Into The Blue

Into The Blue

Sometimes - and I cannot specify when they come, only that they do, these moments - I wonder and ask myself what would have been, had I not done what I did, had I acted differently. I know that what I did, and what I said was wrong. I know that I made mistakes. I know that everybody thinks that I should not have done it, should not have said it.

But I did do it, and I did say it, and things can't be changed now. I still remember the headlines of the Daily Prophet, in big and bold letters, almost screaming the news to everybody who had not already heard about it through the complicated but reliable network of housewife gossip. Remarkably, but not surprisingly, my mother was not taking part in it for once in her life, for obvious reasons.

I still have the first article I ever read on myself somewhere. Wait a while, perhaps I might find it. I think I might have put it somewhere in the purple folder, where I keep all the stuff that I do not take a look at, usually. Faraway, long-gone things, lost memories, marbles, so to speak.

Ah, yes, here it is! In all its crinkled and coffee stained glory. Would you believe it? Just look at the date! I hadn't realized that it has been twenty years already. Twenty years full of things I would never have imagined myself doing, saying, thinking. But here I am, and even if I think about what might have been sometimes, as I've already mentioned, at random times, such as when I'm emptying the dustbins, or brushing my hair, or weeding the garden, I never regret it. I think about it, yes, but I never crave it. I have learned not to listen to my cravings anymore a long time ago.

I might have had a little house in the suburbs, with a garden, three gorgeous children, and a loving husband, a nice little dog and a white picket fence.

As it is, well... First things first. The article. Guess who wrote it. Yes, of course, the mistress of gory details and lack of compassion concerning other people's privacy, Rita Skeeter. I'm still not quite sure as to why she's still allowed to work for the Prophet. An old school friend of mine's father, who owns the Quibbler magazine, once said that he wouldn't want her working for him even if he was offered a hundred million galleons. You get the picture.

Let's just say that my first reaction to it was, well, I told you about the coffee stains, right? Just try to ignore the fact that they did not take the direct route from the mug to the paper, but rather the - as my father, who is prone to walk around a pond and take an hour while he could just use a boat and be at the other side within minutes, would call it - detour over first my mouth, and then my nose.

I knew that the indignation, the bewilderment at what I had done would cause an uproar from the wizarding population all over Britain. I had taken away one of the few things they still delighted in, after those long, dark times. They - we had suffered through a long, metaphorical nordic winter, and I had spoiled their midsummer celebrations, so to speak.

But I do not regret it. I know that I lied to them as well as to myself, but in the end, now, I know that I did the right thing.

But I digress again. I was trying to tell you about the article - but then again, you might not understand it without knowing the story that preceded it. A story that most people know, but don't tell nowadays. So I'll start at the beginning.

I was young back then, very young and foolish. I still had dreams, ideas and visions on how to change the world. Neither of them involved doing what I did. Ironically enough, I might have changed the world nonetheless. Or at least Britain, which is my world, since I have never left it in my whole life except for the one time I went to Egypt with my family when I was twelve.

So, I was young. I did not feel this back then, but today I think that I was cheated on a little, that my childhood and youth were not as they should have been. Voldemort - don't look at me like that! He's been dead for over two decades now - was still on the loose, and gaining power. We - the students at Hogwarts, that is - were lulled into a false sense of security. Of course everybody knew that bad things were going to happen, but Hogwarts was said to be one of the safest places there are. Little did that help in the end, as you might know.

I was sixteen when it all happened, and in my sixth year of magical schooling. It does not matter whether I was a good student or not - in fact, I think I was an average student, neither especially good, nor bad - but through certain connections, I was more informed on things that would or might happen. You can already guess who I'm talking about, but I'm still going to spell it out for you: Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger. The infernal triumvirate (I still take delight in calling them that, because it drives Hermione up the wall), always up to no good, but as good at heart as one can be. In a way, they haven't changed much. Of course they've grown up, but they're still as mischievous as ever deep down.

They would not tell me anything, naturally, but living with six older brothers all my life had not passed me by without leaving its traces. Not to forget that Fred and George would regularly use me as their spy so they could gauge our mom's reaction to some kind of nonsense they had done. So, despite their secrecy, I was often informed a lot better than they would have liked.

But not just them. Me, I'm a keen observer. I know about people's emotions, opinions, wishes, dreams, by listening to them (not necessarily spying). I can tell when somebody is lying to me (and god knows how often I had to pretend not to know with the trio) and frankly, I sometimes wish that I would not know.

And so it came that, one day, I followed Harry, Hermione and Ron, who were sneaking out of the Gryffindor common room. Little did I know that that day would change my life forever.

I do not know - not even today - why they did not use the invisibility cloak. Truth to be told, I have not asked, because that day is a big taboo topic in our family now. Even though they all came around, acknowledged what I did and welcomed me back into the fold they have never accepted it, nor will they do it anytime soon.

Twenty years have passed since then, and I know that in another twenty years, things will still be the same. We will all be older, but none the wiser.

You might have already guessed that that was the day, the big day. Isn't it ironic that the day that the most heroic deeds were done by Harry, Hermione and Ron is the day that nobody in my family wants to talk about, because they feel that what I have done easily outweighs their actions.

As if it had been an easy thing to do. I mean, look at the picture in the article. Do I look happy? Do I look as if I had just done the easiest thing in my life? No. Actually, I think I look rather scared, as far as I can tell. This scrap of paper is over twenty years old, after all. Close to twenty one years, as it is.

But back to the story: it was not the day that Draco was arrested. It was the day that Voldemort was defeated. He had actually planned it to be a trap for Harry, but - without wanting to sound as if Voldemort was not a force to be reckoned with - we know how these would go, from past experiences. I still haven't quite grasped how they did it, but in the end, after a rather confusing scene at the edge of the Forbidden Forest (people are still quarreling over how Voldemort and his little group of psycho supporters even got there) involving half the population of Gryffindor tower that was older than fifteen years old (Neville had caught me sneaking out after the trio, and had made such a ruckus that quite the group had finally gathered), Voldmort and one of his supporters were dead, the others arrested after Dumbledore and some other members of the Order of the Phoenix came to the scene. And only at the cost of Seamus Finnegan, Parvati Patil, Colin Creevey and a fifth year gi rl called Susannah Bridges. Note the sarcasm here, please. It was a total fiasco.

But, the deaths of these people, these children got overridden by the exhilaration at the prospect of Voldemort's death. Hermione tried to explain it to me once, but I did not quite get it. Something about combined spells, a blood moon and all of the spell casters wearing shoes with rubber soles. What you can tell from this is, though, that it was sheer, dumb luck.

Voldemort died, because dear old Murphy forgot to turn an eye on Harry Potter and his group of idiotically brave (don't, just don't say anything now. I was with them, and I am counting myself among them) friends. Whatever could have gone wrong did not go wrong, or did it? In my opinion, the loss of innocent lives is never justified. But people don't listen to my opinions on morals and ethics anymore. Not after what happened then.

You see, there were five surviving Death Eaters at the scene. The one that was killed was Lucius Malfoy, which was, later on, the soil that I built my statement on. Everybody else thought it was sand, at first, but in the end, it proved to be granite. A dead man cannot talk after all, not even in the wizarding world. Well, technically he can, if he is a ghost, but Lucius Malfoy did not become a ghost.

Among the surviving Death Eaters was his son, Draco Malfoy. I think I was the only one to realize this, but he was nothing but a scared seventeen year old boy with no dreams, no visions and no ideas and an ugly tattoo on his left forearm.

People have always told me that I am too kind for my own good when I want to be. I know as well as everybody else that I can be one hell of a shrew. But I am not always like that. I have my moments in which I want to save the world. Right then, I had such a moment.

And when Kingsley Shacklebolt got some magical - well, shackles - with every intention of binding Draco Malfoy with them, I hastily stepped up to him and calmly asked him not to.

I don't remember the look he gave me anymore. I guess he must have been surprised. I do not remember the look Draco gave me. He must have been even more baffled. All I remember is the total lack of noise after I said it. I hadn't realized how loud it had been until the moment where all sound ceased.

"P-pardon me?" Kingsley had finally said, breaking the silence.

I said it again. I did not want him to put those shackles on Draco's hands - and yes, I said Draco. I would have never dreamed of ever doing that, but I did, despite everything that he had ever done to my family in the past. It was vital to the plan that I had hastily formed upon seeing Kingsley, and then the dead body of the boy's father.

And then there was the point where I nearly dropped my courage and confessed that I was lying. It was when my father suddenly asked in icy and clipped tones why I did not want that to happen.

And what I did next shocked the whole nation more than anything I had ever done, including the incident with the Chamber of Secrets. It was the next best thing that came to my mind.

I cleared my throat, gave Draco a significant look, turned around so that I was facing all those people that were staring at me open-mouthed, declaring that I was Draco's girlfriend, and that I knew that he had not participated willingly in all this. I claimed to have seen Lucius Malfoy casting the Imperius curse on Draco.

Upon this declaration, various emotions were plainly written on all of their faces: disbelief, uncertainty, anger, suspicion, outrage, disappointment.

I had not given this much thought when I said it. I am not sure why Draco Malfoy, the boy who, as I thought, would rather die than accept help from a Weasley did not protest. I guess he valued his life as much as any other sane person does. So he played along.

But all my efforts would have been futile, had there not been one person that I have held a very high opinion of since that day: Severus Snape. As a member of the Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore trusted him. And Severus Snape confirmed my statement.

Back then, I thought that Dumbledore had just swallowed and believed my lie. I was such a naïve fool that it makes me smile now. Of course he had looked right through me, but he knew my motivation, and understood it. He always wanted the best to happen to his students, and he even showed his mercy to those who did not treat him with the respect that other students did. And he believed me.

Cornelius Fudge, who was still Minister of Magic back then had made too many mistakes when not listening to Dumbledore, so he had to let Draco go without interrogating anybody under the influence of Veritaserum, but he did so grudgingly.

And me being the stupid, innocent girl that I was, I had never felt more despair in my life then when I read those words that will forever haunt me that next day: Murderer gets acquitted because of Death Eater's bride's lies

I know for a fact that Draco has never in his life killed anybody. He told me that that night was his first assignment as a Death Eater a couple of years ago. The use of the word acquitted is a little strange, because there never was a trial. But what really got to me was that I was called a Death Eater's bride.

Well, back then I wasn't one. After what I did, it was inevitable not to be one, though. I had acted into the blue, and not thought about the consequences.

Later that week, Draco suddenly turned up at our doorstep - would you believe that? Draco Malfoy willingly coming to the Burrow! - asking whether I had a moment for him. I had.

We talked about a lot of things that I don't remember now. I guess he must have asked me why I had lied for him. I guess I might have answered.

The war was over. Voldemort was dead. Death Eaters were being trialed and sent off to prison, many of them to receive the Dementor's kiss.

Draco must have realized that I was his only chance of ever leading a life outside of social marginalization and exclusion. And truth to be told, I did not have a choice either. After what I'd done, I was actually glad to have somebody to talk to who did not disapprove of it.

We were the only companions the other had. And even though we did not know each other, and were not boyfriend and girlfriend as I had claimed, we played along. We eventually got accustomed to each other, and married. Look at us today: we have two children, a large, creepy mansion, no dog but four cats, and a garden that is not bordered with white picket fences, but rather evil-looking iron gates and a stone wall.

I don't know whether I would have been better off had I not decided to help Draco out when I did. He has never tried to sacrifice either of our children to an obscure dark deity, never tried any strange resurrection rituals, never committed any sins beyond forgetting about the garbage.

Truth to be told, I have grown attached to him over the years. I just got used to having him around. I might even love him, but not in the passionate, take my breath away sort of way. It might even be the same with him. It's a quiet sort of love, one that does not come spontaneously, but rather one that evolves into what it is over years and years of companionship. It does not seem to carry any notions to leave either, at the moment.

Sometimes you have to do something wrong in order to achieve something that is right. I think that this was what happened in my case.

You might think otherwise. I cannot ask you not to judge me, or what I did, neither do I want to force you to think what I think. But I beg you to form your own opinion of everything, keeping in mind what I just told you.

Ginny Weasley