The Rebirth

Chapter 2

The Ring

Ron, Fred, George, and Hermione were sitting around the table looking stricken, and Mr. Weasley was standing in front of the fire, his face creased with worry. Mrs. Weasley cried quietly. Dumbledore's head was in the flames, and he was saying, "Nobody could've seen it coming. They hit without any warning."

"What's happened?" Harry whispered to Ron.

"There's been a Death Eater attack," Ron whispered, sounding choked. "A bad one."

"They said," George began, and he stopped to swallow hard. "They said that Mad-Eye Moody is missing."

"Missing?" Ginny echoed. "What does that mean?"

"What do you think it means?" Fred snapped. "The Death Eaters attacked, and now he's gone. They knew where he was, and now they don't! The Death Eaters must have taken him alive, or else they would've found a body."

Ginny didn't reply. Mad-Eye Moody had been a friend of her parents' for as long as she could remember. When she was young, his scarred face and constantly swiveling eye had terrified her, but as she got older she learned to see the good, kind man that lay underneath the grisly exterior. She fervently hoped he was all right. Being held prisoner by Death Eaters was everyone's very worst nightmare.

An uncomfortable silence descended on the kitchen after Fred's outburst. Finally, Harry asked, "What's being done to find him?"

"They're sending a team of expert Aurors to head up the search," Mr. Weasley replied turning from the fire to face the group around the table."

"Moody is an expert Auror," Ron said glumly, "and they still caught him."

Mr. Weasley frowned at his youngest son. Dumbledore's voice drifted from the fire. "I've put together a team of five headed up by Remus Lupin and Mundungus Fletcher. Arthur and Molly, I know your house is already crowded but I'd appreciate it if you could take Michael for the rest of the summer; I don't know how long his father will be on this mission."

"Of course," Mrs. Weasley said, still sniffling. "We'd be glad to have him stay."

"Michael?" Harry whispered to Ron.

"Mike Fletcher," Ron replied. "He's a sixth year."

"You mean the Ravenclaw Beater?" Harry asked, trying to place the name.

"Yeah," Ron said. "We practically grew up together. He was over almost every weekend. You'll like him."

"Why does he have to come here? Is his mum helping to find Moody too?"

Ron looked uncomfortable. "His mum died when he was a baby. She was one of the last casualties before…." His eyes flicked to Harry's scar.

Harry felt a stab of sympathy for Mike Fletcher; it must be hard to know that your only parent was going off on a dangerous mission, not knowing when he would come back, if at all.

Dumbledore promised the Weasleys that he would update them the moment he had any news on Moody's whereabouts. With a small pop his head disappeared from the fire.

"We'll have to hold dinner until Michael arrives," Mrs. Weasley said, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. She took a deep breath, pulled herself together, and was suddenly all business. "Fred and George, you two can set up another camp bed in Ron's room. It'll be tight with three people in there, but there's nothing else to be done. Ron, set another place at the table. I'll just whip up a few more mashed potatoes, and everything should be—"

Suddenly, the fireplace crackled loudly and a person came tumbling out, one end of his trunk clutched in a death grip. Coughing, he stood and brushed the soot off of his clothes, then smiled cheerfully at everyone. Harry supposed that this had to be Mike Fletcher. At about five foot ten, he was only a couple of inches shorter than Harry. His hair was light brown, straight and completely free from the untidiness that characterized Harry's own hair. He had a nose that was somewhat on the longish side, and sharp-looking blue eyes. Well of course he looks smart, Harry reflected. He's a Ravenclaw.

"Hello, all," he greeted. "I hate Floo powder. I can't wait to get my apparition license. Mrs. Weasley, dinner smells fantastic." Everyone stared at him, startled at his abrupt appearance. He seemed suddenly uneasy. "You were expecting me, weren't you? Dumbledore said he'd let you know I was coming."

They all snapped out of their momentary trance. "Of course, Michael, dear," Mrs. Weasley said soothingly. "We just weren't expecting you so soon. Why don't you put your trunk upstairs and then come back down. We were just about to eat dinner."

Mike grinned at her. He loved visiting the Weasleys. Granted, this time his visit was not made under the best of circumstances, but he always tried to look on the bright side of things. True, his father was off on a dangerous mission but Mike had decided not to think about that for now. He was proud to have a father who fought the Dark Lord, and if Dumbledore asked Mundungus to go on a mission, Mike would be the last person to stand in his way. And it wasn't as though his situation was all that bad. After all, some of his fondest memories were of his time spent at the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley was always nearby with hugs and cookies, trying her best to be the mother he'd never known. He loved talking Muggles with Mr. Weasley, learning curses from Bill, hunting magical beasts with Charlie, and borrowing books from Percy's extensive collection. He'd missed planning elaborate pranks with Fred and George, playing Quidditch with Ron, and he'd missed Ginny. Oh, had he ever missed Ginny. A slightly evil grin played at the corner of his mouth as he carried his school trunk up to Ron's room. On the day that, at age four, he had used a toy wand to turn her hair bright green, he had made a marvelous and fantastic discovery that had given him hours upon hours of happiness over the years. Mike had learned Ginny had a temper like no one else he'd ever met. And he'd learned that no one could bait her like he could. Teasing Ginny was so much fun to do, and now he could look forward to it for the next three weeks of summer holidays. Hoping that he would get to sit next to her at dinner, he dropped his trunk on Ron's floor and thundered down the stairs.

Ron had set the extra place at the table, and, just as Mike had hoped, he had put it next to Ginny's usual chair. She gave her brother a disgruntled look, but took the seat anyway. Mike dug into his food, making sure that, with every bite, his fork scraped across his food in a way she would find particularly irritating.

He then turned his attention to the dinner conversation. Mr. Weasley was always aware of the politics and policies at the Ministry, and Mike always jumped at the chance to pick his brain. Mike wanted to go into the Ministry himself after graduation, so he never missed an opportunity to learn about it.

They chatted about several inconsequential things, like who would be appointed to the Improper Use of Magic Office now that Mafalda Hopkirk was retiring, and the lack of support for Mr. Weasley's new Muggle Protection Bill. But the conversation inevitably turned to the difficulty the Ministry was having recruiting new Aurors. In the past two years, Death Eaters had killed many of the more senior Aurors, and no one was willing to take their places. Ministry employees were frantic, wondering how they were supposed to fight Voldemort without any dark wizard catchers.

"My father said that he heard a rumor that Fudge is thinking of calling up an army to fight You-Know-Who," Mike offered. "Since the giants have joined up with the Death Eaters, Dad reckons that the dark forces are too strong to be fought by the Auror division alone, especially since their numbers have decreased so much."

"An army?" Hermione asked, surprised. "But are there even enough young wizards and witches to make up a full army? Enlistment would have to be mandatory or they'd never get enough people."

Mike knew Hermione Granger by reputation. Every night the Ravenclaw common room was full of complaints about how she always managed to earn higher marks than everyone else. Mike was an easy-going boy who didn't really have a jealous streak so he admired rather than envied her scholastic abilities. This, however, was the first time he'd ever spoken to her. "That's how the Muggles do it," he responded. "When they don't have enough soldiers to fight a war, they conscript civilians. I learned about it in Muggle Studies last year." He took another bite. Ginny stiffened at the deliberate scrape of his fork on his teeth.

Hermione tilted her head to the side. "But don't you think there might be something wrong with conscription?" she asked. "If someone doesn't want to be a soldier, they shouldn't be forced into it against their will."

Mike glanced at Ginny out of the corner of his eye. He looked at Hermione and said, "It's not as though you'd have anything to worry about personally. They'd never draft witches into the army." Another sideways glance at Ginny: she was holding her fork in a death grip, her eyes firmly fixed on the table and her teeth clenched tight. This was going very well indeed.

"Why not?" Hermione asked, a small frown on her face.

"Well, Muggles never conscript females, do they?" he replied, an innocent expression on his face. He heard Ginny's sharp intake of breath next to him and smiled in satisfaction, "And they don't let the ones who volunteer fight on the front lines either. They must have a good reason for it, don't you think?"

"No, I do not think," Ginny said through clenched teeth. "Most women might be physically weaker than most men and that would make a difference in the Muggle world, but not in the wizarding world. If we have something heavy to move we can always use a levitation charm or Transfiguration to make it lighter. If we have to move quickly we can apparate or, or—"

Mike interrupted her. "But what about—"

She didn't even let him finish his question. "You're such a pig," Ginny said scornfully. "Witches can do anything wizards can to. Some of the best Aurors and worst Death Eaters are women and it doesn't make them any less tough."

"Ginny—"

"And furthermore, it's attitudes like yours that perpetuate prejudice against the abilities of women. Do you know how many female department heads there are at the Ministry? Only ten. Out of forty-six departments, only ten are run by witches. And it's because of people like you, Michael--"

"Ginny!" he finally managed to cut in. "I agree with you."

"You what?"

He laughed. "While not drafting women is probably a necessity in the Muggle world, Minister Fudge would be wrong to exclude witches from mandatory enlistment in his hypothetical army. Are you happy now?"

"But you said—"

"You didn't hear a word I said, because you kept interrupting to lecture me on the importance of gender equality." He took a big bite of green beans, loudly scraping the fork along his teeth.

Ginny threw her napkin at him. "Stop it!" she exclaimed, her eyes blazing.

"Stop what?" he asked innocently.

"Stop…eating like that. It's driving me mad!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said sweetly, and did it again.

Ginny turned to her parents. "I swear, if I have to spend the next three weeks with him I won't be responsible for my actions." She glowered at Mike, then pushed her chair from the table and stomped outside, slamming the back door behind her.

Mike gave the Weasleys his most charming smile. "Dinner was excellent Mrs. Weasley. I don't know when I've had such a good time. Would you mind if I went to bed early? I'm really tired."

"Not at all, Michael," Mr. Weasley replied. "I apologize for Ginny but really, do you really have to bait her like that?"

"I'm afraid so, Mr. Weasley," he answered, dropping a kiss on Mrs. Weasley's cheek. "If I didn't tease her, she'd think I was ill or something." He gave them all a cheerful wave. "Good night, all. Thanks again for letting me stay," he said, and thundered up the staircase.

"That boy has never learned to walk quietly," Mrs. Weasley observed with a sigh.

Harry got up to help the twins clear the table. He didn't know what to think of the Weasleys' newest houseguest. "What's up with them?" he asked as soon as he was out of earshot from the table.

"Ginny and Mike?" George replied. "They've always been like that. They can't be in a room together for more than five minutes without some kind of fight breaking out."

"They're kind of like Ron and Hermione that way, if you know what I mean," Fred added with a sly grin.

"Like Ron and Hermione?" Harry repeated, astonished. "You mean they're—"

"No, I don't think so," George answered. "They seem permanently stalled in the constant bickering stage and unable to move on to the kiss and make up stage."

"You think they're heading to the kiss and make up stage? I mean, if it hasn't happened by now it's hardly likely to in the future, right?" Harry asked, not liking the strange mental discomfort this train of thought was giving him.

"Well, Ron and Hermione took five and a half years to get there, didn't they?" George shrugged and handed Fred a dishtowel. "I don't know, Harry. If there's one relationship in the world that I've never been able to understand, it's the one between my sister and Mike Fletcher."

* * * * *

Harry woke early the next morning. He pulled the pillow over his head trying to get back to sleep but soon realized it wasn't going to happen. He showered and dressed quietly, not wanting to wake Ron and Mike who were both snoring in their beds. The house was silent, all the bedroom doors firmly shut. Harry walked quietly down the stairs, careful to step over the ones that creaked. He padded over to the kitchen counter, thinking to make some toast, when he heard a soft curse coming from the living room. Instinctively pulling out his wand, he peeked around the door and sighed with relief when he saw the apparent originator of the obscenity: Ginny. She sat on the floor, surrounded by swaths of gauzy white fabric. A pair of scissors was in her hands and a fierce scowl was on her face.

"Morning," Harry greeted, pushing the door open. "What are you doing?"

She raised her eyes to his. "I'm making new dress robes. Or a pathetic attempt at dress robes, anyway."

"I didn't know you could sew," Harry said, moving some of the silk and sitting across from her.

Ginny blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. "I can't at all," she replied. "Hermione's trying to teach me, but I really don't have the patience."

"Then why bother?" Harry asked, his gaze roaming over the complicated-looking pattern she was trying to cut.

Ginny laughed. "Anything I make would be better than the ones I have now." He looked blank. "You do remember what my dress robes look like, don't you? I wore them to the Yule Ball my third year." He still looked blank. She shrugged. "Well, I'm sure you would have noticed if you hadn't been so busy sulking over Cho Chang."

"Cho Chang?" Harry asked. He felt like the conversation was getting away from him. "But that was three years ago!"

"And my dress robes haven't improved with age," she retorted, sticking a pin into a pattern cutout. "So I'm making new ones for the ball this year."

"There's a ball this year?"

She blew the stubborn strand of hair out of her eyes again. "Dress robes are required for students fourth year and up. It's on the supply list. Don't you ever read your mail?"

"I just got here yesterday," he pointed out. "And your mum bought all my supplies last week when Ron's list came so there's really been no need, has there?"

"I guess not," she said, rubbing the back of her neck. "I've been down here for hours. I can't handle any more of this today. Hermione can look at it later. Can you help me fold this stuff? I want to get it hidden before…everyone…wakes up."

"Everyone meaning Mike?" Harry asked, and then he winced inwardly. He had no business asking her about Mike.

Ginny sighed. "He'd only make fun of me. I'm sorry about last night, Harry. Mike just brings out the worst in me is all. I was so glad that we were put in different houses. I don't know how I'd stand seeing him in Gryffindor tower every single morning, having every class with him and never being able to get away."

"You dislike him that much?" Harry asked, surprised.

"Not so much dislike," she replied thoughtfully. "I can't explain it. When he's not driving me crazy he's the best friend anyone could ever want. I don't know. Don't ask me to explain him; I gave up trying when I was eight."

Harry picked up an armful of the slippery silk. "You'll look nice in this, I think," he said, hoping to make amends for prying into her personal business.

"Hermione thought so," she said, gathering up her sewing materials. "I'm afraid it'll make me seem terribly pale, but she promised it would look good." Harry set the fabric carefully into the open sewing chest and turned back to Ginny. The lock of red hair had fallen into her face yet again, and she took a deep breath to blow it out of the way. Seemingly all by itself, his hand reached out and gently tucked it behind her ear, and then stayed there, cupping the side of her face. She froze, the breath catching in her throat. They stood there for a long moment, not moving, and then Ginny took a step back, pulling her head away from him, her cheeks as red as her hair. "Thanks, Harry," she said quickly, dropping her armful in the chest and shutting it with rather more force than was necessary. She backed away from him another step. "I'm just going to shower before everyone else wakes up. Maybe I'll see you later." She backed up a few more steps, and then turned on her heel and raced out of the room and up the stairs.

Harry stood alone in the family room, his hand still warm from the side of her face. What just happened? he wondered.

* * * * *

Ginny avoided Harry for the rest of the day. She took refuge in her tree house, bringing up one of her favorite books for company, but she couldn't think of anything else but that moment in the living room. What did he think he was doing, touching her like that? Just when she was starting to get over him! The nerve! After all the work she'd done to forget how she felt, how dare he remind her! Harry must have realized how difficult it was for her to push the crush out of her mind, and it was just plain inconsiderate of him to make it even harder.

But maybe, just maybe, he was starting to like her back. The very thought terrified her. The crush had been safe because it was one sided. She never had to worry that Harry might reciprocate her feelings. If Harry started caring about her, well, she didn't even want to contemplate the possibility. For one, her life would be in danger. Not that she really cared about that (after all, she was probably already in danger for being a Weasley), but it was something to consider, all the same. And there were other things to consider too—feelings and experiences infinitely scarier and more difficult than risking one’s life. Was a relationship with Harry Potter worth it? She didn’t know, and she wasn’t especially sure she wanted to find out.

Even though she was fuming, Ginny still managed to read half of her book before someone discovered her whereabouts. She heard Mike calling up, "Hey, Ginny! Throw down the ladder!"

Maybe if I ignore him he'll go away, she hoped. "C'mon, Gin! I know you're up there. If you don't throw me the ladder I'll just climb the tree."

Ginny rolled her eyes and kicked the ladder over the side of the platform. A moment later Mike was sitting across from her. "Did it occur to you I might want to be alone?" she asked.

"Nope," he said, smiling at her annoyance.

"Of course not. Why should it? I was only hiding in a tree. It would've been unreasonable for me to assume that everyone realized that I don't want to be disturbed."

"What are you doing up here?" he asked, looking around the bare platform, surrounded and hidden by branches thick with leaves.

She held up her book. "The Táin?" Mike said, taking it from her hands and turning it over. "You've read it so many times it's practically falling apart!" The book had been a Christmas gift from him long ago.

Ginny took it back. "It's one of my favorites," she replied.

"I can tell," he answered. "You've got yourself quite a library of Celtic history."

She smiled. "It's my favorite thing to read about." She paused. "Now that we've covered what I'm doing up here, what are you doing up here?"

"Same as you," he answered, holding up a book.

"Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy! I just finished that one!"

"I know. I got it off your bookshelf."

Ginny smacked him on the arm with her paperback. "You went through my stuff?"

"Not all your stuff," Mike answered, rubbing his arm and grinning. "Just your books."

She rolled her eyes and turned back to her book. The two of them read in companionable silence for a while. Eventually, Ginny nudged Mike with her foot to get his attention. "Don't you like the story?" she asked. "You haven't been laughing at all. I was practically rolling on the floor."

Mike shrugged and shut his book. "I'm just worried about my dad, I guess," he said. "It's a top secret operation so he's not even allowed to send an owl to let me know he's okay or where he is or anything." He rubbed the bridge of his nose, as though he had a headache.

"Your father's a brave man," Ginny said softly. "You should be very proud of him."

"I am," Mike insisted. "It's just that when I was little the Burrow was more my home than anywhere else. He was always at the Ministry; I hardly ever saw him. And now that I'm at Hogwarts, he's running off on secret missions and…I don't know." He shook his head.

"He loves you very much," Ginny offered.

"I know he does. I just wish…"

"What?"

"I wish he wouldn't go risking the only family I have left! Death Eaters killed my mother. Do they have to kill my father too?"

Ginny rubbed her hand soothingly across his shoulders. "If he doesn't do it, there's no one else," she said. "Your father is giving up his safety so you can keep yours. He's risking his life so you and your children and grandchildren can live in a Voldemort-free world."

Mike started. "You said the name!"

Ginny paused. "I guess I did," she said, smiling ruefully. "I suppose it's only fair. I've met him face to face; I'd better be able to say his name. Harry does it all the time. Oh," she suddenly remembered. "Speaking of Harry, we'd better get inside!" She threw down the rope ladder and scrambled to the ground. Mike followed more slowly.

"Thanks, Ginny," he said. "I really needed somebody to talk to." He dropped to the ground, pulled a bag out of his pocket, and tossed it to her. "A peace offering," he said.

She opened the bag and looked inside. "Every Flavor Beans!" she exclaimed, taking one out and popping it in her mouth. A moment later she spat it out into the bushes. "Oh, disgusting! It was vomit-flavored!"

She looked in the bag again, and saw with astonishment that every bean was the same color, puce with yellow flecks. "They're all vomit-flavored!"

Mike grinned. "I've been saving them up just for you."

Ginny laughed. "How charming. Let's go inside. Mum must be almost done making her feast."

"Feast?" Mike asked as they started towards the house.

"It's Harry's birthday. He's never really had a proper birthday party so today mum was going all out for dinner."

"I didn't know it was his birthday," Mike said. "I don't have a present for him! You can't go to a birthday party without a present."

"You know, Mike," Ginny said thoughtfully. "Nothing says happy birthday like a bag of puke-flavored Every Flavor Beans."

"Funny, Ginny. Really amusing," Mike answered. "But seriously, what am I going to do?"

"You can put your name on my gift, if you want," she offered.

"Really? Thanks, Red!"

Ginny smacked him on the arm with her book again, but they were both laughing. "I'll race you to the table," Ginny challenged, and they were both off and running.

* * * * *

The birthday feast was fantastic. No one could remember when they had eaten such a good dinner. And, to Harry's surprise and pleasure, Mrs. Weasley topped off the meal with a four-layer chocolate cake and three different flavors of ice cream.

After dinner was over and Harry had opened his presents, Mr. Weasley announced, "It's time to get ready for the festival! Kids, go put on some robes. And hurry! We don't want to be late!" Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had been the only ones at the table not dressed in muggle clothes.

"Festival?" Harry asked Hermione as they raced up the stairs.

"Midnight tonight is the beginning of Lughnasa. The festival probably has something to do with that," Hermione answered.

"What?" Harry asked.

"Lughnasa. Remember?" At Harry’s blank statement she rolled her eyes and adopted the lecturing tone of one of his professors. "It's one of the four great calendar feasts, along with Samhain, Imbolc, and Beltaine," Hermione answered, sounding as if she was reading from a textbook.

"Calendar feasts?"

"One of the four days of the year that the otherworld and this one are joined. We learned all about it in History of Magic our fifth year."

"We did?" Her exasperated statement made him change the subject. "What kind of festival is Lughnasa?"

"It’s totally fun, Harry," Ron said, coming up behind them. "There are carnival games and lots of food. It’s held by the pond outside the village. You’ll love it."

Fifteen minutes later, dressed in wizard robes, Mike, Harry, Hermione, and the Weasley siblings reconvened in the kitchen. The group walked to the festival; it wasn’t very far away, after all. Harry had never been to a carnival or fair and thought that a festival commemorating the beginning of a calendar feast would be a wonderful way to top off his birthday. The night was warm and breezy, and the sunset illuminated the sky with bright reds and purples. The colors were reflected in the water of the pond, which rippled under the soft summer breeze; Hermione mentioned something about water being an important part of the magic of Lughnasa, but Harry couldn’t remember exactly what she had said. The air was filled with laughter and celebration. Music surrounded all of the festival goers, and Ginny overheard someone say that there would be fireworks at midnight to mark the official start of the feast day. She loved the pageantry of the calendar celebration and seeing the local wizards dressed in all their colorful finery.

For a while, they all had a wonderful time mingling with the other wizards and eating as much food as they could. Lughnasa was a festival commemorating the harvest, so fresh fruit was available in abundance. Her parents, the twins, and Harry, Hermione, and Ron had gone off in three separate groups, leaving her with Mike. He bought a carton of snozzberries from a fruit seller and the two of them wandered around, sharing their snack, people watching, and enjoying the laughter and fun that comes from being in the company of someone who knows you very well. Dusk loomed around them, and after a while Ginny told Mike that they should probably head towards the pond; she didn’t want to miss the fireworks. Not hearing a response, she turned to look for him and saw him a short ways off, talking to one of the merchants that had a booth at the festival. Walking over to them, she saw that he was holding a white rose and handing the flower seller a single silver sickle.

"Mike?" she called. "We don’t want to miss the fireworks. They’re supposed to be great."

He turned and gave her a familiar broad grin, holding the rose out to her and sweeping into a ridiculous imitation of a grand bow. "Is this for me?" she asked, giggling at his antics.

"It’s for being such a great listener in the tree house this afternoon," he said, straightening up and letting her take the rose from his fingers. He took a step closer and looked down intently into her face. "Vomit beans were probably not the best way to tell you that I really appreciated your friendship today."

"Probably not," she agreed, smelling her flower and smiling. She tore off the long stem and tucked the bloom behind her ear, grateful for a bit of white since she was wearing her black school robes. "Shall we?" she asked, motioning towards the lake.

"Absolutely," he answered, hooking his arm through hers and starting off in the direction she’d indicated. Ginny sighed happily. Mike turned to her. "A Knut for your thoughts?"

"I’m having a great time," she said. "I was just wondering why you can’t always be like this."

"Like what?" he asked, puzzled.

"Friendly," she answered. "And fun. I’m really enjoying being out here with you."

"Glad to hear it," he said amicably. "I wonder what it is that makes us fight all the time," he added thoughtfully.

"I believe it has something to do with the fact that you hugely enjoy winding me up."

"Ah," he said knowingly. "I knew it must be something like that."

Ginny giggled and pinched his side. "Oh!" he gasped. "Stop it! I’m ticklish!"

She laughed again. "I didn’t know that. Never reveal your weakness to your enemies."

"Are you my enemy?" he asked, although the smile hadn’t yet left his face.

"Not today," she replied, slipping out of her sandals to enjoy the feel of the cold grass on the soles of her feet.

He gave a melodramatic sigh. "I suppose that will have to be good enough for me."

"I suppose so," she answered, swinging her sandals into his chest. "Carry my shoes," she ordered imperiously, but completely ruining the effect by laughing.

"Carry your own smelly shoes," he answered. "Don’t I look like I have better things to do?"

"Not at the moment, no," Ginny answered as the first starburst exploded in the sky. She immediately lost interest in their banter, mesmerized by the colors and light and music surrounding her. She walked closer to the pond, not hearing Mike as he called after her to wait for him. She was only a few steps away from where the water lapped against the grass. Three steps, two, then one; Ginny felt the cold wetness lick at her toes, and then she felt a horrible jerk. It was almost like a portkey, but this wasn’t pulling on her body, it was pulling on her soul. The world seemed to tip on its axis, and then melted away in a smear of color and sound.

* * * * *

Ginny landed with a bone-jarring thump. She tried to stand but collapsed in a heap on the ground, her legs refusing to support her. She raised her head and looked around, taking in her surroundings. She lay in the middle of a field. Brilliantly green grass dotted with small red flowers stretched as far as the eye could see. There was not a single tree or hill in sight: nothing to mar the incredible flatness of this strange place in which she found herself. Raising her eyes to the sky, Ginny saw that it was clear and light blue, not a cloud in sight. The sun shone brightly, beating down on her skin. She reached up to push her hair out of her face and her fingers found the rose Mike had bought just a few minutes ago. Raising herself into a sitting position, she pulled the flower out of her hair and looked at it intently. Where was she? Who brought her here? And, more importantly, how did she go about getting back?

Ginny looked up again, shading her eyes from the glare of the sun, seemingly harsh after the cool night she had left just a few moments before. She almost shrieked with surprise.

There was a woman standing about ten feet away, her hands crossed over her chest. The woman stood very still, as though she believed that, if she didn’t move, she would not be noticed. The sunlight shone from behind her, so Ginny couldn’t see anything more than her outline. Mentally gauging her options, Ginny decided there was no way to run or hide, so she might as well face this stranger head on. "Hello?" she called. "Where are we?" The figure began walking towards her with long, purposeful strides. "Do you speak English?" Ginny asked when the woman grew nearer. From her seat on the ground, she tipped her head up to take in the stranger’s appearance. And up, and up, and up. Good lord, she must be over seven feet tall, Ginny thought to herself. The woman did not extend her hand to help Ginny to her feet. For the second time, Ginny tried to stand, but collapsed again.

The woman made an aggravated sound. "Weakling," she accused scornfully.

"What?" Ginny asked, startled.

"Don’t be stupid," the woman replied. "I never repeat myself. You heard me the first time. And if you didn’t, there’s even less hope for you than I originally thought."

"Excuse me for being slightly disoriented after being pulled out of the festival to…to…" she looked around helplessly. "To wherever I am now."

The woman finally extended her hand, elegantly white and heavy precious looking jewels. Ginny grabbed it, and gasped in pain. Tongues of fire and shards of ice tore through her where her skin touched the stranger’s. She had never known such pain, but it was over as soon as it began. Before Ginny could cry out, she was standing on her feet and the woman was wiping her hand on her robes, as though Ginny was extremely unpleasant to the touch.

Now that they were both standing, Ginny saw that her estimate of the woman’s height was not far off. Her shoulders were easily a foot above Ginny’s own head. She wore robes of deep burgundy velvet, with a scarlet cape slung over her shoulders. Several nasty-looking daggers hung at her side, and she wore so many gold and ruby bracelets, rings, and necklaces that it was a miracle she could even walk with their weight. Even her shoes were encrusted with rubies. The woman’s hair was red, so rich in color it was almost garnet, and it tumbled to her waist in tousled waves. But it was her face that convinced Ginny that she had not landed in safe company. This woman’s face was almost too beautiful to bear looking at, but at the same time it was stern, proud, and the very definition of the word fierce. She was dangerous and wild; Ginny instinctively knew that this woman had killed before, and had viciously enjoyed it.

Ginny pulled out her wand, and to her surprise the woman began to laugh, a cruel sound completely devoid of mirth or good feeling. "What do you think you’re doing?" she demanded.

"I’m the one with the weapon," Ginny answered, schooling her face into an expressionless mask. Her poker face was a skill she had perfected while hiding her crush on Harry. "I’ll ask the questions."

The woman sneered. "Stupid girl. Your little wand is completely useless here."

"Where, exactly, is here?"

The woman raised an eyebrow imperiously. "The Otherworld," she answered, as though this answer must be patently obvious.

Ginny lowered her wand a few inches in shock. "How did I get here?" she whispered. She had heard of such things happening, but had never thought it could happen to her. The woman didn’t answer, but seemed to be enjoying Ginny’s distress. "How did this happen!" Ginny shouted.

So fast that Ginny hadn’t even seen her move, the woman had one of her daggers out and positioned at Ginny’s neck. Although the woman didn’t cut her, Ginny could still feel the sharp, cold edge resting against the pulse in her throat. "Never speak to me with such disrespect again," the woman said softly, her mouth a bare inch from Ginny’s ear, every word invested with menace.

She drew the dagger away slowly. "You stepped in a sacred pool on the feast of Lughnasa. Where did you think to end up?"

"I didn’t!" Ginny protested. She thought for a moment. She remembered the flower, and tickling Mike, and the first round of fireworks, but the rest was a blur. "I don’t remember," she murmured, horrified.

"You wouldn’t," the woman said scornfully. "I brought you here." Ginny had no idea why, as it seemed that the woman found her utterly distasteful. "Who are you?" she asked.

The woman slid her dagger under Ginny’s chin and used the flat side of it to lift her face until they were looking into each other’s eyes. "I am the Mórrígan," she said. "And if you are a smart girl, you will listen to me and do exactly as I say."

Ginny’s knees almost gave out from under her. The Mórrígan. She was standing face to face with the Mórrígan. She could hardly believe it. The Mórrígan was the Great Queen of the Otherworld, the goddess of war and fertility. One of the most cruel, dangerous and powerful deities in the Old Faith, with bloodlust that would never be satisfied, the Mórrígan was definitely someone to fear.

"Why am I here?" Ginny managed to croak, tilting her chin farther up to avoid being pierced by the twisted metal of the dagger in the goddess’s hand.

"I am the one with the weapon," Mórrígan mocked. "I’ll ask the questions."

"Why am I here?" Ginny repeated in a terrified whisper. What could this goddess possibly want to know so badly that she would pull Ginny right out of the world to satisfy her curiosity?

Mórrígan pushed her dagger up, tipping Ginny’s chin just a little further, and then used the weapon to turn her head from side to side. All the while, she studied Ginny intently. Finally, apparently satisfied with what she saw, Mórrígan resheathed the dagger in her belt and took a step back. "What is your name, girl?" she demanded.

"Ginny," Ginny answered.

"Only Ginny? That’s a pathetic excuse for a name."

Ginny swallowed hard. "My name is Virginia Morgan Weasley," she amended.

"Much better," the goddess answered, finally seeming pleased about something. She reached into a small purse that hung at her waist and pulled out a ring. She held it out and Ginny gingerly took it from her hand, not wanting to touch Mórrígan’s skin. Ginny examined the ring holding it up to the sunlight. It was clear, with the image of a dragon etched on one side.

"It’s made of diamond," Mórrígan told her.

"Why are you giving it to me?" Ginny asked.

"Because it belongs to you. Wear it, but do not let anyone see it until the time is right. You’ll know when. If you lose it, then you are no longer any good to me and I’ll take great pleasure in cutting your throat." Ginny’s eyes flew to Mórrígan’s face; the goddess was not exaggerating. Ginny slipped the ring into her pocket, closing her hand around it protectively.

"You’ll see me again. Probably sooner than you would like," Mórrígan said. Then the world began to shift and turn. Ginny fell to her knees and shut her eyes, fighting off nausea. When she opened them, she found herself kneeling in the pond at the Lughnasa festival, her robes soaking wet to the waist. She saw Mike and her parents running up to her, frantic looks on their faces. Her mother waded into the shallow water and flung her arms around Ginny. Mike’s face was ashen. Her father looked stunned. "What just happened?" Ginny asked them.

"You disappeared!" her mother sobbed. "I’ve never been so terrified! I didn’t know if there had been a hidden Portkey, or if you’d been kidnapped…."

"Where did you go, Ginny?" her father asked solemnly, dropping to his knees in the water so he could look her in the eyes. "You were gone for almost a full minute. Did someone take you somewhere? Do you remember what happened?"

Ginny knew, somehow, that Mórrígan wouldn’t want Ginny to tell her parents about her visit to the Otherworld. "No," Ginny told her father. "I remember wading into the water, and then I fell and you three came running up." Her father looked even more concerned than before. "I’m going to take you home," he said. "You should be in bed." Ginny didn’t argue.

* * * * *

Thirty minutes later Ginny, dressed in Gryffindor pajamas, sat on her bed staring at the ring made of solid diamond that she held in her hand. What on Earth could the dragon stand for? Her brother studied dragons, and Ginny wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Mórrígan kept a few as pets. She thought of Draco Malfoy, but she figured that if Mórrígan had anything to do with him or his family she wouldn’t have made it back from the Otherworld alive. Plus, the goddess didn’t seem like the type to cast in with Death Eaters. It belongs to you, Mórrígan had told her. Well, Ginny certainly thought she would remember owning a huge ring made of solid diamond. She feared for a moment that Mórrígan had lured the wrong person into the Otherworld, but the goddess had studied her face at length and seemed convinced that Ginny was the one she wanted to see.

She turned the ring over in her hand. Wear it, Mórrígan had said. Ginny slipped the ring over onto her third finger. It was way too big. She slid it onto her thumb and tipped her hand over. The ring dropped right off and bounced on the bedcovers.

Frowning in thought, Ginny padded over to her dresser and opened her jewelry box. She didn’t own a lot of jewelry, but the few pieces she had were precious to her. She pulled out a delicate silver chain; it had been her grandmother’s and her mother had given it to her on her thirteenth birthday. Going back to the bed, Ginny slid the ring onto the chain, fastened the clasp behind her neck, and tucked the ring under the collar of her T-shirt. The ring felt heavy against her chest but, somehow, she felt reassured by its weight. Satisfied that she had followed the goddess’s instructions to the best of her ability, she blew out her candle and got into bed. Ginny stared at her ceiling until the pink streaks of dawn appeared in the sky, but she finally fell asleep.

* * * * *

At Hogwarts, Dumbledore was readying himself for bed when an owl came soaring through his window. He untied the letter from the bird’s leg and slit open the envelope. His blue eyes widened as he read the note, untidily scrawled in Arthur Weasley’s usually neat and precise penmanship. Dumbledore had requested that his closest allies keep close watch on the happenings of the wizarding world and inform him at once, should something unusual occur. Well, Arthur certainly told an interesting tale. So, Dumbledore mused, Miss Weasley stepped into a pond on the night of a calendar feast and vanished without a trace, and then returned claiming no memory of what had happened.

He opened his most secret, magically secure drawer and pulled out the list of names that Severus Snape had compiled for him almost sixteen years ago. The names of the three female magical children born on another calendar feast: the night Harry’s parent’s had been killed and everything had changed. He had read over this list thousands of times over the years, wondering which child would be the one he’d been waiting for the last twenty-eight years of his life. And there, at the very bottom (How very like Severus to put them in alphabetical order, he’d mused more than once) was the name Virginia Weasley.

* * * * *

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