Jigsaw

Chapter 1: Ribbons and Lace

Ginny awakens with the first light of day. The dream slips away as she opens her eyes. His touch slides away, leaving her skin cold.

She looks around the room that is so familiar. The orange walls, hung with Chudley Cannons posters.

His room.

But he will never be in it again.

She pulls on her long, scarlet dressing gown, and tiptoes out. No one in her family has realized that she sleeps in his room from time to time. That her nightmares have returned. And she is in no hurry for them to find out.

No sound is coming from the kitchen. It is completely empty. She remembers all the mornings when she would walk in to find her mother in front of the stove, frying eggs as pancakes flipped themselves.

"Mom," she calls," I’m making breakfast, would you like anything?"

She pictures her mother, laying in her bed. Her once plump face now gaunt and worn. Clinging to a picture of her husband, sobbing her heart out. The sound of her sobs is haunting to Ginny.

"No, thank you, Ginny, dear," comes the weak, weary reply.

She returns to the kitchen, flips on the stove, and gets out eggs and milk.

She reaches for a plate. It falls out of her grasp and drops to the floor, shattering.

Staring at the broken pieces on the tile, Ginny drops to her knees and sobs.

---

Fred and George arrive on the morning of September 1, ready to escort Ginny to Kings Cross. She stands in front of the vanity in her bedroom, listening to them scuttling about below her. She examines her reflection. She carefully ties a black ribbon in her red hair. It matches the rest of hr clothes. All black, like a woman in mourning should wear.

When they reach Kings Cross, they walk in silence to the barrier between platforms nine and ten. There, she turns to face her brothers.

She feels as though she should say something. Like she should thank them, for everything they had done for her this summer. Without them, she would have run out of money a long time ago. But her tongue is thick in her mouth, her throat is dry, and her voice is nowhere to be found.

Instead, she hugs each of them in turn.

"Don’t worry about anything," Fred says, patting her gently on the back. "Just take care of yourself, Gin, and we’ll take care of everything else."

"Yea, Gin, try and have a good time this term."

She doesn’t tell them that that seems highly unlikely. Instead, she disappears into the brick barrier.

~*~

She finds an empty compartment and settles down, watching out the window as students and their families say goodbye. She feels her heart wrench slightly, looking at all the fathers giving their daughters hugs, holding them tightly. She tears her gaze from the window and looks down at her hands.

She slides a hand under the edge of her sleeve, begins inching the fabric upward –

"I keep asking Father to send me to Durmstrang, but Mother won’t allow it. She can’t bear to be away from me."

She knows that voice. And it is getting closer. Footsteps are approaching, stopping as they reach the door to her compartment. She tenses up, letting her hand drop.

She closes her eyes and silently prays that they pass her by.

But, less than a moment later, the door slides open. And there stands Draco Malfoy, along with his cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, and that total cow Pansy Parkinson, who follows Malfoy like a puppy.

"Well, what have we here?" Malfoy’s voice is positively gleeful, his cold eyes glittering. "The littlest Weasley. And all alone. Where’s your big brother, Weaslette?"

Ginny’s eyes flash, she clenches her jaw, both against tears and against the urge to hex Malfoy into oblivion.

He laughs. "Oh, I almost forgot. Your idiotic brother got himself killed."

"He was not idiotic," Ginny says, her voice low and cold. "He, along with the rest of my family, died a hero’s death."

"That’s where they went wrong. Trying to play the hero is the idiotic thing."

She doesn’t respond, but curls her hands into fists, her nails leaving crescent moons in her palms.

"Now," Malfoy begins, sinking into a seat, "Get out of our compartment."

"It’s not your compartment. There was no one in it when I got here."

"We sit in this compartment every year, Weasel. You obviously have no respect for tradition."

She shrugs and picks at her cuticles. "Times change." And she doesn’t move.

She focuses her attention out the window again as the train starts to move. Now there is only wilderness to admire, nothing to make her heart ache any worse.

Her wrist is itching. Forgetting momentarily about the other people in the compartment with her, or thinking they won’t notice, she pushes up her sleeve and scratches the offending area.

It is only up for a moment, but that is long enough for Draco to get a glimpse of the dried blood on her skin.