Disclaimer: Harry Potter and the world of wizardry belong to J.K. Rowling, but a few of the characters in this chapter are all mine.
A/N: This story focuses on Ginny Weasley, beginning with her first year of Hogwarts. While the plot bears some resemblance to the books, nothing will go as you'd expect. There will be a few original characters in this story, but I promise I will do my best to make them interesting.
Anyway, please give the story a chance. I've worked really hard on it, with some input from my trusty beta, SpiderLily, and I'm very proud of how it's come out so far.
(New Addition) This chapter has been reposted with several changes. I strongly recommend taking a peek at the first two character sections before you go on to the third chapter.
And one more thing; I'll let you guys know now that I am going to follow certain aspects of books 6 and 7, but other things will be changed to suit my purposes.
Mallain, May, around the end of Harry Potter's first year at Hogwarts:In a dilapidated, dusty manor located in the western reaches of Scotland, a young boy of eleven lay still and silent on his creaky bed as he listened to his uncle rage in the foyer downstairs. As per usual, mumbled rants of how life just wasn't fair, and that all Muggles were scum, drifted up through the floorboards to interrupt his thoughts.
'The old man is at it again,' Alex thought bitterly, rolling over onto his stomach to get more comfortable as he read through a battered copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Year 1. He tried to ignore the musty smell of his pillow, and the way it was slightly damp from the chill outside. The bare plaster walls of his room were never enough to keep out the draft.
A loud crash from below heralded the end of his uncle's drinking binge as the bottle of rum was thrown half-heartedly at a wall. It just meant more work for Alex later that day, as if he didn't have anything better to do.
The family of two did own a house-elf, in accordance with most pureblood families, but it was perhaps even more pathetic than the manor itself. Dinkins was so senile that Alex doubted the elf could remember his own name, let alone those of his masters. In fact, he more often than not mistook Alex for his father, and didn't that just get his his uncle's knickers in a twist... Dinkins was too frail to ever clean properly, leaving Alex to do any sweeping up when the fancy took him, and his cooking should have been confiscated by the Department of Mysteries, because it sure was a mystery when the roast tried to crawl off his dinner plate.
"BOY, COME DOWN HERE!"
Groaning, Alex dog-eared his page and rolled off the bed, flinching as his bare feet came into contact with the icy hardwood floor. Once again longing for time to leap forward to September first, he opened the bedroom door and stomped down the stairs, no longer bothering to keep the noise to a minimum. His guardian would be completely hung over in an hour or so, so why shouldn't Alex make every effort to further his pounding headache? It wasn't like his uncle had ever gone to the trouble of sparing him a little pain, so why not return the favor?
He finally reached the spacious first floor, which was devoid of the normal comforts of any other home that size. Most of the antique furniture had been pawned off years ago, and anything that remained was stained and moth-eaten. Alex found his uncle reclined on the sole couch, his bony limbs engulfed by frayed wizarding robes.
The old man glanced up with bloodshot eyes as his nephew shuffled inside, and neither attempted to greet the other. He kept one hand draped across his distended stomach, while the other hung limp near the floor. It would clench every now and then, as if feeling strangely empty without the slender bottle, which now lay in shards embedded in the dirty carpet.
Mortimer Draper examined the boy from head to toe, taking note of how little had changed over the years. The whelp was still a near carbon-copy of his late brother, from the thin, almost emaciated figure to the straight, wheat-colored hair. The only difference was the pair of almond-shaped eyes, too dark for blue, almost violet. Merlin knew where he got those bloody things- probably from his Mudblood mother. At that moment, the boy's eyes glared challengingly at the old man, as though daring him to criticize something.
"What do you want now?" Alex asked, not bothering to hide his disgust at the old man. His salt and pepper goatee looked as greasy and unwashed as the rest of him, and Alex cringed at the sharp smell of sweat of alcohol on the man who was supposed to be the last of his blood kin.
Mortimer sneered in reply, "Watch your tone, boy. Is that any way to treat your betters?"
Alex barely restrained an eye roll as he muttered, "Sorry, haven't met any of those yet."
"Enough, brat!" Gnarled hands shook as he lifted himself into a less slumped position. "A little gratitude would be nice after I went to all the trouble of getting you a birthday present-"
"What?" the boy blurted out in shock, not only amazed that his uncle knew what day it was, but that he had even bothered to acknowledge it. Alex knew it must be too good to be true.
"Yes, I brought home a little gift- a family heirloom, in fact!" Mortimer seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself as he teased the boy. Reaching into a pocket in his grubby robes, he pulled out a dull silver locket.
Alex was stunned by the necklace. It looked quite elegant for something that had come out of their family history, and it was a miracle in itself that the locket hadn't been sold to pay off his uncle's debts ages ago. He obligingly held out a hand when his uncle dangled the treasure before his eyes. Its momentum carried it from side to side gently, and Alex caught a glimpse of an engraved letter on the front. It glittered in the weak candlelight.
"Well, don't just stand there gawping!" Mortimer rasped impatiently. "Put it on!"
With a brief moment of hesitation, Alex brought the chain up to his pale neck and fixed the clasp. As he did so, his uncle elaborated on its origin.
"That little beauty has been in our family for generations, up until it went missing (Ha! Stolen more like!) right before the Great Split. Your four-times-great uncle separated from the line, said he wanted nothing to do with our lot, and ran off with two of the greatest symbols of our heritage! Greedy bastards! Never saw 'em again, or the ring, for that matter- But now the locket has returned to its rightful owners!"
Mortimer gazed upon his nephew fondly, although Alex doubted the old man saw anything but the silver ornament on his chest. It was truly a miracle that he'd managed to part with it long enough to bestow something so apparently valuable on his brother's 'filthy half-blood spawn.'
"For years I've been searching," he continued, staring in a way that said he'd already forgotten Alex's presence. "No one believed I'd find it, they all said it was lost forever! Even my father thought I was wasting my time, but I showed him, eh? Finally tracked the locket down to old Borgin in Knockturn Alley! That little thief had it on display like some gaudy trinket!" Mortimer seethed.
"Well, what do I do when I see it?" he asked rhetorically.
Under his breath, Alex suggested something that sounded like 'give a hissy fit.'
"I marched right in there, and demanded he give it back, that's what!" Mortimer puffed his chest out importantly, as though he done something truly daring. "The fool actually had the gall to try and sell it back!" he snorted. "Claimed he bought it fair and square from some filthy wench, then sold it to the brat he used to employ! Only just got it back, apparently, and from a bleeding house-elf! Borgin was perfectly willing to part with it for a few hundred galleons- Pfft! I told him where he could stick his gold-"
Alex yawned delicately. He wonder if his uncle had a point he was getting to? Otherwise, he would much rather head back upstairs and finish his book. Oh, wait, he was actually making eye contact this time... Best to act like he was paying attention...
"-and I reckoned you ought to have something to show people when you go off to school in a few months. It's up to you to bring back honor to the name Draper, and show those other pureblooded popinjays what we're made of!
"Always lookin' down on us just because we don't have the gold to spread around without a care in the world," Mortimer hissed under his breath. "But I know where Lucius' fortune comes from...! The Drapers are of the old blood! We deserve more respect...!"
Alex ignored his uncle's rambling in favor of examining the locket itself. It was held together by a thin clasp that wouldn't budge no matter how hard he pried with his fingers. He wondered what kind of portrait might be inside, probably one of a very old ancestor... Shrugging, he settled it back on his chest and decided to leave the foyer. Fortunately, his uncle was on the verge of passing out from the rum, so Alex was no longer needed.
As he climbed around one of the stair corners, Alex passed a familiar painting hung on the wall. It was of a solemn-looking couple, sitting on a bench in what had once been a flourishing rose garden outside. The man sat up straight, with all the dignity of a true pureblood. The only flaw in his pose was the arm held loosely around a delicate-looking woman. The two watched with serious eyes as Alex passed, but the woman gave him a small smile that most would have missed. Just next to the painting, a gilded portrait of an older man with a heavy jaw frowned disapprovingly. Alex snorted at his grandfather and waved farewell to the couple before continuing.
Seeing all the faces of his past family adorning the walls, Alex thought more on the heirloom he had received. He understood perfectly why the old man had given the necklace to him. He just wanted something to show off when Alex got to Hogwarts; never mind that his nephew was a more than capable young wizard... There he would be under the scrutiny of some of the British Isles' most influential wizarding children. Alex was expected to uphold what little family honor they had left- which really wasn't much since his mad uncle was a laughingstock among many.
Mortimer was always going on about the shame brought to their family after the Great Split, far back when their surname hadn't even been Draper. There was no definite answer as to who or where Alex's distant cousins were, only that those with long-lost blood ties to the remaining Drapers existed out there somewhere. For all Mortimer knew, they could be the most upstanding of wizard society, and yet it was more likely, and favorable in his uncle's opinion, that they were a group of no-good, run-down heathens.
The family name was all that had ever mattered to Mortimer, a quality passed on by his own father before he died. And yet, there was no family left to uphold any kind of honor. Mortimer, still single and childless, was the uncontested head of the family, and Alex was the sole remaining heir. His father, before he died, had also thrown away any sense of blood purity by marrying a Muggleborn and having a half-blood son.
All anyone ever saw when they looked upon the Drapers was the shame of a once-noble family fallen to ruin. His uncle was the eccentric old man who refused to give up on past glory. Alex was even less than that in the eyes of those who mattered. Alex was little more than a weak half-blood, one who would bring about the anticlimactic end to an already dwindling legacy...
But Alex would show them all.
He had his own plans once school started, ones far more impressive than showing off some flashy locket to get a little attention. Alex would ensure that his years at Hogwarts did not go to waste. He would keep his head down for now, and learn all that the famed school of magic could teach. Alex was going to do everything in his power to become a proper wizard, and gain the respect of the so-called Purebloods. And then, just maybe, Alex could leave behind the shadow of his dreary life, the ruined home and the equally hopeless uncle. In the end, Alex would make something of himself, and he would do his parents proud...
Devon, June of that same summer:
Against a backdrop of fading twilight, a dark, rook-shaped home stood upon the hill several miles north of a Muggle village. The residents of Ottery St. Catchpole rarely visited the family of two that dwelled inside. Some held a reluctance to climb the steep hill so isolated from the rest of the world. Others chose not to visit simply to avoid the Lovegoods, who very well might have lived in their own universe.
Mr. Xenophilius Lovegood was a single father, his wife having died some years ago in a tragic accident, although few knew of the exact details. The man himself had several odd quirks that failed to endear him to any of his neighbors, such as turning up in the village at odd times to purchase supplies for a long expedition to study imaginary creatures, wandering the nearby farm and speaking down the rabbit holes, setting fire to the annual batch of mistletoe and claiming it was for the greater good, and then there was the time he was spotted with his young daughter, dancing about in a lightning storm with a giant antennae on his head...
Little Luna Lovegood could only be pitied for having such a rough upbringing. It must have been Xenophilius' fault that she grew so wild, they said, running about with bare feet and tangled blonde hair, and telling crazy tales to all the village children. Whenever Luna was around, with that dreamy look in her eyes, the old mothers would watch their children tease and laugh at her bland comments, all the while whispering behind their hands that the poor child could not be right in the head- no, not at all.
Whether Luna was really capable of rational thought had yet to be seen by any of the Muggle villagers. If someone were to spend more time in her company, then perhaps they might uncover a deeper meaning to her strange conversations. Unfortunately, Luna did not have any friends to make an attempt in understanding her. The Muggles were rather close-minded, not even knowing that magic existed, and while there was a large family of Wizards living in the opposite direction of the Lovegoods' home, they hadn't been very accommodating to Luna's mindset, either. The Weasley boys were a rowdy lot, and shot down any of Luna's words with bewilderment and contempt. There was supposed to be a daughter her own age, but they had never had the chance to play, as Mrs. Weasley seemed to disapprove of her father's hobbies, especially the magazine he printed, called the Quibbler.
Luna knew very well what most people thought of her, and while a normal person might feel hurt, or even angered, by the words whispered behind their back... Well, there was some truth in saying that Luna was indeed not normal. In her mind, blissful ignorance was the better part of valor... so the Wrackspurts must have been running rampant that year. If only the Muggles would listen to her father's warnings every once and a while (they were still suffering the effects of that Nargle infestation last Christmas). It really was a shame they were now bereft of whatever marbles they had once possessed...
Quietly humming an old tune that she remembered some of the village children singing, Luna kneeled in the small vegetable patch outside, heedless of the dirt staining the knees of her pants. Her pale fingers brushed through a scraggly bush weighted down by bright orange fruit shaped much like radishes. She and her father knew them as Dirigible Plums, perfect for enhancing the ability to accept the extraordinary. Luna was hoping to pluck a few of the smaller ones to fashion into earrings. Perhaps they would aid her in the coming school year, when the fastidious rules and unchangeable world order threatened to overwhelm her.
Luna's first year at Hogwarts was indeed approaching at a suspiciously speedy pace. One had to wonder if there was a magical creature out there with the ability to shorten time, or perhaps it was another insidious plot by Minister Fudge (he had to keep busy until the Heliopaths hatched, after all). It wasn't that Luna dreaded the start of school, but she felt an unusual bout of nerves every time the subject came up over supper.
Just what would it be like to be surrounded by so many budding magical children? Would they treat her any differently than the Muggles, or would they look down on her just the same? For that matter, which House would Luna reside in? It didn't really make a difference in her opinion. Courage and loyalty... it was possible that some part of her held those traits... And cunning? Well, Luna had to have inherited some from her father (he was sharp as a tack when it came to uncovering the truth).
But, if she had to choose, Ravenclaw wouldn't be so bad.
At least they were open to new ideas and knowledge.
And the towers should be safer, what with the Aquavirius Maggots that were rumored to breed in dank and dark dungeons. Luna pitied the Slytherin students.
Aberdeen, July, still summer:
"Ahh! Someone, save me!" a shrill voice squealed, before falling into uncontrollable giggles.
"Don't worry, I'll protect you, fair maiden!" a masculine, yet boyish voice called in what he thought was a heroic tone. It didn't last when followed up by a whining, "Aww, do I have to?"
"Yep! Now hurry up, Ian! The dragon's gonna eat me!"
There was a resigned sigh. "Fine."
As he crawled around the tower of pillows, wand held at the ready, Ian Zabini swore to himself that this was the absolute last time he let his baby sister talk him into playing one of her games. Funny how he had made that exact same promise not even a week ago...
Rosalie, or Rosie, as her siblings called her, screamed in pretend fear as the 'dragon' prepared to let loose a stream of fiery death. Puff the purple stuffed dragon gave a tiny burp of magical sparks and sat back down on his patchwork haunches.
Jumping from behind the sofa and tucking into a roll on landing, Ian whipped out his wand and shouted a gibberish hex at the stuffed toy. Nothing happened of course, but Rosie clapped in glee as her brother finally carried her down from her prison atop the pillows and bed sheets.
"My hero!" The five-year-old gave her brother a sloppy kiss on the cheek as he held her, prompting him to make disgusted sounds and dump her in a chair as he tried to wipe the drool off his cheeks to no avail.
"Don't tell me," a voice drawled from behind the two, "that you're playing Harry Potter saves the princess again? Do you have any idea how disturbing that game is for those of us who actually know the royal idiot?"
Rosie shot an angry pout at her eldest brother. "Bad Blaise! Don't say mean things about Harry Potter! He's the bestest wizard ever!"
"And yet, I'm the one stuck saving you from dragons," Ian mumbled sourly.
"My own sister is besotted with Potter!" Blaise moaned dramatically. "How can I ever live down the shame? I swear, if Draco knew what blasphemy went on in this house... Little Rosie's got her heart set on marrying his arch rival!"
"I think he'll survive," Ian said in a dry tone.
"Of course he will! I'm the one who'll have to suffer the consequences! It's a betrayal of everything my house stands for! Kissing up to the Boy-Who-Just-Wouldn't-Go-Ahead-And-Die-"
"Give it a rest, Blaise!" Ian shouted over his brother's agonized proclamations. "Besides, I'm sure half the Slytherin girls are already part of his bloody fan club."
Blaise winced. "Don't remind me, please."
Just then, hurried footsteps coming down the curved staircase announced the arrival of the last Zabini child. A teenaged girl with long, dark hair charmed into ringlets appeared, increasing her pace as she spotted her target. A face that would normally be considered breathtakingly beautiful was screwed up in rage. Her searching eyes finally landed amidst the huddle of children, and Marillia gave a shriek.
"YOU!" She jabbed a painted fingernail in Ian's direction.
"Wha-" Ian looked around the room nervously until he came to the sad realization. "Oh... me."
Blaise snickered.
"Yes, you!" Marillia growled, stomping toward the cowering younger boy. Reaching him with little trouble- so much for sibling loyalty- she hauled him up by his shirt with surprising strength. "I know you have it, now hand it over!"
"Have what?" Ian squeaked hesitantly through the strangling grip on his collar.
"You know precisely what, you little pest! Give me back my wand!"
Ian froze at that, and the hand gripping his sister's missing wand stopped inching towards Rosie behind his back. The little girl gave him a guilty look for not being able to help, but Marillia was scary sometimes!
"What would ever make you think I'd take your wand, 'Rilli?" Ian asked with a blank face.
Marillia shuddered at the distorted version of her name. Maybe he shouldn't have pushed it... She recovered soon enough and glared down her nose at him.
Her height advantage was so unfair. She was only a few years older than him!
"Don't give me that, you little blighter! I know you have it! You're the one who's always borrowing someone's wand to practice spells you can hardly pronounce-"
"Hey-" Ian was slightly offended by that. It wasn't his fault wizards came up with the most complicated ways to say a simple charm!
"Now, this is your last chance," Marillia hissed. "WHERE IS MY WAND?"
"No idea," Ian shrugged, grinning as he held up two perfectly empty hands.
Marillia seemed a bit less murderous when she realized he wasn't the one in possession of her wand. That didn't mean he was off the hook, though, not by a long shot.
"Well, if you don't have it," she began in a calculating tone as she released her brother, "then who does?"
Ian kept his mouth shut and his eyes wide and innocent. He had that facade down to an art, although Blaise claimed it made him look like an owl caught in wandlight. Not quite was he was going for...
Speaking of Blaise, the soon-to-be-second-year was taking careful steps toward the doorway, and ever further from their crazed sister. Her temper could spark again at a moment's notice. Ian and Blaise sometimes wondered at her bipolar tendencies. Rosie had overheard them and asked if it had anything to do with the North Pole, and if that meant Marillia was one of Santa's house-elves. Thank Merlin their sister wasn't around to hear the long bout of laughter that had followed.
"Where do you think you're going?" Marillia snapped, not missing Blaise's suspicious actions.
"Um, I... have a previous engagement. People to see, plans to make, you know how it is," he lied smoothly.
Marillia raised a delicate eyebrow. "What's that in your pocket, Blaise, dear?"
"My wand, of course," he said and casually held up a twelve-inch piece of wood before tucking it away again.
"Nice try."
"RUN, BLAISE!"
He did so without hesitation, saving himself from what would have been a very painful tackle by the raging girl. Blaise gave a small scream when he was nearly caught by her clawing hands. Ian and Rosie watched, stunned, before the pair hurtled towards them, and Blaise shoved the sparking stick into his hands before leaping over a footstool. Ian didn't start off quick enough, and was nearly choked when his shirt was grabbed roughly. He managed to slip his head out of the T-shirt before he really did pass out from lack of oxygen.
"BLOODY WOMAN, ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?"
"I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!" she roared as if she hadn't heard him.
Well, he guessed that answered his question.
Taking a sharp turn, and grabbing onto a tall floor lamp for balance, Ian tossed the wand to Rosie. Yes, it was a bit cowardly to leave a toddler in the grips of a hormonal killing machine, but he was desperate. Besides, Marillia had always liked Rosie more.
The little girl took one look at the wand and giggled before clutching it tightly and running, albeit clumsily, to safety. It was the wide, low-lying coffee table that finally saved her. Even with magical space expansion, Rosie was still the only one short enough to fit under there. Marillia had finally toned it down, not wanting to hurt the only sibling she could still tolerate. She was spread out on her stomach at that point, beckoning to Rosie and trying everything from begging to bribing to get the little girl loose.
Ian and Blaise sat back comfortably on a two-seater, the former having recovered his shirt that was sporting a new arm hole thanks to Marillia, and were just reveling in their sister's annoyance. Ian was finally torn away from the sight of the pleading teen by a tap at the window. He stood up to unlatch the window, letting in a large tawny owl. The others gradually stopped what they were doing as well to watch as he untied a thick envelope. The owl flew off as soon as it was freed of its burden.
"Who is it for?" Marillia asked nonchalantly, trying to act as though her hair wasn't a frizzy mess and her her arms weren't streaked with carpet burn.
"Oh, yes, Ian, who's it for?" Blaise grinned mockingly at the girl. "Maybe it's from Marillia's boyfriend. What was his name? John-Peter?"
"That's Jean-Pierre!" Marillia flushed red. "And he's not my boyfriend!"
"Yeah, right, keep telling yourself that... and I'm sure it's completely normal for friends to send each other flowers-"
"And chocolate," Ian added, catching on.
"And perfumed letters in return-"
"He is not-" she began angrily.
"Or expensive tickets to see the Weird Sisters-"
"And just how often does he write?"
"Like three times a week-"
"He does not, and he isn't my-"
Rosie finally poked her head out from under the table, covered in dust bunnies, and asked, "Is Marillia going to get married to J.P.? Are they going to have a baby, too?"
Marillia screamed, tearing at her curls in the process, and Blaise burst out laughing. Ian was about to join them when he glimpsed the seal on the envelope still in his hand.
It couldn't be...
Could it?
It was.
Ian Zabini's Hogwarts letter had just arrived.
London, August, one week until school starts:
Ginny stumbled out of the Floo and clipped her elbow sharply on the brick opening. She gagged on the harsh taste of ash in her throat, and wondered why they couldn't have chosen any other method to get to Diagon Alley. Even that nausea-inducing bus was preferable to this!
Rubbing soot out of her eyes, Ginny glanced around for her mother, wondering why no one had bothered to help her up yet. She stopped dead at the sight of a yellowed skull sitting on display not two feet from her. If that wasn't her first hint that something was wrong, then the foul-looking man behind the store counter was enough to send Ginny quietly groaning in dismay.
Of all the days to get lost in the Floo, why did it have to happen that day? It wasn't as if she hadn't done this a hundred times, so how in the name of Merlin did she screw up now?
'I'm never going to live this down,' Ginny thought unhappily. Then she was hit by a sudden realization. 'Mum is going to kill me!'
Her mother had always been a bit overprotective when it came to Ginny, ignorant to the fact that she could take care of herself just fine. By now she was sure her mother would be tearing into her brothers 'for losing their poor, defenseless sister.' As if they could help such a twist of fate.
Where was she anyway? They certainly didn't sell the kinds of items Ginny was seeing in any shop she knew of. She just hoped she hadn't gone too many grates ahead...
'It would by just fantastic if I ended up in Hogsmead instead of Diagon Alley. I can't imagine explaining that to Mum. But I'm sure it's not that bad. I certainly wasn't in the Floo long enough to go that far... Maybe this is just the wrong shop. Yeah, The Leaky Cauldron can't be the only one with a fireplace... Although, I've never seen any others... Maybe it's the Apothecary?' Ginny wondered, as she spotted several liquid-filled jars in a case directly across the room. Then her eyes focused more clearly on one of the items nearer to her. Ginny gulped. 'I don't remember the Apothecary selling human hands...' She eyed the dried up limb that sat displayed on a silk pillow. Nope, nothing like that had ever come up while they were buying Ron's potions ingredients last year.
Wincing as she got to her knees, Ginny decided to leave the strange store as soon as possible, hopefully without being seen. She was lucky that there were no other customers at the moment. Now she only had to worry about the shopkeeper. Ginny was made a bit nervous by the way he kept twitching and checking a clock on the wall, then glancing at the door as though he was waiting for someone. He also seemed to be in a very irritable mood. If Ginny didn't know better, she'd say the wizard looked frightened...
'Time to go!' Ginny's inner voice was falsely bright. She was not about to admit to herself that she wanted her mum. Even her stupid brothers would do right now.
Ginny checked to see that the man was still preoccupied before she moved. He was muttering under his breath. Then he finally threw up his hands as though coming to a decision, and the man turned and walked through a door behind the counter.
As soon as his back disappeared from view, Ginny jumped into action. Bent almost double, she scurried off into the musty aisles, eyes set determinedly on the front door. Crawling past the fully-stocked shelves, Ginny found her gaze invariably drawn towards the objects out. It would have perhaps been better if she had held off the temptation. Ginny was now positive that this was no store in Diagon Alley. After all, there were sinister-looking masks decorating the walls, and sharp, rusty hooks dangling from the ceiling... An assortment of jewelry sat nearby, and Ginny found her vision blurring every time she tried to focus on the string of pearls or the obsidian ring. And that pack of cards over there seemed to be stained in... blood.
Distracted as she was by the ominous store goods, the gentle creaking of the chains overhead, and a giant glass eye that was definitely staring at her, Ginny never noticed the soft pattering against the stone floor that came from behind her. The muffled taps paced themselves with her own light footsteps, making it impossible to distinguish one set from the other.
Only feet from the storefront, Ginny frowned in worry. The view outside the darkened windows was completely unfamiliar. The glass itself was dusty enough that her vision was impaired, but the street actually seemed to emanate darkness, if that were possible. For such a sunny day, as she recalled it being when she had woken up that morning, the world outside was rather shadowed. Even if she managed to leave this bloody place, Ginny had no clue as to how she would get to her family. She pushed that thought away, preferring to take one step at a time.
One more problem was added to the list of reasons why Ginny absolutely hated her luck that day. She had unconsciously stopped her progress at seeing the outside world, and the sounds of approach from behind now reached her ears. Ginny panicked, thinking the shopkeeper had come back and seen her. She twisted around, face pale and an excuse on her lips... but it died when she confronted the very thing that had been stalking her.
Ginny was hard-pressed not to scream when the mummified hand from earlier sat on the floor, balancing on five wrinkled digits like some kind of mutated spider. For a minute, Ginny's mind flashed on how Ron would react at such a sight, him having the greatest phobia of spiders. All thoughts of her brother's fear flew away when her own terror doubled as the creeping hand pounced, aiming straight at her face.
She really did scream that time, a sort of strangled cry, as she fell backwards, the hand clinging to the front of her jacket. Ginny hit the stone floor with a painful thump, but jumped up again immediately, flinging her arms around and trying to shake the foreign limb loose. The hand was unperturbed as it scuttled up her chest and over her shoulder. Ginny shook her head wildly, red locks stinging her face, and ran her hands up and down the area of her throat, trying to knock it off.
She was a bit off balance, too startled by the sensation of bony fingers tickling her throat, to pay attention to her footsteps. Stumbling around, all thoughts off secrecy abandoned in the moment, Ginny crashed into a tall bookcase filled with ancient tomes. The entire structure teetered unsteadily, then toppled over with a resounding crash. Ginny dove forward just in time to miss being crushed by the enormous weight, although a few books managed to hit her, and she was sure that one the size of a magical encyclopedia had given her a concussion.
The falling books did have the added bonus of detaching the dismembered hand, which Ginny noted with no small amount of relief as she crawled out from under the mess. Then she realized just how much of a disaster it was. The heavy oak shelf was lying on its side, books scattered everywhere, and another shelf nearby had been knocked into as well. There were also items all over the floor, jolted from their spots by all the shaking. Many of those things seemed to be broken, including the heavy jars of potions ingredients that were now seeping unidentifiable liquid across the texts. All in all, the store was a wreck. It actually looked like something the twins had gone rampaging through.
"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON OUT THERE!"
Ginny blanched. 'I am so dead...'
Ginny ran the rest of the way to the door, leaping over any objects rolling across the floor. She slipped outside not a moment too soon.
Mr. Borgin panted as he came upstairs, having run up from the supply cellar he was sorting through. He gasped at state of his store. Half of his stock was ruined... Who could have done such a thing...? He had seen no one come in... The wards over the front door should have warned him if someone had... Could it have been an Auror? But, no, they would have just confiscated the lot. Any sane dark wizard would have done the same. So, then why...?
Borgin's face began to take on a deep violet hue. Some of those things had take ages to procure! The cost of repairs alone was going to set him back years! Oh, when he found out who had dared to-
Just then, the bell hanging over the front door chimed, and Borgin felt an echoing tingle alerting him that the wards had been breached. Gazing up at the new arrival, Borgin paled.
"Borgin, what in the name of Merlin have you been doing?" Lucius Malfoy stepped into the room, black robes sweeping behind him and his silver serpent cane tapping against the floor. An expression of disgust crossed his aristocratic features as he nearly stepped in a puddle of armadillo bile. His silver eyes gazed around the room, taking in the obvious signs of disarray.
Lucius looked vaguely displeased as he met Borgin's fearful gaze. The shopkeeper wrung his hands nervously and tried to halt his own trembling.
"H-how, can I help you, Lord Malfoy?" He smiled falteringly, as though he wasn't standing amidst the destruction of his livelihood.
"You know what I'm here for, Borgin," Lucius replied in a sharp tone. He arched a blonde eyebrow when the other man's quaking increased. "I trust nothing unfortunate has happened to it?" The way he emphasized the word 'unfortunate' clearly said that Borgin would end up in similar circumstances if that were so.
Borgin's beady black eyes widened, the whites showing all around, and he licked his lips nervously. He darted a glance toward the mound of contaminated books. Unfortunately for him, Lucius did not miss the gesture. His silver eyes narrowed burningly, and he ground the tip of his cane into the floor as stalked forward.
The denizens of the alley outside would later hear Borgin's screams, but as such a thing was not unusual, no one would bother to help him.
---------------
Further away from the store proclaimed Borgin and Burkes, Ginny halted at another fork in the road, trying to choose yet again which way would provide an exit from this hellish place. She had already deduced that wherever she was, that store was not the only one of its kind. Most of the shops around her seemed to follow the trend of being unusually creepy, and the few people wandering about weren't much better. Most of them kept their faces cloaked and strode by quickly, with their hands never straying far from their pockets. She had no idea if they were even human, and Ginny was almost sure that the woman settled behind a booth to her left was some kind of hag. It didn't help that she had tried to sell Ginny a tray of various species of fingernails while grinning with a mouth full of pointed teeth.
"Hmm, let's see," Ginny muttered aloud to herself as she picked a path. She had figured out that no one would care how much she talked to herself there, and at least the sound of her own voice was comforting. "Do I take the long, dark path on the left... or the long, dark path on the right?" Ginny snorted at the choices and wondered if it was just better to wait until someone found her.
Then the hag nearby hacked wetly, reminding Ginny that it might not be in her best interest to be found by any of the people here.
"Okay, scary path on the right it is!"
So saying, Ginny marched off, head held high, although she couldn't help but glance over her shoulder every now and then. It might have helped if she'd had some way to defend herself. And to think, she should have been purchasing her wand at that very moment...
And so Ginny wandered off down the silent street, lost in both her way and her thoughts. At the same time, she never noticed the added weight to her person, centered in the hood of her jacket. There, hidden from view amongst the folds of material, rested a small black diary that had fallen from its shelf not too long ago...
REVIEW because you know you want to! The mouse is just begging to be clicked... You wouldn't want to disappoint him, now would you?
OH MY GOD! I ACTUALLY WROTE SOMETHING! I started this so long ago... and it's finally ready for posting! YES! Please tell me what you guys think.