Sharp Enough to Cut

Sharp Enough to Cut

Who would have thought it of Professor Binns? mused Ginny, propping her chin on her hands as she watched the practice. Harry and Ron were fencing in the snow on the Quidditch pitch. Normally they held practice inside-- even Ron had eventually gotten tired of the way every girl in Hogwarts gathered around to stare and drool when they fenced in public-- but Binns had declared that it was high time they did some practice under real-life conditions, and apparently that meant six inches of slushy snow.

Professor Dumbledore had presented Harry with the Sword of Gryffindor at the start of the year, telling him that he needed to learn to use every weapon at his disposal, and so he'd be starting swordfighting lessons outside of class. And then, to the astonishment of everyone there, he'd presented Ron with a sword as well. She'd heard the story from Ron later. Repeatedly. "Harry will need a partner to learn," he'd said, eyes twinkling, "So I asked you mother to send me this."

Ron's sword was much plainer than Harry's, rather longer and heavier, but shined as only Molly Weasley could shine things; it had been secreted away somewhere in the Burrow, the weapon of a Weasley past, apparently. The Weasleys may have been a poor wizarding family, after all, but they could trace their lineage back every bit as far as the Malfoys'.

Ron had been ecstatic. "This," he was given to declare loudly in the common room as he polished it, "is a real sword. No poncy rubies or magic runes, just metal and a very sharp edge." Finally Hermione had grabbed it from him and beaten him about the head with the pommel, but he hadn't really shut up until Ginny started comparing him to Percy with his Head Boy badge.

Binns was to be the fencing instructor, which made a surprising amount of sense once you thought about it. He'd grown up in a time when swordplay was a part of any gentleman's education, and he'd apparently been quite the enthusiast when he was young. They just hadn't expected him to be every bit as obsessive a taskmaster as Oliver Wood about Quidditch.

There was also the advantage that he could let the boys practice on him, as he was doing now, floating between them as they each tried out a new lunge right through his silvery chest. He nodded and whisked back, and Ron and Harry took up the basic stance and began sparring again, winter cloaks flying behind them as they danced forward and back, an interplay of darkness and fire: thrust, parry, thrust, parry, riposte, parry, remise.

Ginny tore her eyes away long enough to note that her classmates had apparently noticed what was going on: the snowball fight was over. Parvati and Lavender were standing behind them, tongues practically hanging out. Ginny offered them her sweetest smile. And Hermione, sitting on a self-warming cushion beside Ginny, had given up entirely on pretending to read.

"Doesn't Ron look dashing with a sword?" asked Ginny sidelong.

"Ohh yes," said Hermione, and blushing, added, "That is, I mean, they've both taken to it very well, haven't they? Harry's really improved."

"Honestly, Hermione, you're going out with him now. You don't have to pretend you aren't enjoying this as much as Lavender is."

"Well, you're going with Harry, aren't you? Shouldn't you be cooing over him instead of your brother?"

"Hmm," replied Ginny. She had to admit that objectively Harry looked very good, his shaggy dark hair even more tousled than usual, swinging in his face as he moved, his robes open at the throat, showing the white vest underneath soaked with melted snow and sweat, his face intent and determined and his smoke-gray cloak flaring behind him. But she couldn't help remembering the first time she'd seen him with that sword, covered with blood and mud and ink, exhausted but triumphant, holding in his hand-- but she wasn't going to think about that, not now.

"Anyway," she added, "I wasn't cooing over him, I was asking a question. Ron's quite good, isn't he? I think he's better than Harry."

"Ron's reach is longer," said Hermione, "But Harry's quicker-- more agile."

Just then Harry slipped, his sword flying out of his hands as he landed with a squelch on his bottom. Ginny burst out laughing. "Agile? You have seen him dance, haven't you?"

Binns had floated back over and appeared to be lecturing them furiously as Harry picked himself up, fingering his wrist tenderly. With a final admonition he whisked away; the lesson seemed to be over for the day. Ron retrieved Harry's sword, tossing it to Harry so the rubies caught the light as he grinned over at Hermione. Harry ducked instead of catching it, then picked it up. They wandered over to where the girls were sitting.

"So," said Ron, with a rakish smile, "What did you think?"

Ginny grinned. "Hermione was just commenting on how agile and graceful Harry is."

Harry went red. Hermione shot Ginny a look. "I think you're both doing very well. I'm impressed. You're almost finished covering the basics, aren't you?"

"Yeah," said Ron, "Binns promised we're going to move on next week. Listen, we're headed over to the locker rooms to wash up, will you watch my sword? I don't want it getting wet."

"Oh, Ron, are you sure?" said Hermione in a treacley-sweet voice. Ron's overprotectiveness of his sword was a running joke. But she took the sword anyway, holding it with honest care. Then she turned to Harry, who hadn't moved, and arched her eyebrows at him.

"Er," said Harry. "Here, Ginny," he pushed his sword into her hands. "We'll be back over in a few minutes, Hermione. Wait for us?"

Ginny stared down at the sword in her hands. The sword that had saved her life. She'd never dared so much as touch it before; she wasn't sure whether it was respect for Harry or fear that it would burn her tainted hands. Now, holding it finally, it felt odd. Familiar. She swung the sword up and tried a few practice swipes at the air, and something in her; in the dark, twisted part of her memory, the legacy from her first year that, like a black pearl, had abraded a place for itself in her mind; something remembered and loved the feel of a sword in her hand. Tom, she thought, Tom must have been a fencer, and I'm remembering his skill. But she didn't stop; swinging this sword felt right, and there was a fierce joy in it that she didn't want to give up.

Instead she turned to Hermione. "Hermione, didn't you tell me that you took Muggle fencing lessons one summer?"

"Yes," said Hermione, staring at her, "I took a few months' lessons-- I thought it might be useful sometime, considering. But I'm not very good, really. Why?"

Ginny grinned wickedly at her. "I find I know a bit myself. Up for a refresher lesson?"

"You don't mean-- Ron would kill me!" she looked down at the sword in her hands.

"Not if you're still the one holding the sword," said Ginny reasonably. "Come on-- why should the boys get to have all the fun?"

"Well," said Hermione. Her eyes flicked around-- most of the school was still gathered around the Quidditch pitch, even Snape, Dumbledore and McGonagall. She laughed. "All right. Why not?" She held the sword loosely before her, testing the balance.

"Brilliant," breathed Ginny, moving into a guard stance, weight on her left leg, right foot placed forward, knees bent-- but even so barely got her sword up in time when Hermione suddenly thrust at her.

Hermione had been dead wrong when she said she wasn't very good, Ginny thought, dazed. She was nearly as good as Harry, if Ginny was any judge, and that was out of practice. Dumbledore had been barmy not to put her into training with the other two. Ginny thought she-- Tom-- no, me, it's all me, even if it is his memories-- had greater knowledge and skill, but Ginny hadn't the practice, and was well out of shape. They were fairly evenly matched; the fight was a symmetrical chaos of swirling and lunging, advancing and retreating, and Ginny didn't think she'd ever experienced anything so intense or beautiful. Hermione's hair had come out of its thick plait and was winding about her face as she panted and swung, and Ginny knew she was in similar shape.

"Go, Ginny!" yelled Colin Creevey from the sidelines, "Chop her up!" and Ginny grinned and glanced at him. Hermione took the opportunity to get a swipe in and would have cut Ginny's wrist if she hadn't gracelessly ducked at the last minute. No more distractions. Ginny gave herself up entirely to the seductive rhythm of the fight and the assured grace fed into her by her stolen memories.

The fight took on all the eerie inevitability and compulsive vividness of dream. Ginny felt as if she could keep going forever: until Hermione executed a perfect inquartata and nearly took Ginny's hand off. How dare she! And then another unexpected move while Ginny was recovering, something she'd never seen before that must have been a recent Muggle development. Use Muggle Moves on me! Filthy Mudblood-- and with a sudden fury Ginny took the offensive, driving Hermione back with a barrage of attacks and a skill and strength she hadn't even dreamed she possessed, until Ron's sword went flying and Ginny had Hermione entirely at the mercy of her blade, and she raised it up for one last stroke--

And "Accio sword!" shouted someone who she recognized, after a second, as Harry, and he was standing between them with Ginny's sword in his hands, white and angry. "What were you doing? You could have killed her!"

And Ginny, suddenly falling back into herself, shook her head, then collapsed onto her knees, shaking. What was I doing? I let Tom take over. I was about to kill her. I wanted to kill Hermione. How could I, how could I risk-- She was gasping for breath.

Ron's face swam vaguely into view, his mouth hanging open. "That was brilliant! Where did you two learn to fight like that?"

Ginny shook her head again.

"It was not brilliant! It was idiotic!" shouted Harry. "How could you risk hurting her? What were you thinking!"

"She would not have been harmed, Harry," said Dumbledore from behind. "There are cushioning charms on the swords, of course. Miss Weasley," she felt his hand on her shoulder, "I'd like to speak with you in my office, if you feel well enough. I'd like to see you as well, Miss Granger, if you've time later this afternoon. It seems I have overlooked a talent."