Heavenly Creatures

About suffering they were never wrong,

The Old Masters; how well, they understood

Its human position; how it takes place

While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;

How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting

For the miraculous birth, there always must be

Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating

On a pond at the edge of the wood:

They never forgot

That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course

Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot

Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse

Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

--W.H Auden, Musee de Beaux Arts

August 2nd, 1995

Ginny had loved an old poem once, when she was little, before she really grasped the mingled scorn and unease that most of the wizarding world felt for all things Muggle. It was printed in a tattered book that had been part of one of the job lots of Muggle stuff her father always liked to buy at auctions, crammed haphazardly into one of the walnut bookshelves in the garage outside the Burrow, just beneath the bare lightbulb swinging on its frayed cord from the low ceiling. The lightbulb ran off the electric line Arthur Weasley had surreptitiously tapped. Even though it fizzled on and off at random intervals, and Ginny had been warned sternly never to touch it, she had loved to sit beneath it with the book balanced on her knees, reading. She couldn't remember the entire poem anymore, but there was a line about suffering happening at the most ordinary times, the most unspectacular times, when someone was eating or drinking or just dully walking along.

And it was true; she'd thought that many times. The fatal diary had been slipped into her cauldron when she was standing outside Flourish and Blotts, waiting listlessly for the school shopping to be over, her feet tired and throbbing in their too-small shoes. She had first opened it after a particularly deadly History of Magic lesson, when her boredom had caused her to remember its existence. She had first confessed her loneliness and isolation one dull, grey, uninteresting morning, after her roommates had whispered and giggled together on the other side of the room all night long, excluding her. Dear Tom, I know I can write to you about these things--I know you'll understand. Nobody else will, but you... In the middle of everyday life, ordinary life, irrevocable things happened, unannounced.

Ron and Hermione sit at the kitchen table. Ginny rearranges glasses on a shelf in the pantry behind them. It is an hour after supper, always a dull, grey, endlessly stretching time at Twelve Grimmauld Place. It makes Ginny think of standing in queues that never seem to move, or sitting at a window on a rainy day and waiting for owls that never arrive. No-one else is in the basement kitchen. Cheer fails to pervade this house at the best of times, but everyone seems especially gloomy today--the day after Harry's birthday. Molly Weasley had attempted to bake a three-layer chocolate cake to send to him, but she became distracted by an emergency meeting in the middle of the project, and it emerged as the flattest thing Ginny had ever seen. "I've never had this recipe turn out a cake with negative thickness before," said her mother distractedly, poking at it with the end of a spatula. "Dear me. It's so easy to break the laws of magiphysics in this house... Have you still got a few boxes of Honeydukes chocolates, Hermione dear? Send them to Harry, won't you, and say they're from all of us?" Then Molly Weasley had hurried off behind closed doors once more, and the low, urgent voices had continued all afternoon.

Ron clears his throat. "D'you suppose he got our card?"

"I imagine he did, Ron," says Hermione. Rather more sharply than necessary, Ginny thinks.

"Why haven't we heard back from him, d'you think?"

"I don't know, Ron. But if Harry hadn't got the card, Pigwidgeon would've simply brought it back. That topic was covered in a first year Transportation lesson, if you'll remember--"

"Yes, Hermione, I do remember. But that doesn't matter anyway, since I've been around owls and seen owls delivering letters all my life."

An ominous silence.

"How about a game of chess?" suggests Hermione in a tone that is obviously meant to be placating.

Ron picks at the roughened skin around his thumbnail. "No."

"Why not?"

"I just don't want to."

"There must be a reason."

"It'll only make me think of Harry, all right?" Ron glares at Hermione. "Of how he's stuck at that awful house with those horrible Muggles. He certainly can't play wizarding chess anytime he likes."

Hermione glares back. "Fine. Let's just sit at the table and stare at each other then."

"Fine."

Ginny comes out of the pantry and clears her throat. "Er--don't we have any other games?"

"The Black family wasn't much on games," says Ron. "We could try some house-elf tossing, I suppose. Where's Kreacher?"

"Ron!" says Hermione. "That's exactly the sort of attitude--"

"Do you have any games, Hermione?" Ginny breaks in, quickly.

"One, I think. A Muggle game. It's called Monopoly. All three of us could play, I suppose."

"That'd be lovely," says Ginny. "Wouldn't it, Ron?"

Her brother shrugs. His face is set into sullen lines.

"This is bloody awful," says Ron.

Hermione sets her jaw. "This was my favorite game as a child. What's wrong with it?"

"I don't know where to start. For one thing, the pieces don't move." He prods at his little metal shoe with a finger.

"I'll have you know that that was the one my cousins and I always fought over. I gave you the shoe because I thought I'd be gracious."

"All right! Forget about the pieces. It's the whole idea of the game I don't like." Ron is in the middle of a turn as he speaks, and he groans when he sees that his next move will land him on St. Charles' Place. It is one of Hermione's properties, with three houses on it. "See! That's the sort of thing I mean."

"So you don't like the fact that I had the foresight to buy it, and now you have to pay rent when you land on it," says Hermione primly, collecting money from Ron.

"Er--I wonder if this is real Muggle money," says Ginny. She is trying to keep the peace. Her nerves are fraying quickly from the effort.

"No, of course not," says Hermione. "That's a bit silly, Ginny."

"I don't see why," argues Ron. "It makes perfect sense to me."

Hermione rolls her eyes, and Ginny struggles to restrain her impulse to kick the other girl under the table. "Don't be thick, Ron. Why would they put ordinary money in a game?"

Ron flushes red and shoves the dice over to Ginny, who lands on St. James's Place and must also pay rent to Hermione. When Ron rolls the dice again, he lands on the space marked "Go Directly To Jail. Do Not Pass Go; Do Not Collect $200.00." He mutters something ominous, but no words are intelligible.

Relative silence reigns for the three turns it takes to get Ron out of jail. "Maybe your luck will start changing now," says Ginny, in determinedly cheerful tones. On his second roll out, however, he lands on Park Place, which belongs to Hermione. It has a hotel.

"Oh dear," says Hermione. "And you're already in bankruptcy, Ron. I'm afraid you've lost."

Ron shoves himself back from the table with more force than necessary, and says something under his breath that, while not quite clear, sounds uncomplimentary.

"I think if you hadn't gotten so upset, you would have done better," Hermione observes.

"I am not upset!"

"Oh, I suppose it's all the game's fault?"

"It is! I like games that are fair, but this one isn't. It doesn't involve strategy, like chess, or like Quidditch. It's sheer luck. And the more nasty and mean and underhanded you are, the better you'll do at it, I can see that already. It's a perfect Slytherin game, isn't it? Are you sure a Muggle invented it?"

"Well, if you're going to be like that," Hermione says coolly. "It's your turn, Ginny."

"We've been playing for three hours already," says Ginny. "I think I'd rather go upstairs."

"I'll take it up, then," says Ron, grabbing the edge of the board.

"Let go of that! I haven't put the pieces away yet." Hermione tries to grab it back from him.

"I said I'd take it!"

The board rips in half.

Ron stares down at it, stricken. Hermione is at the edge of tears. Once again, Ginny knows that there must be more going on than she sees. But she does not know what. She clenches her hands into fists below the table, where the other two cannot see.

"There's Spellotape upstairs," says Ron, in a considerably subdued voice. "Come up with me, Hermione. I'll show you where." They hurry off together, leaving Ginny staring at the two halves of the broken board.

And that--as Ginny would later think of it--was how she came to be alone in the kitchen when Mrs. Figg appeared.

It is all quite sudden. Ginny rummages on a shelf over the sink to see if there are any crisps left. She doesn't think they'd quite finished the bag, and it has been several hours since dinner. Watching Ron and Hermione snipe at each other is hungry work, after all. She jumps at a loud pop behind her, and turns to see a distinctly batty-looking, elderly lady in a pink floral housedress and down-at-heel carpet slippers, her hair in curlers under a purple scarf that is tied on backwards. Her withered face with its two round spots of rouge is torn between bewilderment, fright, and urgency. She peers about the room uncertainly.

"I think I've arrived," she says in a trembling voice. "Of course, oh dear, one can never be too sure. The emergency Portkeys are supposed to work perfectly well for Squibs, but one never knows, one never knows..." She breaks off, peering around the room uncertainly. "And there's no-one here! Oh my, I hadn't counted on that. What to do, what to do?" For the first time, she seems to notice Ginny.

"Ginny, dear," she says, "run upstairs for your parents, and hurry, do!"

"How do you know who I am?" asks Ginny, openmouthed at this strange apparition.

"I suppose I don't know who you are precisely, strictly speaking. But I'd bet my last hogshead of pixie dust that you're a Weasley, dear--the red hair, you see. And there's only one daughter, the first in three generations. And she's named Ginevra, or Guinevere, or Gwenhyfar, depending on how you wish to pronounce it, and called Ginny. So you simply must be she!" The woman beamed briefly before her face crumpled back into lines of worry. "But I've got news! Dreadfully important and dreadful news! Oh, such awful things have happened to Harry Potter--such things, and I've got to tell--Mundungus Fletcher is supposed to inform Dumbledore, but one never knows, with him--now run along and tell Molly and Arthur to come downstairs, do--"

Ginny draws in her breath sharply. "Harry? What's happened to Harry? You said--awful things?"

The door to the basement kitchen bangs open, revealing Molly Weasley in a green dressing gown, Arthur Weasley and Sirius close behind her.

"Sirius saw the signature from one of the Transportation devices," Ginny's mother says, her voice sharp with fear. "What--who--" She catches sight of the eccentric-looking woman. "Arabella! What on earth is it?"

Hermione opens the door, Ron at her heels. "Ginny, what in the world--" Her mouth drops open. "Mrs. Figg?" she asks uncertainly. "I thought you were supposed to be in Little Whinging."

Molly Weasley looks at the three teenagers. They have crowded together on one side of the kitchen, as if by instinct, and their eyes are wide, going from the disheveled Mrs. Figg to Sirius's suddenly grim face.

"Go upstairs," Ginny's mother says. "All three of you."

"No," says Hermione.

Harry, Harry! something within Ginny cries, soundlessly.

Arthur Weasley looks at his daughter with tired eyes. The circles beneath them are blacker than ever, like smears of dirt ground into his pale skin. Molly Weasley's face sets into implacable lines. But before Hermione can open her mouth again, a feathered catapult shoots through the open door and straight at Ron's head. Ginny can hear Ron and Hermione scuffling behind her.

"Hedwig! Get off me! Off!" splutters Ron. "What's the matter with you?" He swats ineffectually at the owl. Hermione rushes forward to help Ron, and is attacked as well. She screeches and tries to cower behind the door, but Hedwig seems to be everywhere at once in a whirlwind of wings and beak and claws. She hurls a parchment at Ron, whose hands go up to protect his face. It falls to the floor, as well as the second one thrown in Hermione's general direction.

"That owl's gone mad!" Ron sucks on one of his bleeding fingers, glaring at Hedwig. Sirius tries to snatch her out of the air as she starts pecking at Hermione's fingers again, but she hurls a third parchment in his face, then flies through the open door and up to the hall. Molly Weasley begins to fuss over Ron and Hermione, washing their wounds at the kitchen sink, wrapping great bandages around them with frequent moans of "If only I could use the simplest Healing spell--oh, this dreadful house--"

Mum's in her element, thinks Ginny. Unhurt and, for the moment, ignored, she picks up the parchments and unfolds the top one. She stares down at the spiky, uneven handwriting. She unfolds the second one and scans it, slowly. She opens the third one and does the same. "Ron," she whispers. "They're all from Harry. And look what they say." I knew, she thinks, and the words are like a great bell tolling dread and fear. When I imagined him alone and in pain, yesterday... I knew...

"The brownie's out of the bag now, Molly," says Arabella Figg, briskly.

It is perhaps an hour later. Molly and Arthur Weasley have gone upstairs with Mrs. Figg. After a brief whispered conference, they left Sirius alone with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, and all four of them are now sitting around the table. For once, thinks Ginny, she has been included. Or maybe it's only that the other three are too agitated to even remember she's there. Ron rises abruptly and starts pacing, running a hand through his hair. "What are we even doing sitting here?" he demands. "We ought to go and get him. Right this minute!"

"Ron," says Hermione in a pleading voice. "You know we can't. You know how dangerous it is." She throws Sirius a glance, as if appealing to higher authority. He drums his fingers on the wooden table, his lips drawn into a thin line.

The three parchments are scattered across the surface of the table. Each one contains exactly the same words, although Hermione's letter is blotted from having been rolled up too quickly.

I've just been attacked by dementors and I might be expelled from Hogwarts. I want to know what's going on and when I'm going to get out of here.

Mrs. Figg explained what had happened in greater and far more rambling detail before going upstairs, but Harry's letters essentially covers it all. Hermione is carefully rewrapping the bandages around her fingers, and even Sirius has a few scratches on his lean brown hands, when Ginny looks closely. She herself has no wounds, of course. She received no letter.

"We can't just sit here," Ron repeats.

"We're not going to 'just sit," says Sirius. "Steps have been taken."

"And I suppose nobody is going to tell us just exactly what those steps are!" says Ron.

"You suppose correctly." There is an edge to Sirius's voice, as there frequently is when he talks to Ron, Ginny now realizes. She edges down a bit more in her chair. Sirius looks at her briefly, only a flash of his eyes, but she knows she has not imagined it. He wants her to speak, she suddenly realizes. But she cannot say a word. And what does he expect her to say, anyway?

Ron paces back and forth a little more, then stops at the edge of the table. "Do you think we couldn't handle it, knowing whatever there is to know?" he asks angrily.

"Certain things aren't safe for you to know." Sirius appears to be controlling his temper with some difficulty. "Do you think we're keeping that knowledge from you because it amuses us to see you stumbling about in the dark? Do you think we don't have your best interests in mind? Do you think--"

"Don't argue, please!" says Hermione.

"Look, Hermione, I'm sorry if--well, I don't know exactly what I'm sorry for, but whatever it is, I'll apologize as much as you like later on," Ron says impatiently. "We don't have time for it now. Dementors could be dragging Harry off with them right this minute!"

"Sirius," says Hermione wearily, "won't you please try to talk some sense into him?"

"You don't understand, Ron." Sirius pushes back his chair. The scraping sound it makes on the flagstones is shockingly loud. His face is very white. "If I thought it would do any good, any good at all, I would've already taken one of the internal Portkeys to Little Whinging. And if I couldn't have done that, I'd have started walking--"

"No!" says Hermione, going white herself. "You're not to leave this house! You know what could happen if you do."

He turns on her then, as if the anger he feels is abstract, a blowtorch that might be directed at anyone who happens to be in the way. "Hermione, do you think my own safety is so precious to me that I'd sacrifice Harry for it? Do you think that's what this is all about? Well, you're dead wrong if you do. I would lay down my life to save his. Gladly. That's the promise I made to James and Lily. I will never forswear it, never; do you understand me?"

"I--I don't understand," she whispers.

"You wouldn't," says Ron cuttingly. "You don't know what a godfather is to his godson in the wizarding world, do you? That relationship doesn't mean anything to Muggles. But it means everything to us."

Hermione, already pale, loses every bit of colour in her face. She blanches back as if she has been struck. Ginny leaps up, looking at her brother with venom in her eyes. Her legs feel weak and wobbly; it is the first time she has moved in nearly an hour. Hermione might be irritating and bossy and smug and superior, but there is a core of vulnerability in her that Ron has never understood. It is only at moments like this, when Ginny sees the hidden weakness in the older girl, that she truly loves Hermione, without any reservations at all.

"Don't you talk to her like that," snarls Ginny. "Either of you! Don't you dare."

She is not talking to Sirius, not exactly. But he blanches back as if she has struck him, and drops into a chair, suddenly looking very tired and worn and defeated.

"Not going to Harry feels like the hardest thing I've ever had to do," he says slowly. "But I can't. There's something I have to do here--no-one else can do it. And it's the only way to get him back safely."

There seems to be nothing more to say. Hermione takes a deep breath, and laces her hand through Ginny's, giving it a squeeze.

The adults are all in the front hall--Ginny's parents, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Elphas Doge, Mrs. Figg, and another figure that Ginny recognizes with a strange mixture of dread and comfort. It is Dumbledore, she knows even from only being able to see his back; his long white hair and sweeping beard are unmistakable. He has only been here twice since they all arrived, and has only spoken to her, Ron, and Hermione once, when he warned them all not to say too much in their letters to Harry. The amiable, vaguely absent-minded, grandfatherly figure of the school year, the one who beams and speaks kindly and offers lemon drops, is nowhere evident.

Hermione exchanges a look with Ginny. Ron steps back. She pulls at the hanging sleeve of Dumbledore's robe. "Sir?" she begins in a faltering voice.

He turns to her. "Yes, Hermione?" His voice is not unkind, but it is singularly unwelcoming.

"I--we--well, we only want to know if Harry's going to be all right."

He nods. Hermione seems to gather a bit of courage from this. "Surely he can't stay at his aunt and uncle's house now," she says. "I mean--well--"

His eyes, looking down at her, are the impenetrable deep grey of a slammed steel door.

"And we were only wondering if there were plans to bring him here." Hermione's voice sounds high, breathy, rather foolish.

Dumbledore continues to look at her, seeming to consider the statement. "He has written to you tonight," he says. "Have you written letters to him in reply?"

"No."

"Please do not." He turns away, back towards the other adults. The conversation is clearly over.

Hermione stands there for another few moments, as if waiting for Dumbledore to change his mind. Ron reaches out and grabs her arm, pulling her up the stairs. For once, she makes no objection, and Ginny follows them.

The three teenagers pause once they reach the third floor, as if by consensus.

"I'm sorry," says Ron. "Really, Hermione, I am."

"It's all right," she mumbles, edging into her room and closing the door. Ginny wonders if she should go in after her. She has almost made up her mind to go when Ron jerks his head in the direction of her own little bedroom with what he undoubtedly thinks is great subtlety. He closes the door carefully and looks at her with one eyebrow raised. She sits on the bed and takes off her shoes, wondering what this is all about. Exhaustion has hit her with the force of a Bludger, and she only wants to go to bed.

"I didn't know," he says, his voice pregnant with significance.

"About what?" asks Ginny dully.

"How you felt about Harry. I really didn't know, Ginny." He sits on the edge of the bed next to her.

"I really want to go to sleep, Ron."

"I just want you to know that it's all right by me." He tousles her hair in a way that has always irritated her. "I reckon he's about good enough for you, Gin. I don't think I'd approve of anyone else."

Ginny grinds her teeth together so loudly that she is sure her brother can hear it. Apparently, Ron has already begun picking out china patterns, and will soon suggest spots for the honeymoon.

He leans back, seemingly prepared for a long stay. "Oh, don't worry. I won't let him know that I know. Your secret's safe as houses with me!"

Ginny yanks a nightgown from the dresser by her bed. "Goodnight, Ron."

Tired as she is, Ginny has a very hard time getting to sleep. She cannot shake Harry's haunted face from her mind. She tosses and turns, flopping back and forth in a neverending attempt to find a cool spot in the bed. Once or twice, she thinks she has caught a glimmer of movement in the blank picture frame above her bed. She knows that these frames are supposed to hold portraits of various witches and wizards who bore some relation to the Black family, but they are generally empty. There is a brass plaque at the base of the frame that names the portrait's subject, but it is far too dark to read the small copperplate script, and she feels too dull and tired to light her wand and see.

Hours later, she awakens from an uneasy doze, coughing. She sits up. It is still pitch dark, and feels incredibly late. Her mouth is like dry cotton, and she hasn't put a glass of water at her bedside, as she usually does. Noiselessly, Ginny wraps a dressing gown around herself and steals downstairs.

The house is utterly still. She turns on the cold-water tap and drinks thirstily from her cup. Then she hears a slight, stealthy, rustling sound. Scanning the kitchen, however, she sees no-one, and shakes her head. Probably just Kreacher lurking about somewhere.

The intricately embossed silver cup sits on the table. It wasn't there before. She walks towards it, slowly picks it up, and takes a sip. Ginny is no longer really thirsty, and she isn't at all sure why she's drinking firewhisky now. It is as pungent and burning as she remembers, and she puts it down hastily, draining her own cup of water to wash away the taste. Ugh. How can Sirius stand it?

She is standing at the sink and rinsing out her cup when she hears his distinctive footsteps behind her. Even without turning round, she knows who is entering the room and sitting in a chair at the table. He is only a dark shape in the dim light, but she could never mistake anyone else for Sirius Black.

He looks up, catches sight of her. "Hello, Ginny," he says without surprise.

"I couldn't sleep," she says, approaching the table hesitantly.

Sirius grimaces, rubbing his head. "Neither could I. "

He does not ask her to sit down, but his tone does not sound unwelcoming. She perches at the edge of a chair. He has sunk his head all the way into his hands, and his hair has come loose from its customary thong, spilling over his shoulders. "Do you have a headache?" she asks.

"You could say that." His reply is muffled.

"Can't you--haven't you tried to get rid of it?"

"Analgesic charms don't do any good for this sort of thing. Probably wouldn't work in this house anyway. I've tried powders, and a willowbark infusion, and Hermione gave me some odd little tablets to swallow that had the word 'Advil' printed on them. Nothing does any good." He seems to notice the silver cup, picks it up, and drains it. "Funny, I'm sure this wasn't here before-- Well, firewhisky helps a bit. Only thing that does."

"I'm sorry," says Ginny, not knowing what else to say.

Sirius lifts his head, staring moodily into the empty grate. "It's from stress, that's all. I know what's ahead of me in the next few days... and it's going to get worse before it gets better..."He looks up at Ginny, who has moved to stand over him. "I shouldn't talk about these things," he says. She notices that his voice does not seem to have a great deal of conviction.

"Why not?" she asks.

His mouth curves into a grim smile. "Why not, indeed."

"Did my mother say you couldn't tell me?"

"Well, not exactly, but... she felt it wasn't wise to share most of this with the children, I suppose."

The children. Ginny's head droops. Almost without realizing she has taken the action, she turns away. Then she glances up, startled at the feel of his light touch on her arm.

"Don't go," he says.

"I--I won't. Not if you don't want me to."

"There's really no reason why you shouldn't know," he murmurs. "There's no possibility of keeping it a secret, after all. Yes. It would be better for you to know. Why not tell you now?" He seems to come to a decision. "Ginny, the Aurors are going to bring Harry here within four days. They'll escort him from Little Whinging to London and to this house. We'll have a large enough guard so that it should be perfectly safe. But it's got to be carefully planned."

"But how? Hermione said that there weren't enough Aurors for that. And she's right."

"We're bringing the rest back early from their mission."

"And what was that?"

He sighs, and reties his hair listlessly with its customary leather thong. "Ginny, there are things I simply can't tell you. Now go on, share this little tidbit with Ron and Hermione." He waves one hand. The other supports his chin as if his head is too heavy to hold.

Ginny hesitates. All she can see from this angle is the back of his head, and when she looks closely she can see a few faint streaks of grey. The nape of his neck looks very exposed and vulnerable. "Is there anything I can do?" she asks softly. "For--for the headache, I mean."

"No," Sirius says in a muffled voice. "Or at least--well, there was something that someone else used to do. A girl I knew once. Long ago."

"Tell me." Ginny takes a step closer. His large warm hand closes over hers suddenly, engulfing it. "Oh! What--"

"Shh. I won't tell you. I'll show you." He pulls her hand up to his head. "And bring the other one up, so--"

She entangles her hands in his hair. It is crisp and curly, much softer than she had thought it might be. His hand guides her fingers in little circles.

"Yes," he says. "Like that."

Slowly, she rubs his temples, over and over. The tension in his muscles seems to drain away, and he gives a great shuddering sigh.

"Oh, that's good, Ginny... good... your hands are so cool and soft. Yes. Right there... and there..."

Her fingers move rhythmically, and she hopes she is doing it right, that he is getting what he wants from her. She used to do this years ago for Percy. He would have headaches from studying too much over the summers, and she would rub his head and bring a cool cloth to drape over his eyes. "My hands aren't very strong," she says.

"They're strong enough."

"They're small, I know," Ginny says nervously. "I do hope I get taller this year. Mum says that the last Weasley girl--Melisande, you know, about a hundred years ago I think it was--grew almost a metre when she turned sixteen. Of course, that would be a bit much. Still, all my brothers are tall, so you'd think--"

"Shhh," Sirius said again. "It won't matter if you're tall or short, Ginny."

"Won't it? What do you mean?"

"I mean," Sirius says, leaning back further in his chair, towards her, "that you're a very pretty girl. And you'll be a beautiful woman, no matter what size the package may turn out to be."

"Oh." She studies his lean brown face, his closed eyes, his slight smile. His words were meant casually, of course. Like a compliment that old Uncle Aethelhard might give at one of the Weasley family reunions. "Is this good? Really?" she whispers.

"Yes," he says. "A little too good, maybe."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Nothing at all."

Her hands move down to the curve where his neck meets his shoulder. "You're awfully tense here," she says.

"I imagine I am," says Sirius.

"This is helping though, right?"

"It is."

"Is there anything else I could do?" asks Ginny.

"Hmmm." He opens his eyes a little, so that she sees a faint glitter beneath his long dark lashes. "Do you sing?"

"Oh, yes."

"The girl I knew--the one who used to do this for me so long ago, I mean--would sing while she rubbed my head. It always helped. Sing something for me now, Ginny."

"All right." She thinks, and then begins to sing in a low, clear voice as her hands move down to his shoulders.

"The water is wide, I cannot get over

And neither have I wings to fly

Give me a boat, that'll carry two

And we'll cross over, my love and I."

"Beautiful," Sirius murmurs.

"Do you want me to keep going?"

"Yes."

"There is a ship, and she sails the sea

She's loaded deep as deep can be

But not as deep as the love I'm in

I know not whether to sink or swim."

Ginny is having trouble remembering the lyrics.

"Can you rub my temples a bit harder?" Sirius asks.

"Not from this angle. I'll have to be in front of you," she replies. He nods.

She walks around to the front of the chair. "I'll have to move down a little more," she says. He nods. She tries kneeling on the floor in front of him with her robes tucked under her, but now she is too low.

"I think the only way it's going to work is if I sit on the chair as well," Ginny finally says. His eyes still closed, Sirius nods again. Her breath seems to have caught in her throat. She perches awkwardly in his lap. She really didn't know how intimate this would feel--the long muscles in his thighs under her own legs, the soft brush of his chest against hers when she leans forward to reach his temples more easily, the sound of his breathing in her ear. He has taken off his outer robe and it is folded on the table; they have all been wearing T-shirts underneath because of the heat and this one has been washed so often that the material has worn thin, almost transparent. A bit of the dark curly hair on his chest springs up over the collar. His head is bent downwards and from the position she is now in, she catches a glimpse of his neck, looking very white and strangely vulnerable. But that seeming weakness only emphasizes the long corded tendons in his forearms, and the broadness of his shoulders. She is growing dizzy, but she keeps singing.

"Oh love is gentle, and love is kind

Sweet as a flow'r when first it's new

But love grows old, and waxes cold

And fades away like morning dew--"

She wants to put her mouth on his chest, and then move it around to the back of his neck. She wants to know if his skin is as smooth and soft as it looks, under the springing dark hair. I am losing my mind. A wave of dizziness goes over her.

"Ginny?" murmurs Sirius. "Why did you stop singing?"

She cannot answer. His eyes open. She can feel her lips trembling, and knows that her face has probably gone white. His face is concerned. Desperately, she hopes that he will think she has suddenly become ill, or was hit by a random bit of dark magic hanging about the house--anything but the truth. He must never know the strange impulses that seem to be taking over her brain.

The kitchen door bangs open, and she scrambles off his lap so quickly that she loses her balance and falls heavily to the floor.

"Ginny?" yawns Hermione. "I thought I heard something. Whatever are you doing on the floor? Sirius, you shouldn't let her stay up so late! Come up to bed now, won't you?" She holds out her hand to Ginny, and together the two girls climb the stairs to their rooms. Ginny can feel Sirius's slate-grey eyes on her back all the way up the stairs.