I rest my cheek against the cold wall of the Owlery. The cold drafts blowing through the open windows have sufficiently woken me up. I can see the clock across the grounds–I have exactly five minutes to get to class.

Why bother, though? What good will it do? Why don’t I just go home? What’s stopping me from curling up into a ball somewhere, and never getting up?

. . . . I heard a story about a girl, a haunted girl, who just turned to the wall one day and. . . .
I realise what I’m saying to myself, and shudder.

*
Walking toward Transfiguration, I overhear a girl moaning to her friend, "If I get one more piece of homework, I am going to kill myself. . . ."

My vision blurs from barely-unshed tears. I speed up, accidentally knocking into the girl.

She looks around reproachfully, as if she has no idea what she just said.

*

Class is almost over. . . . One minute. . . .Thirty seconds. . . . Fifteen seconds. . . . now.

I get up, shoving my wand back into my bag. Halfway down the corridor, I hear a small voice -
I turn and see the small, black-haired girl I was sitting next to in class.

"Hi," she says again, hesitantly. "I’m Sheila Deacon."

I speed up, trying to shake her off. It works, but I can still feel her eyes, boring into my back. They should have just become another pair on the wall, but somehow, these are different. Not a passing, indifferent gaze, but something more, something wrong, something I can’t quite place. . . .

No. That can’t be it. It’s been so long, no one has found out what I am in all these years. Not now. It can’t be now. It can’t be - it won’t be - there’s no way - it’s not possible. A total stranger - A total stranger can’t find

I dodge though a door pretending to be a wall, escaping her eyes. Resting against the wall, I lean into it, becoming part of it.

"No!"

I scare several passing first years with my screech. They look as if they’ve just seen a ghost.

Maybe they have.

*

I trudge through the snow, toward the Three Broomsticks. Going to Hogsmeade isn’t my first choice, but seeing as I don’t have a first choice, it’s my best bet. It’s better then staying at Hogwarts, at any rate. Anything is better then staying at Hogwarts.


I slip inside, just before the door slams shut. Glancing around, I freeze in my tracks.
Mum is sitting at that table, there in the corner. My Mother is sitting at that table. Why–? When does she ever come here? Did she come for me?

Why would she come for me? It’s been three years. I’ll bet this is a coincidence. I’ll bet she didn’t even know there was a Hogsmeade trip today.�

Yet I can’t help but wonder - Would she come back? Would she come back for her little girl?

I back away, trying to sneak out the door before she notices me. I’m almost there, when she looks up. Her eyes widen.

I should run, every instinct is telling me to run, but I can't move. Mum’s drink is halfway to her mouth, but she doesn’t notice. She locks eyes with me.


"My baby," she whispers.

I run.

*

I could have stayed. I could have rushed to her, let her take me back, let her --

That would have made everything worse, though. I would have had to leave eventually. I would have just hurt her–everyone–more.

I don’t ever want to come out of my hole.
*

I mechanically go to all of my classes. I am never called on, and I never raise my hand. All the teachers look over me, as if I’m just part of the wall.

I am just part of the wall.

*

The last week of term, before Christmas break, is buzzing with excitement. Everyone is discussing what they want, what they think they’ll get, and what Christmas dinner will be like. On the second to last day, I hear a familiar voice call me from across the common room.

"Hey."

"Hey, yourself." I try to smile at Mary, but it comes out as more of a grimace.

She looks at me warily. “I - I just wanted - to… ask you something. Before - Before…�

I think she was trying to say ‘before I leave,’ but her silence was far more sinister.

"Yeah," I say, "sure. Go ahead."

"Why–" Mary took a deep breath. "Why are you here?"

"I always thought you knew."

"Okay," she says, "thanks. I think I do."

She leaves. I stand there, staring at her retreating back, wishing that neither of us knew why I was here.

*

I go home for Christmas, and no one notices me. Actually, I think Mum did a few times. . . .

My baby.

I don’t run. I can’t run. I don’t have anywhere to run to.

*

It’s a cold but sunny morning, three days before Christmas. I sit on the window seat in my room, looking out on the snow - everything here is just like it used to be. Just like everyone is trying to pretend it didn’t happen.

But it did. And everyone knows it did.

I rest my cheek on the cold glass. The Quidditch Pitch is the same, and there’s the forest, and the garden, with the gnomes, with their un-proportioned heads, and the remains of the many flowers and vegitables. The the lone maple tree sits just outside the garden wall.

My eye catches a glint of black beneath the maple tree.

I haven’t seen it yet. I really should, but I don’t want to. It would tear open all those memories that I've--we've-- tried to put behind us.

But something is luring me to it, and I can’t resist much longer.

I go out the front, to avoid Mum. Outside in the snow, in my bare feet, I feel the cold, but it doesn’t affect me.

I make my way down to the chunk of black marble. The grave contrasts sharply with the pristine white snow, making its purpose seem even more sinister.

I kneel in front of it.

On top of the short column is a black marble bird, its wings spread. The stone caught up to it just as it was about to take off, so its wings are spread, it’s clawed toes barely skimming the base. It’s caught there, never to fly again. I turn away.

My eyes rest on the base, the words engraved upon it:

Ginevra Molly Weasley
Born 10 August 1981
Died 20 November 1996
Little Bird
Spread your wings and fly away

I outline all the words with my finger. The cold marble seems to leech all the happiness out of its surroundings. I told them to put it somewhere else, somewhere brighter, but they wouldn’t. It had to be by the maple tree. Mum insisted.

I know why. Everyone who knew her knows why.

Once more, I trace the familiar name.

Too familiar.

Because, you see, Iam Ginny Weasley.