Chapter Text
Ginny had known, even before her mother had said it, that they wouldn’t be buying her new robes.
Mrs Weasley said it brightly, as if the errand would be a fun family day out that wouldn’t leave worried creases around her eyes. Second-hand robes would be perfectly fine, she stated, squeezing Ginny’s hand as they headed down the marble steps. If they’re good enough to resell, they’re good enough to wear. Ginny had heard that many times. She was lucky, she supposed. If she were a boy she’d likely be getting Ron’s old robes.
Guilt swelled in her at the thought, the memory of their family vault containing little more than a tarnished pile of sickles flashing through her mind.
Percy muttered something about a new quill and drifted away. Fred and George vanished almost immediately, laughter trailing behind them as they spotted Lee Jordan. Her father was already deep in animated conversation with the Grangers, insisting on drinks and explanations and waving vaguely in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron.
Ginny watched them all separate, the family scattering in different directions, leaving her with her mum and a familiar discomfort in her chest.
Second-hand robes meant robes that didn’t quite fit. Sleeves that were too long or too short. Hems that never hung right. Fabric already been tailored to someone else’s shape, however many mending and preserving charms had been placed upon it.
It wasn’t that she thought her mother was wrong. Everyone always said it didn’t matter. That clothes didn’t matter, that money didn’t matter, that people who cared about such things were shallow.
It didn’t change how Ginny had noticed, even before Hogwarts, that the people who said that were never the ones being laughed at.
She followed her mother down the street, past shop windows glittering with things she knew better than to ask for, and tried to look away from the sight of other families walking out with bags and smiles rather than pinched, worried expressions.
— — —
When they reached Flourish & Blotts, the shop was already packed. Ginny ended up lingering near the edge of the room with her lightly battered cauldron, watching Harry struggle under a stack of books so tall she wondered how he could see where he was going.
He nearly tripped when he reached her.
Ginny lurched forward as he tipped the books into her cauldron, metal creaking softly under the weight.
‘You have these,’ Harry mumbled. ‘I’ll buy my own—’
Ginny had barely even opened her mouth to thank him when a posh voice sliced cleanly through the hubbub.
‘Bet you loved that, didn’t you, Potter?’
She looked up.
Draco Malfoy stood a few feet away. Ginny recognised him easily from Ron’s aggravated complaints. His pale hair immaculate, posture lazy enough to suggest he had never had to be careful. Sneering as though he’d practised in front of a mirror.
‘Famous Harry Potter,’ he drawled. ‘Can’t even go into a bookshop without making the front page.’
Heat flared in Ginny’s chest before she could stop it.
‘Leave him alone, he didn’t want all that.’
Malfoy’s eyes flicked to her, unimpressed and somewhat amused.
‘Potter,’ he said haughtily, ‘you’ve got yourself a girlfriend.’
Ginny felt her face burn. Ron and Hermione pushed their way over at that exact moment, arms full of books, and the attention snapped toward them.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ Ron said flatly, staring at Malfoy as if he were something unpleasant. ‘Bet you’re surprised to see Harry here.’
‘Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley,’ Malfoy shot back. His gaze dropped pointedly to the cauldron. ‘I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for that lot.’
Ron flushed the same furious red Ginny knew already stained her own face. He dumped his books into her cauldron and started toward Malfoy. Harry and Hermione grabbed the back of his jacket so fast Ginny was sure it had to be a habit.
‘Ron!’ her father called, already fighting his way through the crowd. ‘What are you doing? It’s mad in here, let’s go outside.’
‘Well, well, well—Arthur Weasley.’
Lucius Malfoy’s voice carried effortlessly, silky despite its edge. He rested a hand on Draco’s shoulder, and a chill shuddered through her when she realised how perfectly Draco mirrored his stance.
Their sneers matched as well.
‘Lucius,’ her father said coldly.
‘Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,’ Lucius Malfoy continued. ‘All those raids... I hope they’re paying you overtime?’
Ginny barely noticed when his hand dipped into her cauldron. She froze as he lifted out her old, battered transfiguration book, its cracked spine and dog-eared pages suddenly glaring under the shop lights.
‘Obviously not,’ he said mildly. ‘Dear me. What’s the use of being a disgrace to Wizardkind if they don’t even pay you well for it?’
Her father’s face reddened, more so than Ron’s had. Ginny would have rather they reflected her father in indifference than embarrassment.
‘We have very different ideas of what disgraces Wizardkind,’ he answered.
‘Clearly,’ Lucius Malfoy replied, his pale eyes sliding toward the Grangers. ‘The company you keep, Weasley. And I thought your family could sink no lower—’
The world erupted.
Metal clanged as Ginny’s cauldron flew. Books thundered down. Her mother yelled. Ginny stumbled back as shelves toppled and bodies surged.
When Hagrid finally waded through and dragged the men apart, Ginny stood frozen, heart hammering, hands clenched painfully around the handle of her hastily retrieved cauldron.
Lucius Malfoy still held her book.
He thrust it at her.
‘Here, girl,’ he scoffed. ‘Take it. It’s the best your father can give you.’
Ginny didn’t even look as it re-joined the rest of her cauldron’s contents.
Lucius swept away, expensive cloak billowing. As he passed Arthur, he paused just long enough to say smoothly,
‘I’ll see you at work.’
Draco followed him, turning just before the door. His gaze flicked back to Harry, then Ron.
‘I’ll see you at school,’ he said.
Then he was gone.
Ginny filed out with her family shortly after, the crowd already bursting into loud dissatisfied gossip. She heard her Mum break out into furious admonishment.
All she could focus on was the burning humiliation in her chest, stronger than she’d ever felt before.
— — —
By the time they’d returned to the Burrow, Ginny wanted nothing more than for the day to end.
The house loomed up ahead of them, endearingly crooked, stacked haphazardly atop what she vaguely knew had once been a much smaller house. The red roof sagged beneath too many chimneys, and the lopsided sign reading THE BURROW creaked faintly in the breeze. Chickens scattered as they came up the path, clucking indignantly. A heap of mismatched boots lay strewn by the door, and a rusted cauldron sat abandoned in the yard, half-filled with rainwater.
Normally, Ginny liked it.
The bustle and homely clutter. Everything seemed to lean into everything else, as though the house itself refused to stand alone.
They barely made it inside before the talking started.
Mrs Weasley swept ahead of them, dumping her bag on the kitchen table with more force than necessary. Her mouth was already moving, voice strained as she turned back on her husband.
‘Arthur, you cannot just react like that,’ she said, yanking open a cupboard. ‘In public. In front of the children. In a shop full of people.’
‘I wasn’t reacting,’ Mr Weasley said, defensively, setting down the armful of books he’d been carrying. ‘You heard what he implied, Molly. About Hermione’s parents.’
‘That doesn’t mean you start brawling with him,’ Mrs Weasley chastised. ‘Do you have any idea what that will look like in the papers?’
Ginny edged past them, clutching her cauldron, her heart thudding. She didn’t want to hear this. She didn’t want to think about the words Lucius Malfoy had used, or the manner in which he’d said them, flat and certain, as though they were nothing more than an observation.
Ron dropped his own bag with a thud and launched himself into the conversation anyway.
‘Honestly,’ he said, scowling, ‘Malfoy’s unbearable. Like he wasn’t already a right git at school. Now we’ve had to put up with him before term even starts.’
‘He’s got a real talent for it,’ Harry added, slumping into a chair. ‘You’d think he’d wear himself out at some point.’
‘Did you see his face?’ Fred said, grinning faintly as he leaned against the doorframe. ‘When Dad went for him?’
George snorted. ‘Worth it just for that.’
Mrs Weasley rounded on them immediately. ‘That’s not funny.’
Fred raised his hands placatingly, grin only widening, ‘Never sais it was. You don’t see Dad like that very often though.’
Ginny’s stomach twisted.
She edged toward the stairs, hoping to slip away unnoticed. The words followed after her, trailing through the house.
Her mother’s anger tempered into frustration as she spoke about possible repercussions at the Ministry. Her father’s voice stayed firm, insisting he would not apologise for defending what mattered. Ron complained loudly about Draco’s arrogance, about his father, about how unfair it all was. Harry chimed in, sounding no less frustrated.
A frown etched itself into Ginny’s face.
She thought of Lucius Malfoy holding her book between the tips of fingers, as one might lift something distasteful off the floor. Of the brief, cutting glance he’d given her before handing it back, as though she too had been found wanting.
No one asked her anything.
Not whether she was all right.
Not even if she’d been frightened.
She climbed the stairs slowly, each step creaking beneath her feet. The voices blurred together behind her, rising and falling, overlapping as everyone seemingly had something urgent to say.
She reached the landing and paused, the sounds muffled now by the bend of the stairwell.
Earlier that morning, she’d watched Harry and her brothers de-gnoming the garden, dragging the gnomes from their holes and swinging them in wide arcs before flinging them over the fence. The gnomes had shrieked and flailed, and the boys had laughed, red-faced and breathless.
Ginny had laughed too, at the time.
Now, she found herself thinking that the Malfoys probably never had gnome infestations. Probably never had to throw their problems bodily out of the ground, hoping they wouldn’t crawl back.
She pushed the thought away, irritated with herself, and continued to her room.
Behind her, the Burrow murmured, full of opinions and explanations and justifications.
Ginny closed her door gently and leaned back against it, pressing her forehead to the wood.
She didn’t want to think about any of it.
— — —
Ginny spread her things across the bed, one item at a time, as though arranging them carefully might make the whole thing feel more real.
Books first. Heavy and foreign, their spines cracked and titles embossed in peeling gold. She stacked them neatly, smoothing a hand over the top one, imagining them tucked under her arm as she hurried between lessons. The glossy, new books Harry had given her stood out against the second-hand ones.
She was too giddy to pay the contrast much mind.
Quills followed, then parchment, then the small pouch of ink bottles her mum had insisted on checking twice to make sure none were leaking.
Despite everything, excitement bubbled up again, warm and insistent. Hogwarts. Proper lessons. Magic that wasn’t just accidental bursts and scoldings. A place where no one knew her yet.
She reached for the last of the books and paused.
It was small, with a plain, dark cover and no title. She frowned, turning it over in her hands.
‘I don’t remember buying you,’ she muttered.
She flipped it open. The pages were thick and completely blank, except for a single, smudged name. Only just legible.
T. M. Riddle
Ginny flicked through the whole thing quickly, then shrugged.
Maybe it had been cheap. Or free with something else. She set it aside. A spare notebook would come in handy.
Her gaze drifted to the robes folded at the foot of the bed.
She hesitated, then picked them up.
Pulling them on was like stepping into a picture she’d been carrying around in her head for months. Black fabric settling around her legs. Hogwarts. A proper witch at last.
The girl in the mirror didn’t match the image.
The sleeves swallowed her hands, hanging past her wrists. The hem of her skirt brushed the floor unless she rolled it once, then twice. When she turned, she caught sight of a loose thread near the robe’s seam. The stitching along it had already been reinforced once, obvious if you knew to look.
They didn’t look dramatic.
They looked… worn.
Ginny stared at her reflection, throat tightening. She’d imagined herself taller somehow. Older. Someone people might actually look at.
Instead she looked exactly like what she was, a little girl in robes that had belonged to someone else first.
Something prickled behind her eyes. She yanked the robes over her head and flung them onto the bed, breath coming faster than she liked. It was stupid. She knew it was. They were only clothes.
The disappointment sat heavy in her chest, tangled up with the rest of day in Diagon Alley, with Lucius Malfoy’s smooth voice and her father’s flushed face.
She grabbed the blank book, and flopped onto the bed. A diary was as good a use as any.
No thought was spared to making it neat.
The words poured out, messy and slanted, ink blotted where her hand pressed too hard. She wrote about the shop, about Draco Malfoy’s sneer, about her father throwing the first punch and how everyone had stared. She wrote about how angry she’d been, and how ashamed, and how she hated herself for feeling both at once.
She wrote about wanting Hogwarts to be different. About not wanting to be laughed at. About not wanting to feel small.
She was over half of the page in when she noticed the ink had begun to fade.
Ginny stared as the words she’d just written paled, thinning until the page was blank once more.
Her heart gave a startled thump.
‘What?’ she whispered, flipping the page, then flipping it back. Blank. Entirely blank.
At first, she thought it must be some sort of trick, cheap ink, perhaps, or a defective charm— when new writing appeared, fancy, slanted, so neat they might as well have been printed.
Hello.
Ginny’s breath caught.
She sat up slowly, pulse racing, staring at the page.
Hello? she wrote, hand shaking despite herself.
My name is Tom Riddle.
I am pleased to make your acquaintance.
Ginny swallowed. How are you doing this?
A reasonable question. Tom wrote. One I will gladly answer, should you wish. Although, it seems only fair that I know who I am speaking to first.
She dithered before answering, Ginny Weasley.
Weasley, Tom repeated. That is an old wizarding name. Am I right to presume you are a pureblood?
Her pen hovered. She frowned slightly, then wrote, Yes. But my parents say all that blood stuff is rubbish.
The moment seemed to drag, and when the response came, it did not address her comment.
Are you a Hogwarts student?
Yes. She scribbled, then clarified. Well, almost, I’m starting my first year soon.
A moment passed.
I see. Tom wrote. You seem upset. I did not intend to alarm you earlier.
I was just writing, she admitted. About today.
You need not explain. Tom replied. Diaries exist to hold what is difficult to address aloud. I will not repeat anything you write here. I cannot, even if I wished to.
Her chest loosened at that.
She wrote again, slower now. It was embarrassing.
Embarrassment is not a failing. Tom responded. It is an instinct. One learns much by paying attention to it.
Ginny stared at the words, then added, I shouldn’t feel like that about my family.
And yet you do. Tom wrote gently. Feelings rarely ask permission before they arrive.
Her throat tightened.
She found herself writing about her father again. About how he’d lost his temper. About how everyone had seen. About how her brothers had laughed about it afterwards.
Love does not require admiration of every action.
Ginny leaned back against her pillows, the book warm beneath her hands.
I don’t like the Malfoys, she wrote. Still, they never looked embarrassed.
No reply came immediately.
Appearances are powerful things. Some families understand how to use them better than others.
That was all.
Ginny stared at the page for a long moment, then closed the book carefully, as though it might startle if she weren’t gentle.
She lasted all of ten seconds.
I keep thinking about Harry, she wrote, opening it again. He was there too. During all of it.
Harry?
Harry Potter. He’s my brother’s friend. He’s… really nice actually. You wouldn’t expect it, with how famous he is. He didn’t want the attention.
Tom’s reply came a fraction faster this time.
Famous?
Yes, Ginny wrote quickly, Everyone makes such a fuss. Because he’s the saviour of the wizarding world. And he just looks uncomfortable, like he’d rather be anywhere else.
There was a pause.
The saviour of the wizarding world? How intriguing.
She shifted against her pillows, the diary warm and solid beneath her hands, and kept writing. It felt nice to tell Tom, who seemed so clever, about something he didn’t know.
She carried on writing quite a ways into the night.
— — —
Everyone came down to breakfast at once, as they always seemed to.
The stairs creaked under the usual stampede of feet, voices overlapping before anyone had even reached the kitchen. Percy was already arguing about something, while Fred and George made a show of exaggerating their yawns, nearly tripping Ron as they passed him on the landing.
Ginny followed more slowly, trailing her fingers along the banister.
The kitchen was warm and bright, sunlight spilling across the scrubbed table. Mrs Weasley stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, hair escaping its tie as she stirred a pan with brisk, practised movements.
‘Sit down, all of you,’ she said fondly, without turning. ‘Before someone gets hurt.’
Mr Weasley was already there, mug of tea in hand, laughing as George launched into a dramatic retelling of something Fred had supposedly done the night before.
Harry promptly sat next to Ron.
She paused only a second before taking the seat opposite him.
She didn’t feel that rush of heat this time, the sudden clumsiness that usually followed whenever he was near. The absence of it was strange enough that she noticed.
He was just sitting there, hair sticking up at the back, smiling into his tea.
It was just as Tom had said, she thought. He didn’t do anything back then. Not really.
Whatever had happened had happened to him, before he could even remember it.
The way everyone still watched him, still whispered, suddenly seemed excessive. As if everyone liked the story of him better than the real boy sitting at the table.
Harry caught her looking and smiled.
Ginny ducked her head, but she didn’t knock over her glass.
The Daily Prophet arrived with a smack against the window, fluttering down in a scatter of grey feathers.
‘Blimey,’ Ron said. ‘One day that owl’s going to take someone’s head off.’
Mrs Weasley sighed. ‘I keep telling you, Arthur, we should take out that—’
Mr Weasley caught the paper easily, folding it open as he did so. ‘Nonsense. He’ll figure it out eventually.’
Ginny wasn’t looking at the paper.
She was watching her father’s face as he skimmed the front page.
‘Lockhart again,’ Percy said, peering over his shoulder. ‘Honestly, the man’s everywhere.’
Ginny’s attention was grabbed despite herself.
Lockhart’s smiling face dominated the page, all perfect hair and confidence, the headline proclaiming his appointment to Hogwarts in gleaming letters.
Then her eyes slid lower.
Her stomach dropped.
She leaned forward, barely aware she was moving, and began to read.
The mention was small, barely a paragraph, tucked neatly into the article like an afterthought. Her father’s name jumped at her regardless, black ink stark against the white parchment.
Ministry employee Arthur Weasley was reportedly involved in a brief physical altercation…
Her chest tightened.
No mention of Lucius Malfoy’s cold and deliberate remarks.
Just that her father had lost his temper.
Ginny read it again.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ Mrs Weasley said, finally noticing. ‘They’ve put that in?’
Mr Weasley snorted, folding the paper with a shake of his head. ‘Horrible journalism. They never let facts mess with a good story.’
George, corners of his mouth curling up. ‘Could’ve been worse. At least they didn’t make it sound too dramatic.’
Fred laughed. ‘Yeah, Dad, imagine the headline.’
Mrs Weasley shot them a look. However, she was smiling too.
‘Honestly,’ she said, brushing it off. ‘Eat your breakfast. It’ll be forgotten by tomorrow.’
The paper was folded, disappearing beneath a stack of letters.
Nobody reached for it again.
Conversation rolled on, drifting to school supplies and train schedules, to jokes and small complaints. Plates clinked.
Ginny stared at the table.
Forgotten.
Just like that.
Her family was unbothered, according to them it didn’t matter. They laughed, endured though they shouldn’t have to, and never seemed to want more than that.
She loved them for it, but a lump rose in her throat regardless.
Why wouldn’t they care how they were seen?
Why wouldn’t they try to be careful, to protect themselves from this happening again?
It seemed so obvious to her, suddenly, that if people listened more readily to names like Malfoy, then surely the sensible thing was to use what advantages you had.
And yet her family never did.
They were content.
She carefully chewed on her toast, trying to not outwardly look as glum as she was.
— — —
Ginny had stopped thinking of the diary as strange.
That, she supposed later, was the strangest part.
She wrote in it most evenings now, curled on her bed with her feet tucked beneath her, the curtains half-drawn against the lingering summer light. Sometimes she’d have little more than a few lines to say, though Tom would easily draw from them a long, pleasant conversation. The book always warmed beneath her hands, as comforting as her favourite jumper.
It happened again today, she wrote one evening. Mum was talking about Dad’s work, about how busy things were, and how lucky he is to have a steady position.
She paused, then added, I don’t think she meant it how it sounded.
The ink quickly sank into the page.
Busy does not always mean valued, Tom replied. Nor does ‘steady' mean secure.
Mouth pinching slightly, she nibbled on the end of her quill.
He likes his job, she wrote. He says it’s important.
I do not doubt that he believes it to be, Tom answered. Though importance and respect are not the same thing.
Her hand hovered, unsure of how to respond. The idea hovered, close to a feeling she found hard to explain.
She wrote anyway. He works at the Ministry, that’s respectable.
Indeed, Tom replied smoothly. And yet you have seen how quickly that respect disappears when his name is spoken by the wrong people.
She had told him about the Prophet article, of course, so Tom knew what she meant.
It wasn’t fair. They didn’t even say what started it.
No. It would not serve them. Narratives are shaped in the manner most beneficial to those crafting them.
She stretched her fingers.
What do you mean?
There was a brief pause, one she had learnt to mean Tom was thinking.
Your family name is old, Tom wrote eventually. It carries history. That history could open doors, if one wished them opened.
Ginny hesitated.
She could almost hear her mother’s voice, brisk and certain. That sort of thing doesn’t matter.
Dad wouldn’t do that, she wrote. He doesn’t like using… those types of connections.
A reasonable instinct, Tom replied. In moderation. The world does not become fair simply because one refuses to play by its rules.
The words made her somewhat uncomfortable, a small prickle at the back of her neck.
That sounds a bit like the Malfoys, she scribbled, before she could stop herself.
As before, the response came with a slight delay.
When it did, the tone had shifted, softened.
Not in values, Tom wrote. Only in awareness. There is nothing wrong with wanting dignity. Or safety. Or comfort for one’s family.
Ginny swallowed.
I don’t want to be like them, she added quickly.
Tom reassured her. Ambition need not come with cruelty. Intelligence need not lead to arrogance. It is worth asking why some people are always listened to, while others must shout to be heard.
She stared at the page.
That… made sense.
She thought of the kitchen table. Of laughter and brushing things off. Of her father folding the paper and setting it aside as though it were already irrelevant.
Why doesn’t he try harder? She wrote finally, the question far too simple for how wrong it felt to ask.
Because trying harder would mean admitting that how things are is not enough, Tom replied. And that can be a difficult thing for people to accept.
I feel awful thinking that, she admitted.
Most people are frightened by their own honesty.
Ginny took a long, slow breath.
Outside her window, the garden rustled softly, gnomes stirring somewhere in the dark. The Burrow settling into itself, as it always did for the night.
She looked back down at the diary.
I don’t think Gryffindor would suit me much, she wrote briskly, as though pretending it were afterthought would make it feel less traitorous.
The ink vanished.
Why do you say that?
She considered, then wrote, Everyone in my family’s been in it. They don’t seem to mind being laughed at. Or ignored.
There was a pause.
You may find, Tom replied carefully, that you want different things. That is not a failing. It is simply… discernment.
Ginny traced the edge of the page with her finger.
The word felt important.
She kept writing.
Smoke from the engine curled thickly above the crowd, carrying with it the sharp tang of coal and hot metal. Voices overlapped everywhere, from goodbyes and shouts to last-minute instructions, until it all blurred into a single, restless hum. Trunks scraped along the platform stones, owls hooted irritably from cages, and a ginger cat darted between ankles before vanishing beneath a bench.
Ginny tightened her grip on her trolley.
She’d thought she was ready. She’d pictured this moment so many times, the train, the platform, her on it instead of watching from the side lines. Standing there now, hemmed in by bodies and noise, it was all too much at once. Everyone else seemed to know exactly where they were going.
Her family clustered around her in a loose knot, voices warm and overlapping. Her mother fussed with her collar. Her brothers joked and nudged one another, already half-turned towards the train.
Mum said Ron would sit with me, Ginny thought, glancing up and down the line of carriages.
She searched instinctively for a flash of cropped red hair. Ron would know what to do. He would make it easier.
The doors were starting to close, and students were already climbing aboard in twos and threes. The nearer compartments were full, faces pressed to windows, hands waving, laughter spilling out. Ginny craned her neck, heart thudding. Ron didn’t appear.
She swallowed.
It was silly to feel like this. He’d probably just been delayed. Or distracted.
‘Ginny,' her mother said gently. 'You’d best get on now, love.'
Ginny nodded, though her throat felt stiff. She pushed her trolley forward, weaving past clusters of people and the rough corners of other trunks. Inside the carriage, the corridor was already crowded. Voices echoed oddly, and the floor vibrated beneath her feet.
Finding an empty compartment at last, Ginny went inside, lifting her trunk onto the rack with a clatter that felt far too loud. She smoothed her skirt as she sat, pulse still racing. The train lurched slightly as the engine gave a low, impatient hiss. She reached into her bag almost without thinking.
The diary was already warm when she touched it.
She didn’t open it fully, barely enough to write a singular line.
I’m nervous.
That is understandable. I imagine it is quite different, being on the train, rather than merely accompanying your brothers.
The weight on her shoulders seemed to lighten instantly.
What if I get it wrong? She added, more hurried now. The Sorting.
There was a brief, deliberate pause.
The Hat listens, Tom replied. You need only be honest with it.
The whistle blew, long and shrill. Outside, parents stepped back from the train, waving.
Ginny tucked the diary away safely in the inside pocket of her robes.
The train began to move, slowly at first, then faster, the platform sliding past in a blur of colour and motion. Her family faded from view. The noise softened, settling into the steady rhythm of wheels on track.
Ginny sat back against the seat.
She was alone now.
But she felt… steadier than she had a moment before.
She looked out the window as London slipped away, and let the motion of the train carry her forward.
— — —
The Great Hall was quieter than Ginny had expected.
Not silent, never that, the noise merely gathered itself into something contained. Hundreds of voices murmured beneath floating candles, the sound pressing in from all sides as the first-years were guided forward. Ginny’s gaze flicked upward, the ceiling was dark as night, stars scattered across it, distant and unreachable.
The first-years were arranged in uneven rows at the centre of the Great Hall, a small island of black robes amid a speckled sea of colour. Ginny stood between two girls she didn’t know, her hands clasped so tightly in front of her that her fingers ached.
Names were called. One by one, students walked to the stool, the hat dipped over their eyes, and the hall reacted. Cheers from one table, polite applause from another. Gryffindor red flashed often. Hufflepuff yellow drew warm smiles. Ravenclaw murmured approval.
When Slytherin was called, the sound was different.
Ginny noticed.
Her name felt miles away until it wasn’t.
‘Weasley, Ginevra.’
The expectation seemed tangible, pressing in from all sides. Weasley. Gryffindor. The words seemed to follow one another naturally in the minds of everyone watching. She didn’t need to look to know where her brothers sat, a block of red and gold together, already leaning forward with interest.
Legs stiff, she walked forward. The distance to the stool seemed longer than it had for anyone else. She was acutely aware of the watching eyes now, whispers breaking off as she passed. Someone laughed softly. She couldn’t tell if it was kind.
She sat.
The hat slipped down over her eyes, its brim brushing her lashes, and the hall disappeared.
Darkness.
Oh?
The voice was alert, thoughtful, neither loud nor unkind.
A Weasley, it said thoughtfully. Yes, I know the name well. Plenty of courage there. Loud courage. Reckless courage. A great deal of noise, most of it well meant.
Ginny’s fingers pressed into the edge of the stool.
... There’s a great deal more kept carefully in here as well.
You watch. You remember.
And you dislike being overlooked far more than you fear being disliked.
Her breath caught.
Ah, the Hat murmured. There it is. You want your words to carry. You want to be taken seriously—not someday, but soon.
Images flickered unbidden: her brothers’ laughter, adults speaking over her head, the heat of embarrassment curling in her chest.
You could be brave, the voice continued mildly. You have fire enough for it. Bravery would serve you well. Yet I think you'd grow impatient there.
She couldn’t stop herself from frowning at that.
You are not fond of waiting.
Ginny didn’t overthink the words. She didn’t argue. She simply felt their truth settle.
There is a place, said the Hat, where such perception is prized. Where ambition is not something to be ashamed of. Where those who notice how things stand are taught how to move with the currents.
The darkness seemed to tilt.
Yes, the Hat said decisively. That will do nicely.
‘SLYTHERIN!’
The word rang through the Hall.
For a heartbeat, it was silent.
Then, slowly, deliberately, applause began at the Slytherin table, measured claps, a few nods of approval. Someone made space. Green and silver shifted to receive her.
A moment later, scattered clapping followed from elsewhere in the Hall, uncertain and delayed.
Gryffindor was quiet.
Ginny stood, legs unsteady, and crossed toward her new table. She was keenly aware of the looks now, surprise, curiosity, speculation.
As she sat, the tension inside her loosened, replaced by something steadier and more resolute.
Recognition.