive hotel foyer,
although she was absolutely certain that none of the people around her had ever checked into the
Hilton. For a start, the noise they made was deafening. They were people everywhere, most of whom
were congregated around an oval reception desk at the end of the long room. None of them appeared
to have noticed Ginny's arrival.

She made her way towards the reception, taking in her surroundings with every step, occasionally
stepping aside to let people walk past; busy office workers, tourists, visitors. The main desk was
surrounded by a throng of unruly people at which all appeared to be trying to speak to the
receptionist who in turn was trying to handle all of them and at least three irate telephone
callers. At her back was an exceptionally large wall-lining fish tank, which Ginny noticed as she
began to move through the crowd to the front desk. Swimming around the tank were a selection of
brightly coloured fish. Except they weren't fish. These were fish with fur, tails and
three-toed webbed feet.

The elfin girl next to her noticed her somewhat aghast look.

“Ebay Sea Monkeys,” she explained in an American twang, the electric-blue tentacles that passed
for her hair swaying crazily as they shouldered their way through. “Weird, huh? The department
ordered them from the GM institute in Orlando. We thought they'd never cross clabberts and
grindylows - but I guess they managed it somehow. I bet you anything they're pissing her
off.”

“Who?”

“That lady, of course,” replied the girl, indicating the receptionist. “They've been
crashing into the glass the whole time I've been here.”

“Oh, right...” Ginny backtracked through the conversation, suddenly taking in the two words that
had no place in the world she knew. “What do you mean `clabberts'?” she asked, but the girl had
moved on to the front.

“Where can I find the Department for International Trade?” she heard the Texan shout above the
din. “I was told to ask for Madge Rivers - she wrote the paper on illegal trade in Mugwart
skins?”

“Third floor; blue door on the left at the end of the corridor,” replied the receptionist,
indicating the lifts at the end of the hallway. “You can't miss it - she pasted all the hate
mail from the fur companies on the door. Yes, sir? How may I assist you?”

The little man at the head of a family of Japanese tourists stepped forward. He was dressed in
the oddest of clothes; vibrant red robes, and on his shoulder squatted an animal Ginny hoped was an
overgrown cricket. “I am…” he began in halting English, “Looking for fountain. Is of magical
persons? Very, very famous?”

“Yes, yes…” she sighed impatiently. “There's a guided tour leaving in six minutes from the
entrance; you can buy tickets from my colleague at the purple booth, but you will need your
Gringotts exchange card.” She turned to Ginny. “Next please?”

Ginny hesitated for a moment. What on earth *was* she looking for? Why had John Spencer
even sent her here? She decided to make a guess.

“Uh… I guess I'm looking for …”

“Oy! You can't let `er go first,” a rather large man in a cheap suit butted in. “She only
just got 'ere and I've got a very important report on international cauldron
standardisation to get up to Percy Wetherby!”

There began a free-for-all, as everyone began to shout, crushing even closer around the
desk.

“There's an urgent message for Alison Peters in accounts!”

“If I wait another minute, St Mungo's is going to have another funding crisis on its
hands!”

The fat parrot perched on a Nigerian lady's shoulder began to caw loudly.

“THAT'S IT! SHUT UP, THE LOT OF YOU!” the receptionist bellowed. There was a moment of
silence, followed by a distinctly subdued cry from the parrot.

“Now,” she began, in a tense but controlled voice that implied that the penalty for interruption
was disembowelment. “I will deal with you all if, and only if, you will form an orderly queue, keep
any members of the animal kingdom under control, and speak *one at a time*.”

With an undercurrent of hostile murmuring, the crowd complied resentfully.

“You,” she said again to Ginny, “You go first.”

Ginny looked back at her uncertainly. “I'm not sure who I should be looking for.”

“Oh dear,” she replied in a long-suffering sigh. “Well perhaps your mother and father can phone
-”

Ginny could see where this was going. She clutched for the nearest thing she could think of. “I
do have some information. It's about a disappearance four years ago.”

“Well now we have something to work with,” replied the receptionist brightly, plucking a form
and a luminous pink quill from a drawer. “We'll just need a few details and then I can send you
up to the proper department. Your name?”

“Er…” She momentarily struggled to recall her new name. “It's Ginny Weasley.”

There was a loud snap as the quill broke into two neat pieces in the receptionist's
hand.

-->



4. Chapter Four
---------------



A/N: Can you believe it? We've updated! It's taken us about a month but this was one of
the hardest chapters to write. Add in a bout of writers block and AS Levels and it took much longer
than expected to write.

Unfortunately there is no Draco or Blaise in this chapter. But they are coming up and both get
their own parts.

This has not been beta-read because we were taking too long. So any mistakes are all mine and
mayachild's fault.

"

The sound of the quill snapping reverberated around the now silent lobby as everyone who
hadn't fled to their destinations when confronted with the receptionist's wrath turned
stunned eyes onto Ginny, who responded by trying to look as small as humanly possible.

The receptionist, meanwhile, appeared to freeze, her smile caught in a rictus of what looked
like a desperate attempt to maintain composure.

She opened her mouth and shut it again, finally managing to speak.

“Well, that's …. I mean…. Hold on.”

She turned away and hurried into a small windowed office behind her that Ginny couldn't
quite recall being there before. The last Ginny saw of the secretary was her picking up a large
green telephone before she closed the grey blinds as she dialled.

Almost immediately the covertly whispered conversations started up around her. Ginny swallowed
nervously and quickly pretended to fix her gaze on the strange things swimming in the tank. What
were they again? Sea Monkeys or something, though goodness knew what they were. The one floating
closest to her grinned manically, showing a set of razor sharp teeth that glinted in the neon
light. Strange things really. But then again this whole day had been far from the usual.

And yet she wondered if she'd ever experienced the usual, or anything like it. From the few
memories she had of her family - or what she'd thought to be her family - there was very little
to suggest it. Much of it was pretty randomly scattered in her subconscious; vague snapshots of
rooms and faces she didn't recognise, a long hall of banners, a warm smile that crinkled at the
edges, the hysterical chuckles of boys and men she didn't know, a yellow alarm clock that
yelled greetings in the morning, all mixed up and melted together with no connections or
associations. All snapshots without words or sounds without images, like watching TV without
sound.

Unless you counted that one memory that still lingered, more than an image, more than a sound.
Connected and clear. A sallow faced boy who wandered in the dark, his red eyes burning dully, and
the rasping swishing of a serpent on its belly...

A hand fell on her shoulder.

She swivelled to face the woman standing behind her. Tall and slender, she was dressed in an
immaculately cut suit, with dark auburn hair in a severely short style. Behind her stood a sombre
young man in his late twenties, his face pale and impassive. When she spoke, it was in a voice as
cool as an iceberg.

“Good morning, Miss Weasley. We had not been expecting you so soon.”

"

“Oh for heaven's sake!” exclaimed Amos Furrows as he tripped over the waste paper basket for
the second time that morning.

“Can you chuck that file over here or something?”

He appealed to his secretary, ignoring the ridiculousness of his situation. A paunchy balding
man chasing a squawking Dictaphone around the small office that represented the entire department
of the Improper Use of Magic. Accounts would no doubt piss themselves laughing. Amos couldn't
care less.

Alice, the secretary in question, (a curly-headed blond with a penchant for amulets) looked up
from her desk with a teasing grin. “The green one?”

“What does the colour matter?” he replied breathlessly, ducking his head beneath a cabinet under
which the tiny Scragglebeak, bane of the office worker, had just hidden.

“Just try and bring it down with something. I've got to send a report to human resources by
twelve and then I'm going to see Claire at Muggle Relations.”

“Not again,” sighed Alice, exasperated, ignoring his plight. “I thought we'd already been
through this: you get six months community service for improper use of domestic objects but only if
in the presence of muggles. Why can't they get that into their heads?”

“Well this is Muggle Relations we're talking about,” commented the other woman in the
office. “Heads spinning counter clockwise and all that.”

“Look, I know how fascinating interdepartmental politics is but would you mind helping me for a
minute?”

The two transferred their attention back to him.

“Why didn't you say so?” said Alice, who promptly brained the Scragglebeak with a
paperweight and a neat flick of her wand.

“Ah. Thank you.” He picked up the small purple bird with satisfaction and placed it back on its
perch where it wobbled uncertainly from side to side. “Do you think you could send my report while
I go down?”

“I was just going to finish - ” protested Alice.

“Thank you!” he replied without listening, marching through the door and down the corridor
towards the lifts.

He sighed as he saw the light blinking dully at ground level. He waited patiently as the lift
began to move upwards, a gentle hum emanating upwards from the bottom of the shaft. Finally the
light moved to level two and he moved forward expecting the doors to open. But nothing did happen
and it was only for a fraction of a second that he got a glimpse of the occupants through the
grating as the lift bypassed the second floor and sped upwards. Two Aurors, high ranking by the
look of them and a girl of about seventeen. A girl he recognised.

He stood there for a few moments, not quite comprehending what he had just seen. Surely he must
have imagined it? He had never been one to make decisions on the spur of the moment but for once it
looked as if he was going to prove himself wrong. He turned left down the corridor and began to
walk, quickening his pace as every second passed. The Department of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts
Office was in the west wing and he had to get there.

"

Ginny had long stopped wondering what vow of silence the two beings next to her had taken. She
had been following them for twenty minutes now, up stairs, along corridors around the building,
which appeared to be almost limitless in size. They stood now in the lift, all three of them, still
astonishingly silent.

Fed up with her questions being ignored or brushed away, she looked around her, wondering where
in hell a place like this got funding. The lift was exquisitely crafted with dark red carpets and a
large ceiling that reflected the occupants. The doors were of a fine slightly tinted glass and she
could see everything as the lift began to ascend upwards.

Just as the lift was about to leave the second floor a man caught her attention. She didn't
have much time to see what he looked like but even if she had, all she would have seen was his
look. He had been hurrying towards the lift, halting in surprise as it went up, and he suddenly
stopped short as he caught sight of her. She'd never seen someone go so white as he did when he
stared at her and opened his mouth wordlessly. She stared back at him in fascination wondering what
there was about her that could be so frightening.

*This place holds the answers,* came the voice in her mind. *And maybe that man knew
you.* She concentrated on her breathing, holding herself together like an eggshell. It was best
to take things one-step at a time. If she started wondering about the man who'd seemed to
recognise her she'd bring up too many questions, like why everyone there were purple
interdepartmental memos rustling on the ceiling of the lift, occasionally leaving for particular
departments. How she had been spirited away from the police station in less then five seconds. How
the lift appeared to operate without the help of a pulley system. Or why everyone in this place
looked as if they'd just walked out of a storybook with wands and creatures and cloaks and...
Ginny stopped herself. This was no time to panic.

*Concentrate,* she told herself ruthlessly.

“It's this floor,” said the woman shortly as the doors opened. “If you would please follow
us.” She motioned for Ginny to follow her out of the lift and down another long corridor to a room
with a blue door. She ushered her in and sat her down in a large steel frame chair behind a
glass-topped table, sitting herself opposite her.

The door shut with a soft click.

“The wards, James?”

“Done.” The man positioned himself in front of the door.

Ginny felt apprehensive. “What's going on?”

“Please don't alarm yourself,” the woman replied in the same sub-zero tone. “We just want to
ask you a few questions.”

“Why can't you tell me the things I want to know?”

“There will be time for that later. How much have you been told?”

“Why should I tell you anything?” replied Ginny angrily. “I don't even know who you
are.”

The woman sighed patiently. “My name is Caroline Corrigan. Auror class two, special branch. My
colleague is slightly more junior but I don't think James will mind if I tell you that.”

“Aurors?”

“High ranking officers in magical law enforcement. We're employed by the Ministry.”

“What do you mean, magical law? Which Ministry do you work for?”

Miss Corrigan resisted putting her head in her hands. “Christ... You don't know the half of
it do you?”

“Look, I know only what Spencer told me at the station. I know about the kidnapping, I know
about my family.”

“Give her a chance, Caroline,” said the young man, James, speaking for the first time. “It's
the first time she's heard all this. She's bound to be confused.”

She turned to him, annoyed. “We can't be certain of that yet. Couldn't you check the
files on Spencer?”

“If you say so.” James shrugged and left the room.

“We're making sure the police officer who told you who you were had clearance and that he
was one of us*.*”

Ginny leant forward demandingly. “Oh yes? And who exactly is *us*? It's all secrets to
you. I wish that everyone would stop treating the whole thing like a big bloody conspiracy.
Can't I get a straight answer once and for all?”

She frowned. “I don't see why you should be so disparaging about a community that brought
you up, particularly when it's the only reason that we're bothering to bring you here. The
answer to your question is simple enough. You and I belong to an exceptionally gifted community. We
have the ability that others have lost forever. What you might call magic. *Us,* as you put
it, is the Wizarding world, *Us* is the Ministry of Magic. It includes *your* family and
*yourself*.”

“Oh come on, don't try to fool me with that crap...”

“I assure you that it's true.”

Ginny shook her head disbelievingly. “This is fairytale stuff. I can't believe I'm
hearing this.” *It didn't make sense. How could everything she'd seen here be
true...*

“It's obvious if you think about it. You're an intelligent girl; you can't dismiss
the evidence of your own eyes. How else do you think the lift works? How else do you explain the
unexplainable? If we had time I'd show you more, but I'm afraid we have much more important
things to discuss with you.”

“Like what?”

The door opened again and James entered the room, rather more hurriedly than before. He had a
preoccupied frown on his face and held out a sheet of paper to Caroline.

“I'm sorry, I didn't have time to check out Spencer's record but Jean just handed me
this and I thought you'd want to see it.”

She took the paper from him and glanced at the text briefly. Ginny could see her eyes narrowing
on the page as she read further. Caroline Corrigan frowned faintly and put down the sheet. After a
few moments of silence she fixed Ginny with the same cool stare.

“You must realise that I have no doubts that you are Ginny Weasley. There are no signs of
polyjuice or transfiguration according to the security wards and I doubt that the people who
kidnapped you would bother to send a copy of a girl we'd assumed was dead for four years. Ten
minutes ago, our department received an owl from the officer who picked you up, maintaining that
you have amnesia predating the car accident that killed you and the couple claiming to be your
parents. Is this claim true?”

Ginny, who was still trying to ignore the facts that there were at least three words in what she
had heard that made no sense at all, looked up at her and nodded. “I think that's right. The
hospital said it was something to do with the head injuries I got in the accident.”

“Indeed. Then you couldn't tell me who you believe kidnapped you from Diagon Alley in
October four years ago?”

“No, I don't remember that far back.”

“Do you remember seeing anyone suspicious around? Or a signal of some sort? Perhaps you could
describe the couple who looked after you.”

“What are you getting at? I told you, I don't remember any of this.”

“Nothing?” Caroline's voice became terse. “Perhaps I should explain something you, Miss
Weasley. This Ministry has lived through two wars with the worst enemies of the Wizarding world.
The Death Eaters was their most widely known name, although we're still not sure how many
members the group had and that's the way it's always been. The enemy has often been
invisible to us, hidden within our own ranks, in people others and I had thought we could trust
with our lives. I've seen good wizards die, aurors betrayed by their friends and we're not
foolish anymore. We've seen the consequences of trusting and we're no longer prepared to do
it. Do you understand me when I say that the Ministry cannot possibly take for granted the word of
a person who has spent the last four years associating with these people!”

Ginny stared at her for a few moments, almost unable to speak for the anger that was building up
within her.

“You don't trust me,” she replied quietly.

“We can't trust the word of a juvenile in the care of terrorists. It's totally unsound
evidence. And if you want me to be honest with you things are rather convenient for you aren't
they Ginny? You disappear when things are bad for your family, at the time when our greatest enemy
is again rising to power and then you turn up years later with no memory, to a police unit that
miraculously has a former auror for a Police Chief, and then claim to be looking for an aunt who
doesn't exist? Not to mention the evidence of your previous associations with the dark side.
What do you expect me to say? `Get on with your life, take no notice of us, it's all the same
as before?' It doesn't work like that.”

Ginny felt the unfairness weighing down on her. “Then what the hell am I supposed do? What I am
I supposed to say to this?”

Caroline remained unmoved and calmly began filling in a form that she pulled out of a drawer, as
if she had not heard what Ginny said.

“You're not even going to listen to me, are you? That's all you're interested in.
You don't care about whether I see my family again, you don't even care...”

“Look, hold on. Don't get upset,” began James. The table began to quiver.

Ginny ignored him; incensed beyond anything she'd felt before. Standing up on shaky legs she
hissed, “If I knew half of what you do about this... If this was all some elaborate plot then I
would have gone home to my family instead of wasting your precious time! And you sit there and try
to feed me lies about wizards and magic and owls! I'm not going to sit here and listen to you
insult me!”

Glass shattered under her fingers. An ear-splitting crack filled the room as the glass tabletop
split right down the middle. Small splinters of glass began to fall to the carpet like raindrops.
Caroline immediately moved back, her eyes wide in surprise and anger.

“What the hell was that?”

“I... I don't know,” replied Ginny, staring at her hands that were covered with scratches
from the glass she hadn't touched. Her face had turned starkly white. James was staring at
Ginny with recognition in his eyes, the same expression that John Spencer had worn earlier that
morning when he opened his door.

“Well, I think we have our answer, Caroline,” he said, almost inaudibly.

“Her? You think she did this?” Caroline looked pale. “But that would mean it's really her;
it's really Ginny Weasley...”

“Not even Death Eaters perform wandless magic. It's a trait of the young; those who
haven't been allowed to develop their skills.”

Ginny stared at him, her mouth open wordlessly.

He studied her look. “I suppose the question is,” he began, “Do you believe in magic now?”

There was a hollow hammering at the door and the sounds of men's voices from outside in the
corridor.

“Mason!” came the voice from behind the door, “James Mason? We know you're in there.” The
knocking began again. “Mason!”

“Don't let them in, James. We can't be disturbed.”

“Who is it?” James asked, putting his ear to the door. “I can't let you in without
clearance.”

A sudden acrid smell diffused throughout the room that Ginny would later recognise as the smell
of shattered wards. The door swung open

He was cut off when the door swung open to reveal a red haired man of about fifty followed by
the same man she'd seen staring at her through the lift door.

The red head strode up to James. When he spoke his voice was breathless.

“I didn't mean to break the wards - you didn't let us in so I thought that... Amos here
said that he'd seen a girl. A girl that looked like my Ginny with you. We rushed up; I
couldn't wait to find out if - ”

“Dad.”

Ginny had straightened up. Her hands were bleeding now and her face was paler than ever but her
voice, quiet as it was would cut through ice. Arthur Weasley froze. As he turned his face to hers,
she could see him shaking, and Amos hurried forward to steady him. Arthur paid him no attention,
standing there motionless. It was as if he didn't dare disrupt the illusion that looked like
his daughter, unless she should disappear like a ghost.

In the end, it was she who took the first step. “Dad,” she said again, putting her arms round
him. It was like she had broken something inside her father. Tears of both joy and sorrow began to
run down his face and he shared the hug, holding her close to him.

“My Ginny,” he whispered croakily. “My Ginny...”

"

And what now? What further could be said? An ending? Perhaps other stories would have ended that
way. Caroline Corrigan's words held more truth than she knew when she said that it was
impossible to continue a life like Ginny's in the same way as before. Ginny knew it too, deep
down. She knew that a lot would have to be learned again, that familiar faces would have to be met
again as strangers. More than anything she knew that her short life was about turned inside out and
upside down. So no; this couldn't be an ending. Call it a prologue if you will. And why?

Because like all things, stories don't end and people will change. Because when Ginny
returned to Hogwarts that summer, life and everything else existence could throw at her, was
waiting...

Now off you go and review!!!

-->



5. Chapter Five
---------------



There were several things that could guarantee about the first day of a new year at Hogwarts.
The first being that at least one `poor ickle firstie' would have been drenched by a water
balloon from Peeves before getting within a hundred yards of the sorting hat. Another, that at
least one of those to be sorted would pass out from fright (invariably a Hufflepuff). The facts
were known and obvious.

Draco Malfoy, lounging at one end of the Slytherin table, lazily admiring himself and feeling
just a tad smug, knew all of this too and didn't give a flying pig about any of it. The reason
for his good mood being his recent conquest, one Rosanna Ducelle, to whom he had devoted much work
to over the summer. A fifth year Ravenclaw with a razor sharp wit and a body to die for, Ducelle
had proved a hard nut to crack but had seemed to be succumbing to his wide selection of charms over
the course of the previous week.

He eyed her contemplatively across the benches where she was casually flicking through the pages
of *Das Kapital* and brushing her pepper-black hair away from her face. She seemed aware of
his attention and raised her darkly shadowed eyes to his before giving a conservatively flirtatious
smile and returning to her book. Draco grinned inwardly; he was definitely gaining the edge.

“Hey. Malfoy.”

Draco turned his head to his left. Across from him, a couple of feet down the bench sat Blaise
Zabini toying with his Caesar salad and regarding him pointedly. His expression was as coolly
impassive and unreadable as ever.

“Yeah?”

“Pass the salt.”

He raised an eyebrow. “It's right in front of you Zabini.”

Blaise shrugged. “You know how much I like bugging you, Draco.”

Draco snorted, returning his gaze to Ducelle. “Wanker.”

“If I can't distract you from your ogling, what can I do?

“I'm a Malfoy,” replied Draco, a little ruffled. “Malfoys don't ogle.”

“Leering then.”

“She's a good-looking girl. Can you blame me?”

“If I wanted to. But that's not the point. It distracts you from more important things.”

“What?”

Blaise inclined his head slightly. Draco looked up, turning his gaze on the entrance to the
Great Hall where a girl had just entered, her head tilted upwards towards the brilliant moonlight
sky that passed for a ceiling.

“Ginny Weasley,” he mused. “So they decided to bring her back here. I'm surprised
they're bothering - she probably doesn't remember half of what she learnt here.”

“You know what happened in the autumn?”

“I read the papers; I'm not a complete hermit.”

“Then I don't need to tell you about the sorting?”

Draco looked vaguely curious. “She's being sorted again?”

“Well, she *is* a new pupil. Or might as well be from all she remembers. Not really worth
it, I suppose,” remarked Blaise. “Weasley, Gryffindor. It's interchangeable really.”

They watched her for a few moments as she made her way up the hall, stopping briefly at the
table where her brother and his friends were sitting. If anything, Ron seemed almost more nervous
than she did and she seemed to recognise this, giving him a small smile. She continued along the
rows, an occasional face turning to look at her as she passed by.

There was a sudden clamour from the far side of the hall.

“About time,” said Draco and he looked down at his plate expectantly. Within a few seconds his
dessert materialised, a geometrically perfect slice of lemon cheesecake delicately drizzled with
raspberry coulis. A few seconds later, Blaise's also became visible. Draco felt a smirk coming
on. Just like Blaise. Always talking about cholesterol and mammograms and egg white and saturated
fat... and now this. On his plate rested the darkest, most sinful looking wedge of triple chocolate
gateau he had ever seen. Blaise looked at him darkly as if to warn him off commenting and set to,
ladling a fairly generous portion of double cream on the side.

“Hello boys.” Pansy Parkinson had appeared at his elbow and was in the process of tying up her
newly highlighted brown hair in a purple scrunchie.

“Pansy,” acknowledged Draco reluctantly, knowing immediately where this would lead. His only
comfort was that she hadn't appeared with one of her giggly friends; that would have made the
whole thing ten times worse. Pansy, despite her numerous good qualities, was not known for her shy
and reserved character.

“I missed you,” she said in an affectionate manner, spooning up a plateful of pasta salad from
one of the numerous platters on the table. “I didn't see you on the train going up.”

“Prefects compartment,” he replied shortly, lifting a forkful of dessert to his mouth.

“Oh. Did I tell you that Rob Hall got made Prefect- ”

“Yes. You did.”

Draco concealed a sigh. This was Pansy's ever so subtle way of telling him that she was
again very unavailable. No doubt having lots of fun making out with that prize berk. A few months
after which she'd no doubt dump him unceremoniously and move on to the next string of
good-looking classmates. Not surprising really; he'd operated that way for a while himself and
probably would do again if he got a bit closer to Ducelle.

Pansy looked a little peeved, noticing the direction of his gaze towards the Ravenclaw table. It
was a reasonably well-known fact that the two had dated briefly during their fourth and fifth years
(due to the bonanza of attractive ex-Beauxbatons who had applied for permanent exchange to Hogwarts
after the Triwizard Tournament) and had both long since moved on but Pansy still retained what
might be called an interest in her ex's love life. She made an effort to distract him.

“We're going to have the thing tomorrow night, you know. There's going to be a general
party for the plebs in the common room til about nine but the rest of us are going to head to the
Octagon room later if you want to go.”

“Pansy, you know my opinion on these things.”

“But you are coming, aren't you.”

It wasn't a question but a statement of fact. The idea of a Slytherin celebration of the
beginning of term without their unofficial leader and Head Boy Draco Malfoy was simply
unthinkable.

“Yeah. I suppose so. As long as I get something strong to drink.”

A trace of a knowing smile came to her face. “I don't think that that'll be much of a
problem. Blaise's obscufation charms are very effective and I think he managed to smuggle a
fair amount in today, didn't you Blaise?”

There was no answer. Blaise seemed to have not heard and was staring up towards the high
table.

“Blaise?”

Then she noticed. Along the Slytherin table, almost every student and even several of the
floating ghosts within her sight were looking the same way, past her head and up towards the
platform where the teachers sat. She also turned her head to see what they were staring at. On the
platform rested the symbol that everyone recognised as that of a new year at Hogwarts. A crooked
tri-cornered wooden stool and the battered old sorting hat upon it. And Ginny Weasley, walking
uncertainly down towards the Slytherin table.

"

Ginny could not think straight. She could remember walking up the length of the hall, her
brother and his friends smiling faces, the kind words from a teacher she struggled to recognise and
a hat resting on a stool as if was waiting for her. But everything after that seemed to cloud.
Sitting down at the stool, pulling the hat down onto her head and remembering what her brother had
said to her; “It's ok, Gin. You only have go up, put the hat on and come back down here when it
shouts your house out. At least you know where you're going.”

Not so it seemed. Because now she was heading towards the table at the furthest end of the hall.
The one framed with fluttering green and silver banners and surrounded by students with haughty
expressions and hostile eyes. She didn't want to look at the table where her brother sat. She
didn't want to see his expression. Not after what she'd heard him say about the
Slytherins.

She tried to ignore the stares that followed her as she settled herself at the tail end of the
bench. She helped herself uncertainly to a plate of cottage pie and began to eat, determined to
ignore whichever inbred twat tried to take the piss out of her.

“Surprised?”

Startled, she glanced up to meet the eyes of the speaker; a dark haired boy of about eighteen.
Midnight blue eyes framed by black lashes regarded her with quiet amusement. Blaise Zabini, sitting
opposite her raised an eyebrow appraisingly. A few tendrils of black hair fell out of place as he
moved closer to her along the bench.

She stared at him blankly.

“What are you, deaf? I'm only trying to help.” His voice was coolly mocking.

“Help me?” Ginny asked stupidly.

“Help, collect gossip on, steal things from - yeah. There's no need to be so suspicious; I
try to keep the cousin-fucking pureblood snob side of myself from becoming too public. ”

Ginny wondered if all Slytherins were like this. Perhaps it wasn't too late to look for an
escape route.

“You are communicative, aren't you?” He said sighing. “Here I am trying to welcome a fellow
member of my house...”

“From the looks I've been getting I'd assumed I wasn't welcome,” said Ginny.

Blaise shrugged. “What did you expect? We Slytherins don't get out the welcome wagon for
just anyone. Least of all for blood traitors on the magnitude of your family.”

“So I'm learning,” she muttered darkly.

He gave her a slightly longer look than might have been comfortable.

“So, do you think it's a mistake?”

“Think what's a mistake?”

“Oh don't be naive. You know what I mean.”

“So? What do you think gives you the right to interrogate me?”

“Nothing. I'd just like to know before your initiation.”

“Initiation?”

“Oh yeah. Didn't you know? Ritual oral copulation with a prefect before all house members; a
bit of blood letting; nothing special.”

Ginny gave him a dark look.

Blaise shrugged. “Look, all I know is that you Gryffindors have your own ideas about how things
should be done. You don't have sudden changes of heart, you don't value ambition above all
else, and you're all means instead of ends...”

“I'm not a checkpoint list,” snapped Ginny. “Everybody changes.”

“Not Gryffindors. And certainly not sixth generation Weasleys.”

“I'm the exception then.”

He raised his eyebrow ironically. “Maybe. You might not be such a doormat as I remembered.”

“Thanks, I'm sure.”

“You're welcome; there aren't many people I compliment,” he remarked shrewdly.

“And you might not be as scared shitless as you think you are either.”

“Right. And who am I to thank for this advice?”

He smiled sardonically, a glint of recognition in his eyes. “You're a quick learner;
that's one thing you'll need around here.”

He stood up and glanced briefly to his left. Draco and Pansy were about to leave the hall,
carelessly shepherding the scrum of first years down to their dorms. Blaise grinned.

“Haughty little first years,” he remarked scornfully. “Those precious little buggers have been
treated like royalty from the day they were brought into the world. They'll learn soon
enough.”

Ginny looked at him derisively. “And you? You look pretty well taken care of yourself.”

His face turned sour. “Oh yeah. Great upbringing. Ten years in Zurich and then my whore of a
mother decides to jet off to Canada leaving me in this dump. Great.”

Blaise grinned again. “Not all of us have the luck of the Malfoys or the Notts, Weasley.
That's one thing you learn when your name is Blaise Zabini.”

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