Home

The things I remember from that year are strange and sporadic. I'm certain that they didn't happen in the order I recall, but when has memory ever been chronological?

I remember Fred, dancing in the Weasleys' tent. To someone like Malfoy that tent would seem so shabby. To me it encapsulates everything I love about the Weasleys: larger inside than out, homey, eclectic, magical. That tent was fantastic.

In my mind's eye I can see Fred with his face painted with an enormous green shamrock. George had little Irish flags on his cheeks, but Fred's face was almost entirely green. He's so happy, my imaginary Fred, spinning and waving his arms wildly. He's ungainly, yet somehow he has that inner grace that comes only when we are young and carefree. I hope that's how I'll always see Fred. I wonder how he sees me.

Then I see Seamus's face. It's a face paint memory, you see. That's how the brain works, leaping thematically, however tenuous the link. He has Harry's name painted across his forehead, proudly. Despite the unease there was in their dorm that year, he was proud to support his friend. We wore our allegiances on our faces then, proudly, boldly, without fear. In my mind, Seamus's face clouds over. Harry's name is creased as his worry takes over, but I'm not looking at Seamus anymore.

I'm watching Harry as he sobs and clings to what was once Cedric Diggory. A body that was once a boy whom I giggled about with Ginny. Then I'm back in that tent, before the first challenge of the tournament, clinging to Harry in sheer terror. I remember how afraid I was to lose him, then how furious I was at Rita Skeeter's impeccable timing and hack journalism. Thanks to her, my train of thought takes a lighter turn. My fury morphs into the smug elation I felt at holding her in an aerated, unbreakable jar. Bliss.

I remember the hate mail I received from jealous women because of the trash that bloody Skeeter published. And then I recall Ron's jealousy over Viktor. Much later, I understood. I didn't empathise with him. I certainly didn't approve. I understood why he acted the way he did, nothing more. For Ron, Harry and I are his. He simply cannot grasp the concept that Harry and I have lives that do not concern him. When we are not with him, we cease to be. Harry and I have a facet to our relationship which neither of us has with Ron: we share things with each other which Ron would never dream of asking about. It's why Harry and I talked about Viktor, and later, Cho. It's why we didn't have those conversations with Ron.

What stays with me, very firmly, from my fourth year at Hogwarts is leaving for the summer holidays. Not because I wanted to go: far from it. Everyone knows I love school. What stays imprinted on my mind is the mass of students saying their goodbyes. The new friends I had from Durmstrang. The people I hadn't really got to know from Beauxbatons. All four houses of Hogwarts. Even though we didn't all get on, we avoided that for a couple of hours as we prepared to leave. We focussed on the good.

It really felt like home, then. It really felt like home.