WOGW: Chapter Eight: The Dream

Having exhausted every last bit of energy she felt she possessed in leaving the restaurant and returning home, Ginny couldn’t even force herself to take another step. She leaned against the door, folded her arms over her chest and closed her eyes. After a moment she also leant her head back. It started to snow while she stood there, and the icy flakes fell on her face. She stopped feeling them after a while, just like she stopped feeling the cold.

How long she would have stayed out in the falling snow was impossible to say, but it would have been longer had Hugh not been returning from somewhere. He was obviously as preoccupied as Ginny because he didn’t see her until he was stepping onto the stoop.

“Ginny?” he asked. His shock couldn’t disguise the flat and defeated tone of his voice. “Did you forget your key again?”

She shook her head but didn’t move otherwise.

“Why are you standing out here, then?” He had his key in hand and moved a few inches closer so he could use it. Ginny still remained where she was, prompting another question about why she was standing out here, dressed as she was. She shrugged.

“Good Lord, you’re freezing,” he said, touching her cheek. “And you look like you’ve seen a ghost! What’s going on?”

“I might have seen a ghost,” she said hoarsely. She immediately started shivering uncontrollably, as though all of the chill caught up with her at once.

“Let’s get you inside.”

Hugh asked no further questions about what she meant, which was just as well because Ginny couldn’t have answered him. She could barely make her legs move and he had to all but carry her up the stairs and into her flat. When he removed his arm from around her waist she fell back against the door again.

“Ginny, mum’s just sent a letter. She wants to know what time you want us to be there on Satur -” Ron was holding a roll of parchment. He stopped level with the kitchen door. “What the – Hermione, come here.”

By the time Ron and Hermione made the journey from one end of the long hallway to another, Ginny had kicked her shoes into the closet and was heading for James’s room, running one hand along the wall for support. The others were asking questions but she couldn’t process them. She had one last burst of energy left and only one goal. She took James from his crib and headed for her own bed.

“At least let me take your coat,” Hermione said when Ginny was about to crawl into bed. She relented and allowed Hermione to remove her wet coat – a difficult task because she wouldn’t let go of James – and then she fell onto the bed, fully clothed and began stroking James’s hair. It was easy to ignore everything but her son and his silky soft, albeit untidy, hair. She soon fell into a stupor.

At some point the stupor changed into actual sleep from which Ginny woke an unknown number of hours later. Her head was pounding and she was still shivering despite the fact that someone had covered her in a heavy quilt. She was disoriented in the near total darkness, but soon realized it was much darker because the curtains had been completely closed, something she never did because she liked the sliver of light from the streetlamp. As she adjusted herself in bed her hand brushed against a head of hair and for the most fleeting of moments she was seized with the idea that it was Harry.

Ginny brushed James’s hair off his forehead knowing that she had made the error because of the dream that had awakened her.

She had dreamt that Harry had been in the loo at Dimentichi’s, hidden under his invisibility cloak, which had brushed against her leg as she was leaving. She reached behind her and pulled it off, revealing him. He looked exhausted and unkempt, but was unmistakeable. She stupidly started to shout his name, but he clapped his hand over her mouth, insisting that they didn’t have much time. He pulled her into a tight embrace and threw the cloak over them both.

And then they were kissing. Who started it Ginny neither knew nor cared as she ran the pads of her fingers over his days old stubble before tangling her hands in his hair.

Ginny sat up and opened her eyes, trying to block out the dream and the feeling of kissing Harry, of his fingers sliding from her face down her arm and then lightly across her abdomen where they lingered for a moment. He stopped kissing her, and in the omniscience of her dream she knew it was because of the guilt he felt over not being there for her and James.

“He looks just like you,” she said, brushing the hair off his forehead like she did so often with James.

“But he’s got your eyes,” Harry replied. The warmness of his breath tickled the hairs on her neck and transcended the dream so that, like with everything else, it felt less like a dream and more like a memory.

Now holding James, Ginny tried to swallow the painful lump in her throat, but what escaped was a sob. She stifled it by burying her face in her son’s hair, glad that he didn’t wake. The more she battled to control her sobs, insisting that she had shed enough tears, the less Ginny was able to control them. Telling herself it was ridiculous to keep getting upset over the same thing wasn’t helpful either because it didn’t change the fact that for a very short time she’d allowed herself to believe that she’d seen Harry, that he was near again when the truth was that he’d never been farther away.

Ginny might have stayed frozen in that position, sitting on the bed with her son cradled in her lap, had she not decided to open the curtains a crack. She reached up to tug them open, and the minute light flooded into the room, it shone on her ring, which she was again wearing on the forth finger of her left hand.

“What the hell?” she asked quietly, staring at it as though she had never seen it before. She couldn’t recall putting it back on, but guessed she must have done when she was lying there in her stupor. She started to pull it off, hesitated for a moment wondering if maybe she shouldn’t, and then proceeded, placing it on the bedside cabinet, right beside the open box. It was no good wearing it now, hadn’t that been her decision a week ago?

James shifted sleepily in her arms while she was still staring at the ring, and once more his movement nearly spelled disaster. Only at the very last second did Ginny prevent him from falling, reminding herself why it wasn’t a good idea to have him sleep in her bed. Kicking the covers off the cold air assaulted her bare legs; she was still wearing her dress. She’d deal with that later, she decided as she carried James back to his room. She waited to make sure he didn’t wake and when satisfied she returned to her own room to change.

Ginny threw the dress into the clothes hamper and changed into an old but warm pair of tracksuit bottoms and a particularly thick jumper that her mother had made for her when she was pregnant with James. She sat down on the bed to let down her hair.

From the moment she stepped into the room, however, her eyes frequently darted to the ring, so that when she climbed back on the bed she picked it up and stared at it. She couldn’t go back to wearing it, she knew that, but it didn’t seem right to put it back in the box either. In the end she pulled out a long silver chain that used to belong to her grandmother Weasley, slipped the ring onto that and put it around her neck.

“Ginny?”

Hermione’s voice, quiet though it was, made Ginny jump. She hadn’t realized that anyone else was here.

“What?” she asked, quickly tucking the chain beneath her jumper, hoping that Hermione hadn’t seen anything. It might lead to awkward questions.

“Are you all right?” Hermione spoke in the same quiet and cautious voice as she took several steps into the room.

“I’m fine.”

“Rubbish,” Ron replied, coming into the room several steps behind Hermione. He waved his wand and the light turned on. “You were fine when you left here, but Hugh told us he found you standing outside, trying to freeze to death, and he practically had to carry you up the stairs. You looked like you were about to faint. And we both heard you crying just now. Did Rossi try something? Did he do something?”

The angry look on Ron’s face made Ginny smile faintly. If only it had been that simple. She could have handled Rossi making some kind of inappropriate advance with a good hex.

“Was it more difficult than you thought it would be?” Hermione asked, knowingly. She perched on the edge of the bed and took Ginny’s hand. “Was it hard to be with someone who worked with Harry?”

“No. It wasn’t that.” Ginny shook her head. She wanted to tell them what happened, but wasn’t sure if she could stand to go through it all again. The disbelieving look on Ron’s face was enough to convince her that she had to explain a little bit. She couldn’t let Rossi take the blame for something he didn’t do.

“Rossi was great,” she said, and then slowly told them everything that happened, culminating with her dream.

“And you’re sure he wasn’t actually there?” Hermione asked, when Ginny finished.

“What kind of question is that?” Ron asked angrily.

“A valid one,” she replied patiently. The question was particularly surprising given that not a week earlier she was telling Ginny that she thought Harry was dead. “I . . . I know what I said on Monday, Ginny, but . . . but sometimes I’m sure I see him, too. And I’m not talking about the rubbish they talk about in the Prophet or on the wireless. I swear I saw him at work the other day. I – I know it’s ludicrous, but . . . “

“You never told me about this,” Ron said. His angry look was now infused with shock.

“It was so brief that I can’t be sure, and I thought it was just my mind playing tricks because it was the day after our row,” Hermione said. She was wearing a hopeful expression that Ginny was very familiar with, because she’d felt the same way many, many times, most recently tha evening.

“He wouldn’t have remained hidden like that,” Ginny stated.

“I dunno, Ginny,” Ron said, resting his hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “He could have a very good reason for not revealing himself.”

“Knowing Harry it would be because he was trying to keep someone safe,” Hermione stated, looking specifically at Ginny.

“Don’t you think the Ministry would have found him if that was the case?” Ginny asked, feeling her impatience grow. “They wouldn’t just let him disappear like that.”

“What if . . . “ Hermione chewed her lip for a moment, not because she was thinking, but because she looked hesitant to voice her opinion.

“What if what?”

“Well, Ginny, you did say that Harry admitted they were conceiving some sort of plan to catch Lestrange that involved him disappearing.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t because Harry said he didn’t want to -”

“You know what it was like then, with all those extra attacks,” Hermione interrupted. “What if he changed his mind again?”

“He wouldn’t have done,” Ginny said with a finality that she hoped would close the subject. She got to her feet and left the room. Her head was starting to throb worse than ever and she wanted to take something for it.

“But if things were getting really dangerous . . . “ Ron followed Ginny out of the room and into the kitchen. He grabbed the bottle Ginny was straining to reach. Handing it to her, he added, “You don’t know -”

“What don’t I know?” she asked, slamming the bottle onto the counter with unnecessary force. “I don’t know how stubborn he could be? How he would get these ridiculous notions in his head that were impossible to get rid of?”

“Yeah.” Ron scratched his chin, looking uncomfortable.

“I know that all right, as well, or better than you did.” She was thinking of the morning after Harry was nearly killed by Bellatrix Lestrange, when he had told her they couldn’t be together. Ron and Hermione didn’t know about that, of course. “I know more than you. I know how he looked when I first told him I was pregnant, and how happy he was when we agreed to get married, and I remember all the times he said he didn’t want to miss a single minute with James. Does that sound like he was planning on leaving?”

“Well, no, but -”

“Then don’t tell me what I don’t know.”

Her hands were trembling ever so slightly as she poured a measure of the green potion into her cup and drank it. The headache disappeared almost at once, but Ginny didn’t really feel any better and she went back to bed.

Ron and Hermione were still there when Ginny woke up. They looked as awful as she felt, and she knew they hadn’t slept well, even though Hermione had temporarily transfigured the sofa into a very comfortable looking bed. They were lying on it with James playing happily between them when Ginny came out of her room, her headache returned.

“Morning,” Hermione said tensely when Ginny passed them to make some tea.

“Morning,” she mumbled, wishing that her mum and dad hadn’t gone to Romania to visit Charlie this weekend. It was Sunday, the day for visiting the Burrow. the surest way to get Ron and Hermione out of her flat. This way she had no idea when they were going to leave, and how much longer she was going to have to endure their pitying looks.

Hermione hurried into the kitchen when Ginny was setting the tea to steep. She had a copy of the Daily Prophet in her hand and looked livid.

“Read this,” she said through gritted teeth, laying the paper out on the table.

“What now?” Ginny asked, already coming over, the kettle still in her hand.

The front page of the paper was once again taken up with a large picture of Declan Fohn. He was standing behind a makeshift podium and gesturing forcefully. The crowd shown in the picture were all waving their wands like they were at a Weird Sisters concert.

“He’s up to his usual tricks. Read it,” Hermione said, disgustedly. Ginny bent over the paper and immediately one thing jumped out at her: the article was written by Rita Skeeter.

“I can’t stomach her. Just tell me what it says,” she replied.

“More rubbish. He gave a speech last night.” Hermione scanned the article. “Pure-bloods getting a raw deal . . . Minister to blame . . . The usual tripe, but he was asked a question about Lestrange. Where is it? Oh, yes, here: When asked about Bellatrix Lestrange, Mr. Fohn had this to say: ‘In light of the Minister’s ongoing campaign to marginalize us and our noble history, I have begun to wonder if Madame Lestrange has not been painted darker than she truly is.’ He refused further comment when asked if he is now taking up the mantle of support for You-Know-Who’s most faithful Death Eater.”

“He said what?” Ginny asked loudly. She seized the paper from Hermione, located the quote and read it for herself, still disbelieving it. Fohn was an idiot, and prejudiced, but she had considered him to be sane. “This is just Rita Skeeter being her usual self though, right?”

“I hope so,” Hermione replied, folding the paper. “Otherwise this is bad, this is really bad. If he has gone over to the dark side . . . He’s got a lot of supporters.”

“People won’t be that stupid.”

But the thing was, Ginny knew how easily people could be fooled. Fohn wouldn’t openly declare his support for Lestrange and all of a sudden start handing out Death Eater recruitment cards. He would do it slowly and far too many people would go along, getting themselves so far in that they wouldn’t be able to back out.

“He can’t get away with this,” she said, setting the keddle down on the table heavily, and splashing hot water all over her hand. “Ouch!’
She tapped her hand with her wand and the pain subsided.

“I’m going to talk to Tougas about this when he comes . . . “ As she thought it, Ginny realized that Tougas might not come at all. He had said that he didn’t have the time anymore. She couldn’t take the chance that he didn’t know about this. “Hermione, can I borrow Pigwidgeon?”

“You’re always welcome,” Hermione replied. “But it might be faster to use Hedwig, you know.”

“I would if I knew where she was.”

“She got back early this morning,” Hermione replied.

She was quite right. Ginny hurried into the sitting room and saw Hedwig asleep on her perch with her head under her wing. She’d never been so glad to see the owl in her life.

“She brought you a letter, too, didn’t she, Ron?”

“What?” he asked. He was lying on the transfigured sofa, holding James up in the air. James was laughing hysterically.

“The letter for Ginny. Where is it?” Hermione asked. She was watching her husband and nephew with a small smile on her face.

“It’s there,” Ron jerked his head at the end table closest to the window.

It was from Keddle and was written in some haste. Ink blots littered the page and her words were smeared in several places, making it a challenge for Ginny to decipher.

“She was at Fohn’s rally last night?” Ginny squinted at the page to make sure she was reading right. “With a friend of hers. They said that Rita got it right. He did say that he thought Lestrange is getting a raw deal. This friend of hers . . . Dee? I’m not sure . . . Anyway, she wants to meet me. They have some kind of a plan to try and counter Fohn.”

“What sort of a plan?” Ron asked. He lowered James just enough that the boy was able to grab his nose. “You gnome, you!”

“I don’t know,” Ginny said. “She didn’t say, only that they’d like me to meet them this afternoon.”

“Are you going to?” Hermione asked.

“I think I might. I’m still going to write to Tougas first.”

Hedwig hooted in a disgruntled sort of way when Ginny prodded her awake several minutes later.

“Sorry to wake you, but can you deliver this to Tougas for me?” she asked, already opening the window. Hedwig stared at her disbelievingly for a few seconds before she held out her leg and allowed Ginny to tie the scroll to it. “Thank you, I’ll try and find you a spider or something for when you get back.”

“You will not,” Ron said. “It’s bad enough Crookshanks has to eat the bloody things when I’m around.”

“A nice fat and juicy one,” Ginny replied as Hedwig flew out the window.

Ron glared.

“Jay,” she said, taking James from Ron. “How would you like to come with me on a little trip?”

“Mumumum,” he said, grabbing a strand of her hair and pulling it.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Come on, let’s get you dressed.”

“You’re not thinking of taking him with you?” Hermione asked in alarm.

“Course I am,” Ginny replied over her shoulder. “It’s about time he sees more than this flat, the Burrow and the Quidditch Stadium, isn’t it?”

She could tell by the lack of comment that Hermione didn’t agree, but Ginny wasn’t bothered by it. She wanted to spend the time with him before going back to work. It was going to be an especially busy week with the Kestrals match coming up on Friday, and James’s first birthday on Saturday. Besides that, Keddle had grown attached to him in the weeks she had stayed here and Ginny knew she would enjoy seeing him as she’d been asking about him all week.

“You two should go home,” Ginny said, once she had dressed herself and her son in outerwear. “You’ve got your own child to worry about.”

Their splutters followed her into the hall.

James was jabbering away happily as they walked down the stairs, and he almost drowned out the angry voices that were coming from Mr. Thomas’s flat. Ginny slowed her descent to listen, even shushing James. Had one of the elderly man’s estranged children stopped by? If so, she had no business eavesdropping or interfering and would do best to continue on her way. She didn’t do so, though. When she reached the bottom of the stairs she stopped to listen. The voices were too muffled for her to make out much, but there was something very . . . unusual about them, something that made her uneasy.

Against her better judgment, Ginny knocked on the door. The angry voices died at once, and she heard a deep thud as though something heavy had been dropped. The sound made her heart rate quicken.

“Mr. Thomas?’ she called, knocking a second time while trying to pull out her wand. “Mr. Thomas, it’s Ginny Weasley from upstairs. Is everything all right?”

The sound of shuffling feet, then the lock was slid back and Mr. Thomas opened the door a sliver. He was completely out of breath.

“Miss. Weasley?” he asked, staring at her through the crack in the door.

“I heard shouting,” Ginny said, trying to peer into the flat, a feat proving impossible through the narrow opening. “Are you in any sort of trouble?”

“Shouting?” Mr. Thomas let the door open a little wider as he rubbed his chin, thinking. “Oh, that’s nothing to worry about. It was just the television, I had it up a wee bit too loud.”

“Your television?” Ginny asked. She tucked her wand back into her pocket and adjusted James on her hip when he started to squirm.

“Yes, you see -”

“Dada?” James said loudly, holding out his arms for the elderly man to take him.

“No, James,” Ginny corrected rapidly when Mr. Thomas’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. “I’m so sorry. He’s started doing this all the time.”

“I understand, of course,” Mr. Thomas said. He opened his door further and stepped out into the hall in his tartan dressing gown so he could ruffle James’s hair. “It must be difficult for him without his father in his life.”

“Yeah. It – Wait, who told you he wasn’t?” Ginny started reaching for her wand again.

“The young bloke who introduced us yesterday. He . . . er . . . said you were particularly sensitive about it.”

“Did he?” It sounded like she might need to do more than write Tougas a letter.

“He might have also told me not to mention it. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Thomas,” Ginny said, now anxious to get away before the inevitable question about why Harry wasn’t around came up. She held out her hand.

“I’m not bothered,” he said, taking her hand in both of his, still smiling.

“Thank you.” Ginny pulled her hand away, smiled one last time and headed out the door.

A hoot sounded just above her, and she saw Hermione open the window to let Hedwig in. For her to have returned within a half an hour meant Tougas was nearby. Perhaps he was going to stop by after all. It was fortunate for him that he would to miss her.

“Hoooo,” James cried as they stepped out into the street.

“That’s right, that’s what Hedwig says,” Ginny replied, but a second later she realized that James wasn’t imitating an owl. He was trying to say Hugh’s name.

“Wait a second,” Hugh called. He was coming from the opposite direction, jogging toward her with a coffee in his hand. She retraced her steps so that she was standing at the entrance to the courtyard.

“I wanted to see how you were doing after last night?” Hugh asked, taking a sip of his coffee so that it didn’t drip all over his hands. “You certainly seem to be dressed more weather appropriate today.”

“Yeah,” Ginny said. “Thank you for last night. It was . . . difficult.”

“So I reckoned.”

Ginny expected him to immediately launch into a million questions about what had happened, but he didn’t. She had the strange suspicion that he knew it had been about Harry. Perhaps that was why he didn’t say anything: he was over his curiosity.

“I’d invite you in for a cuppa, but I see you’ve already got one,” she said. “And I’m on my way out. Another time though?”

“Sure,” he said with something less than his usual enthusiasm.

“That’s settled then.” Ginny gave him a quick one armed hug, and stood on tiptoe to give him a peck on the cheek. “Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome.” Hugh raised his hand to his cheek as he walked towards the building. Ginny watched him until he was inside. She waved at Mr. Thomas who was looking out his window before she headed off again.

Keddle had asked Ginny to meet her and this mysterious friend in the Leaky Cauldron around mid-day. It was a Sunday, so the pub was a little less crowded than it would have been the day before, but much more so than when she had been here to meet Declan Fohn. Heads turned as they always did when someone new entered the pub. Ginny heard several gasps, and the scraping of chairs, but she didn’t stop. She headed straight to the bar where Hannah was busy filling a flagon of mead.

“Hi, Hannah,” she said, letting James stand on the barstool, keeping a firm grip on him.

“Hi, Ginny.” Hannah placed the flagon on the bar, where it was seized by an elderly wizard. It was lucky she did this first, because when she looked up and saw James, she dropped the towel she was using to wipe the bar. “Oh my goodness. He looks exactly like Harry. What’s he called?”

“James.”

Hannah hurried out from behind the bar, shouting for someone to mind it for a moment. A disgruntled looking blonde haired witch came out, popping her gum as she did so. Hannah gestured for Ginny to follow her down the short hall that led to the private parlors.

“Keddle got here earlier,” she explained in a low voice. “We thought that this would be better for you, and now we know we were right. And there’s someone else here who is anxious to see you.”

That someone turned out to be Neville Longbottom.

“I didn’t expect to see you here in the middle of term,” Ginny said, hugging him. “Playing hooky from school, and you a professor!”

“I’ve just stopped by to see Hannah,” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you here either.”

“She’s actually here to see us,” Keddle stated. “I’m surprised to see that you brought Jay.”

She was sitting at the table with a witch whose white blonde hair was short and spiky. This must be Dee, Ginny surmised seeing that Dee wore a black Weird Sisters t-shirt under her dragon-hide jacket and jeans that were ripped at the knees.

“I thought he needed to start getting out more,” Ginny said, watching the stranger most carefully. Everyone else she had known for years and knew she could trust with James.

“You’re right Eva, he does look like Harry Potter,” Dee spoke up, drawing everyone’s attention to her.

“But he has your eyes,” Neville said to Ginny.

It was quite easy to spot this as James’s eyes were opened wide as he looked around at everyone and everything in amazement.

‘That’s not what we’re here to discuss though, is it?” Ginny asked Keddle, glancing uneasily at Dee again.

“No. And – oh. Ginny this is Dee. Diandra Alvin actually. She’s a friend of mine from school. I thought the two of you should meet because she has similar ideas about Fohn.”

“We’ll leave you too it then,” Hannah said. “Can I get you and James anything to drink?”

“Tea for me. Milk for James. Thanks Hannah”

When the drinks were set before them and Hannah and Neville had left, Ginny spoke up again.

“So, Dee, you also think that Fohn is a slimy git who deserves to live at the bottom of a swamp somewhere?”

“That’s too nice for him,” Dee said fiercely. “I think we need to feed him to some of those Blast Ended Skrewts Hagrid had that one year.”

Ginny reserved her laughter like she was doing her judgment, but this was one point in Dee’s favor.

“We were just talking before you arrived, Ginny, about how we could go about putting a stop to Fohn -”

“Woa,” Ginny said, both because James was reaching for her hot cup of tea and because of what Keddle was implying. She pushed the tea out of James’s reach, set him down on the floor and pulled Gryffin out of her bag. James took him happily and started pulling at his mane of golden hair.

“How do you think we can put a stop to him?”

“Well . . . “ Keddle looked at Dee.

“We’ve already been trying a few things. Pamphlets and the like, but no one’s been really listening,” Dee replied, looking frustrated.

“That’s why I suggested you,” Keddle said excitedly. “You’ve already told Fohn off for being a git and that got a lot of media coverage. So if you were to officially oppose him -”

“I’ve got enough on my plate with James and Quidditch,” Ginny said, holding up her hand. “I can’t get involved in politics, too.”

She had already stood up to get James so they could leave when she caught sight of the Daily Prophet sticking out of Dee’s bag and this reminded her of her own thoughts earlier. Hadn’t she said to herself that Fohn needed to be stopped before he started a Death Eater recruitment camp? And now, not two hours later when she was being given the opportunity to help stop him she was turning it down? What was wrong with her?

Keddle looked deeply disappointed. Dee, on the other hand, seemed to have noticed that Ginny’s answer wasn’t as absolute as it might have originally seemed.

“Eva told me a little bit about that group you were in, Dumbledore’s Army?”

“Yes, what about it?”

“This is the same sort of thing, isn’t it?” Dee asked. “Standing up against the dark forces? The only difference is that Fohn hasn’t gained the same sort of foothold as You-Know-Who, and he doesn’t have the same magical ability. Think of what would happen if he ever got into power though? He keeps going on about the Minister for Magic’s prejudices, and if he keeps gaining supporters they might one day be able to depose Minister Shacklebolt. Who d’you think they’ll put into power then? And what would Fohn do with real power? You can bet your broomstick he wouldn’t leave it as only talk. Now that might not be an issue for you, a pureblood, but -”

“Fohn and the likes of him wouldn’t consider my son pureblood though, with a grandmother who was Muggle-born?”

All three women turned to stare at James who was banging Gryffin on the ground happily, oblivious to the cold draft that seemed to have entered the room. Ginny watched him closely, feeling her heart race at the thought of any harm coming to him, let alone the likes of what the Death Eaters could do.

“I’ll do it,” she said, jumping out of her seat and racing to gather James up in her arms.

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