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Of Chaos and Flame
by Lens of Sanity

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Chapter Ten: School's Back In Session

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"But Tom, you promised!" Ginny Weasley scribbled the words into her diary, early winter's moonlight streaming through the high window of her empty first year dorm.

She'd been a little put out at first to be the only first year girl in Griffindor, but at least her best friend could be counted on to be pleasant company. Even if he was being really pushy and annoying right at the moment. She'd gone to all that effort to charm the dictation quill so that it would copy the book he wanted to read, some history rubbish about the Dark Wizard Grindelwald fifty years ago, not even the interesting bits of history from before the Statue of Secrecy was signed.

"My dear girl, you must be patient," her friend responded, his handwriting looked way more grown up than hers, but she wasn't all that jealous really.

"You did promise, and I've been working so hard." It was strange but sometimes it was like she could hear the words Tom was writing to her. "My transfiguration is much better now."

"Explain the Charms theory again, and we shall see," was his only response.

Ginny did as was asked, it was very dry stuff indeed, and she'd been forced to spend all her free time in the library before coming across the explanation Tom told her about in a textbook from the third years' reading list. The eleven year old knew she was summing up what she'd learned in a stupid way, but she really did understand what the book had said, Tom had to believe her by now.

"I suppose you are beginning to have a grasp on these ideas my darling," Tom grudgingly agreed, and Ginny felt a rush of pride run through her, even so far as to imagine the pages of her diary glowed with that same pleasure.

"So you're finally gonna teach me…" scrawled Ginny with growing excitement.

"You asked for a powerful spell with which to smite your enemies, did you not?" The prepubescent girl bounced on her bed a few times, it was late at night now, but she'd been looking forward to this for weeks, so sleep was a distant secondary concern. "This magic is far above the level of any mere first year, but as I have said many times, you my young friend, are very special."

"So what do I have to do?"

"You will do precisely as I say?"

"Of course Tom, I trust you, you're my best friend."

"Excellent," her diary replied, and there was a feeling of satisfaction accompanying the word. "This is a combination Charm, and Transfiguration, of the order Hexus. Now you have learned enough grounding in those Arts, you are to utilise a similar skill as you used on the dictation quill. The wandmotion is as follows…"

The hex diagram appeared on the opposite page, neatly drawn, and straightforward enough to read, but a more complex spell by far than any she'd ever learned before.

"This is an Animation too?" she asked, practicing the movements slowly with her grandmother's wand.

"Correct. I assume you have the power required?"

"Of course I do Tom, I've told you many times. Mum always says I'm more powerful than any of my brothers, maybe even Bill when he was my age," Ginny told her friend proudly. After a few more minutes of practice the girl believed she had the spell down. "Okay, I'm ready. What's the incantation Tom?"

Hogwarts was great, Ginny had been looking forward to coming since before she could remember, and even though it seemed a little lonely sometimes, she was in the Castle and learning all kinds of magic. Her brothers weren't around as much as she thought they'd be, and Ron was even friends with Harry Potter, when they saw how powerful she was Ginny might even be allowed to hang around with them, saying as the girls in her year were all from different houses. Sometimes it felt like Tom was her only friend, but at least he was a good friend, willing to teach her some powerful magic at long last.

Ginny didn't consciously go through these thoughts at the time, but they were there, as she stared with longing for her diary's response; a single word, perfectly inflected…

"Chiroptera"

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Ginevra woke in the soft embrace of warm cotton blankets, and after a few blinks and a stretch of her arms she realised she was alone in her bed, and that she wasn't in her room at the Burrow, rather a guest bedroom of her Aunt Muriel's old manor house. Extracting herself from the sheets the young woman undid the sleep braid, and her long crimson hair fell free, kissing the skin of her bare back as she went over to the wardrobe's dress mirror.

After looking her reflection in the eye for a long moment, she moved over and downed all three morning potions the Healer had prescribed, and two more she'd taken to using on a regular basis. Not bothering to dress she looked herself in the eye again for a second time, thinking back on the vivid dream, the memory which was only now beginning to fade.

She knew why her eyes looked so familiar now.

It was so bloody obvious, Ginevra thought she must be an idiot for not seeing it sooner, a blind thoughtless fool.

"So Tom," she spoke aloud, "you're still helping me. Even after all this time."

Tom always had those mesmerising eyes, shifting colours, swirling depending on how the light fell on them, always settling on a deep shade of midnight blue.

Picking up the ten inch, Hawthorn and Dragon Heartstring wand she'd stolen from Brutus Rosier, Ginevra took aim at a small porcelain doll sitting on a low shelf. Perfectly enunciating the incantation, verbally for the first time in a number of years, Ginevra slowly whispered, "kai-Rop-ter-ah!"

There was a massive slap, like someone had full-arm spanked the ass of her very soul, but the doll shattered into hundreds of tiny shards regardless. "Oh, that's right, still injured. No magic you silly girl!"

Asinine little childhood hex that it seemed, nevertheless it impressed her O.W.L. examiner enough that it got her an Outstanding grade in Defence Against the Dark Arts, and she'd been using it since she was an ickle first year at that! In fact, now that she took the time to think it through, all that research culminating in the Bat Bogey Hex was likely the sole reason she managed to pass her make-up exams, progressing to second year without having to re-enter with the new firsties.

And it'd gotten her into Slughorn's elitist little Slug Club.

Charming a disgusting growth of mucous from her target's nose, transfiguring it into a pair of Serotine, European flying mammals, then Animating the construct, followed by imbuing the things with a malevolent sentience.

And on the surface the whole thing looked like nothing but a kiddie's prank spell.

"You knew all that at the time didn't you Tom." Gin's reflection didn't respond, his eyes taunting her from beyond the grave, her eyes now. "Well Harry killed you, so go get fucked."

','

She needed a Pensieve.

Ginevra heard about the one Harry used to figure out his golden spell, named for the old world goddess of intoxication and ecstatic violence, and she needed one to relive her experience in the Room of Requirement. If she was still being influenced by Tom, Ginevra had to see what he'd been making her do for herself.

Sitting at the breakfast table finishing up breakfast with her extended family, the young woman put her knife and fork together on her plait as etiquette demanded, looking over at the room with a careful eye. She couldn't ask them to track down the same Pensieve as Harry used for the obvious reason that they'd ask her why she wanted it, and that would necessitate informing them she wasn't actually charming her eyes a different colour for fashion and aesthetic reasons.

Which would undoubtedly lead to questions about when they had transformed from their ordinary, mild chocolate brown. And that would lead to something along the lines of; 'Oh my god Ginny, you killed twenty people, and you were laughing as you did it,' which was about as much as she could remember about the incident in question without a Pensieve to help her.

Besides, she wasn't losing time like she had been in first year, so maybe, just maybe, something else was going on. The other thing though, was the fact that the spell Tom had presumably gifted her felt right, it felt like fire and of coming home.

The sixteen year old woman managed to escape Muriel's, not-so-subtle attempts to corner her into a conversation Ginevra just didn't want to have and, after grabbing her book, she slipped from of the east wing entrance in search of somewhere to read in solitude.

She'd been grilled pretty thoroughly on being returned to her family by Remus Lupin, the man had still been limping as they walked into Aunt Muriel's place, hex marks from a pissed off muggleborn still visible on his too pale face. Ginevra had told and re-told the members of the Order of the Phoenix about their run it with Dolohov on Tottenham Court Road, and the subsequent smackdown between the three of them and Tom's forces on the site of the Potter graves.

Their seemed a divergence in how her listeners had taken the news. Somewhere between outright disbelief, and an absurd hopefulness that Harry Potter really would be able to kill the Dark Lord when the time came for him to do so. Ginevra obviously downplayed her own part in the fight, claiming her injured magic had made it so she mostly hid under an Invisibility Cloak, and she most certainly skimmed over how much damn enjoyment she'd taken in being in a one-mistake-and-it's-over, life or death, chaotic battlefield situation.

Sitting herself beneath the shade of an English oak, out of the glare of a roasting summer sun, Ginevra cracked open Marius Carrow's The Magick in Bloode, finally having found enough free time to read the book she'd swiped from the Black Library almost six weeks ago now.

Attempting to lose herself in the words, thoughts kept intruding, breaking her concentration.

Was Tom still affecting her? She'd spent years having various people reassuring her that he was gone, and all those old nightmares and feelings were just in her imagination. Could they all have been wrong the entire time?

Why did that spell she couldn't remember feel like it was hers? Fire was one thing, but that had been something else entirely.

How come she believed Harry really would have wanted her to go with him, if not for the words of Headmaster Dumbledore?

And maybe worst of all, the tiny doubt. Had she always enjoyed a fight quite that much?

Did any of it even matter?

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"I've heard you are being courted by the Potter boy, Ginevra." 'Well shite, can't the crazy old bitch just leave me alone?' the girl in question thought, returning to the main building now the sun was sweeping toward the western horizon. 'She's a hundred and seven for crying out loud, she should be to fucking old to go around stalking me.'

"I've heard something similar Aunt Muriel," Ginevra replied, politely holding in a sigh at where this conversation would doubtless be headed. Maybe she could Stun her? Except for the fact that she was still fucking injured!

"Harry Potter and Arthur's seventh, that is a good match if I've ever heard one," the elderly woman told her firmly, staring the taller woman in the eyes, waiting to pounce on and crush any sign of objection. "You will do everything you can to hold his interest," Muriel ordered. "The Potters have an End of Line clause if memory serves."

"In all honesty Aunt Muriel, Harry will probably end up with my friend Hermione," she said pointlessly. "Those two have always been so close, it's like they've been practically married for years already."

"The muggleborn I met at young William's wedding, with those weak ankles?" sneered Muriel.

"Yep-," Head of House Weasley remember, be courteous, speak using full words! "That is to say; You are correct Auntie Muriel."

"Nonsense girl," the woman ploughed onward like an arrow to its target. "You've childbearing hips and a bosom most would kill for. Get yourself with child and he will at least consider it. Even if he doesn't marry you, the snot-nosed brat has an outside chance of being named the Potter Heir."

"Of course Aunt Muriel," Ginevra said evenly, having known something of the like was coming as soon as the woman cornered her, "I will think carefully on your advice." While I go track down yet another hedonist grade contraceptive potion and vomit up everything my family line has ever stood for. "If you will excuse me, I need to…," thinking wildly for an excuse Ginevra finished, "take another round of my healing potions, I forgot to do so this morning."

Ginevra majestically swept past the ancient crone.

It didn't look like scurrying in the least.

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The remainder of the summer dragged on, the Death Eater controlled Ministry was tightening its control on Britain, and more restrictive laws were being passed under the guise of various measures to uphold the Security of the Wizarding World. Oddly enough, Gin realised after a few new laws were passed, these new policies actually served to increase the number of rights she had in the magical world. Bill had visited a number of times, as he was in the process of rebuilding and updating the wards around the Burrow, while Ginevra had spent most of her time relaxing, recovering, spending time with Fleur when she was around, and reading a few of the choice books she could scrounge up.

There were a couple of phrases which began popping up over the Wireless, and in everyday conversation, which Ginevra found to be amusing to various degrees. Those old sayings you hear from time to time becoming more prominent in people's day to day lives; 'All power comes from the tip of a wand,' and 'Magic means Might,' the sorts of things the older generations tend to say but had fallen out of vogue in recent years.

Another phrase which she'd laughed outright on hearing the first time was; Undesirable Number One… because Ginevra couldn't quite pair the title with a man who could do such incredibly desirable things to a member of the opposite sex. Again Bill hadn't liked hearing her social commentary for some outlandish reason.

Whispered rumours her father overhead during his work at the Ministry stated that Scrimgeour had shown up, somewhere, and possibly engaged the Death Eaters in a minor skirmish or two, but they were just that; rumours. For obvious reasons news from the Prophet and other Ministry sanctioned journalists was all glowing with what a wonderful job Minister Thicknesse's administration was doing, and how there was nothing to worry about, and that everything was fine, and there was no resistance whatsoever the Death Eater takeover. And moreover that the Death Eaters hadn't taken over at all, and that the Director of Magical Law Enforcement totally hadn't taken the Dark Mark, nor had he fought Neville one on one the day Ron died, and he was in fact the greatest thing which had ever happened since the invention of pumpkin juice.

The situation was all quite obvious.

At least Ginevra thought so, apparently Magical people in general had a tendency to believe everything they were told, or so she'd heard Hermione complain. The sixteen year old had never precisely noticed such a trend herself.

So it was the thirty first of August, and Ginevra was reclining on chaise lounge, a sort of unconsciously aggressive laze to her posture, staring out into the middle distance toward the south and east.

"Hey there spitfire what's up?" Bill asked, stumbling into the room, "You look bored out of your mind."

"Oh Merlin yes, yes I am," the girl responded, other than check on the potion she was brewing in two hours time, she had sweet frig all to do. "Please tell me something interesting has happened."

"I'm afraid not," he said laughing.

"Well I'm a frayed knot," she growled, "I'm seriously about ready to kill something just to relieve my tedium. And I kinda wish Harry was here too, Animation Charms are one thing, but now I've experienced the real deal it's just not the same."

"Gah!" yelled Bill upon hearing the unnecessary addition, and Gin smirked to herself, lassitude fading noticeably. "I really don't need to hear that shit."

"Fred spoke for the first time today," the girl told him, changing the subject but not bothering to hide her amusement. "He was awake for a grand total of seven minutes, one of which he was even coherent."

"Yeah, I already know, George fire-called me while I was working on the Burrow."

"Oh right. In fact that reminds me of something," Gin said, sitting up straighter and looking at her eldest brother, "I think our family were the original inventers of floo travel."

"What? Really, why do you think that?"

"I've been reading a bit in Muriel's little library… Anyway, long story short, the Prewetts are known for occasionally showing some of the Fire Affinity magical trait correct?"

"Like Uncle Ignatius…"

"Great Uncle Ignatius," she corrected.

"Like Great Uncle Ignatius," replied Bill dutifully. "And I think Charlie has a touch of it too, otherwise he'd have been barbecued by those Dragons years ago."

"Yep, I agree," said Gin happily, "I've been reading this old book I found, and it's been going on about all the different Blood Gifts and Blood Curses which pop up in the old family lines. And I crossed it with something I found in Muriel's library, which seemed to indicate people with the full blown blood gift of Fire Affinity, can travel using their own internal flame."

"What's that got to do with floo-," Bill trailed off seeing she was just staring at him like he was an idiot. "Travelling by flame, got it. I guess that makes sense. Why have you been reading about that stuff for anyway?"

Ginevra raised her empty right hand without speaking, closing her eyes and focusing internally. After several heartbeats, she dropped down into the roaring, untamed chaos of her mostly recovered magic, and then felt it shift. Cracking open her lids, Ginevra's eyes blazed with midnight blue flame, and a tongue of orange-red fire popped into existence six inches above her palm.

"Pyromancy?" blurted Bill, "Wandless fire magic?" She smiled brilliantly at him, holding the small flare for a few moments longer. "That's cool."

"Too right it is!"

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"Fucking stupid bastard," the young woman moaned in misery. Her pasty, too-white skin, and lank straw-frail hair the colour of blood, bile, and vomit clung uncomfortably to her pain wracked and wretched little body. Ginevra wanted to die. It was that simple, she'd have begged on her knees for a Killing Curse, been a dun for some syphilitic old man's heir if it would make the pounding ease for just a few moments.

It was around nine thirty in the morning of Monday September the first, nineteen ninety seven, there was a new moon, and the constellation of Virgo had ran its ninth pass since rising to prominence. But more importantly Ginevra, when her consciousness could bludgeon its way through her body's desolation, had come to the conclusion that Snape would have to die by her wand during this war.

Her wand, not Harry's.

She didn't care if he'd called it first, Ginevra would make it up to him somehow, long after the Potions turned Defence Professor's body rotted in a shallow and unmarked grave.

As she'd be returning to Hogwarts the next day ...well, later that morning now, Ginevra had decided quite reasonably to finish off the last of the firewhiskey she'd hassled Dung Fletcher into smuggling her beneath the hawk-like gaze of her mother, and no doubt aunt's stern disapproval. Which was all fine as far as it went, the young woman having had the foresight to brew an advanced Hangover Potion written and annotated in the Half Blood Prince's copy of Advanced Potion Making.

And when Ginevra had woken not thirty minutes previously, she'd reached over and downed the thing without so much as opening her eyes, with the results being quite different from what she'd had in mind.

Her mother came in at around ten, whispered at the volume of a thousand wrestling Giants enjoying a revel, flung open the curtains to the brain scorching horror that was morning sunlight, and basically left the recently turned sixteen year old to flail around in agony, with the command to get dressed in time for the Express.

What kind of crazy, insane, sadistic, hatefully callous madman would invent a potion which caused hangovers?

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Toppling through the communal floo to Platform 9 and ¾, Ginevra threw up what little breakfast she'd managed to scarf down, vanishing the mess quickly with a twitch her left hand. The girl was a good liar, but suspected pretty strongly that her mother hadn't bought her 'tummy upset' excuse for a single moment, and walking around trailed by sick wouldn't help her less than cunning deception.

Stuff happened, lots of stuff, and it was all doubtlessly very important. Some girl she halfway recognised slung a hex at her maybe, but she didn't notice the effects or have much brainspace remaining to care overly much in any case. Presumably Gin had told her parents goodbye at some point, and managed to get her trunk onto the train, because a few blinks, and a kind of intermittent fugue state later, the redhead noticed she was safely aboard the Hogwarts Express.

'Hey, that blurry indistinct figure kind of looks like Neville,' her mind supplied.

"I am Neville," the blur roared, and her body shuddered, turning in on itself pitifully.

"G-Nerh," she whined, "please no-, not so loud."

"What the hell happened to you?" it asked, a more reasonable, if still horribly painful volume.

"Snape … Hangover Potion … Caused … Hangover … Badness."

Neville, Scion of Longbottom, and since gaining his Majority, possibly Lord of Longbottom, belted out the most beautiful, awe inspiring spell she'd ever experienced in her life, and all the horrors being visited upon her body began to ease significantly. Slowly, and over the course of several long blissful minutes, the feelings rocking through her body returned to those of a mere single night's worth of heavy drinking.

Her tongue returned to the glorious sensations of merely having been used to clean a single urinal, rather than an entire football stadium filled with them, and the pounding in her head that of a troll attack rather than that of a Giant, her limbs mostly stopped shaking and her vision returned to only double.

"By the gods and magic, I've fellated guys for less than that," she told her saviour, "thank you Neville, thank you so very much."

"You're welcome Ginny," the man responded, shaking his head with amusement.

"It's Ginevra now, and try to use my surname less often if you don't mind," said the redhead after a time. "Where did you even learn a spell like that?"

"My Gran, erm-, she takes intoxicants sometimes…"

Neville obviously didn't want to go into details so she let it slide, mentally taking note to learn whatever wonderful piece of magic he'd used somewhere down the line. Ginevra got a look at her older friend, his shaggy dark blond hair had grown out noticeably since the end of his fifth year, and over the summer most of the remaining baby fat had seemed to have vanished. If she had to guess, Neville would probably overtop Harry by half a head or more now, not to mention the more powerful build the boy had been gifted with.

Blinking a couple of times on coming to a strange conclusion, the redhead voiced her thoughts, "You're starting to look like that photograph of your father back when he was in the Order."

"I am?"

"Yeah," she said slowly, right as her oldest friend Luna Lovegood came crashing through the door, slightly distracted aura of mystery draped across her shoulders as always. "What do you think Luna? Neville looks like a completely different person than the guy who came with us to the Department of Mysteries?"

Luna slumped into her seat, putting her feet up on her travelling case, before pondering the question posed her, an uncomfortable Neville Longbottom not precisely sanguine about the two witches talking about him like he weren't there.

"No," responded Luna, "this is what Neville has always been. You however smell of vomit and alcohol…"

"Oh thanks for the comment," said the redhead sarcastically.

"…sex and violence," the dreamy and unfocused voice continued as though she'd not heard, "and the world burning in chaos and flames."

"What?" Gin and Neville exploded together, on hearing that last, spoken in an offhand and distracted tone as always.

"Oh my," Luna refocused her eyes on her oldest friend, "You are a Heliopath now Ginevra? Are you also part of Former Minister Fudge's Chaotic Army?"

"What was that about the world going up in flames?"

"Whatever are you talking about Ginevra?" asked the blonde girl in response.

'Oh for the love of magic,' Ginevra thought, 'my head hurts enough already without a conversation with Luna to add to it!' Instead she just shook her head, mane of crimson hair fanning out behind her, and asked, "I heard over the Wireless there was something about Viktor Krum being injured recently, is there a story about it in the Quibbler?"

The quirky yellow haired, potentially crazed lunatic, handed over a spare magazine published by her father.

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As Ginevra turtled behind her copy of the Quibbler, happy enough to simply spend the journey reading and occasionally chatting with Luna, the young woman couldn't help but notice one or two members of Dumbledore's Army coming by to talk every half an hour or so. Nor did it slip passed Gin's awareness that Neville seemed to be holding court with the various young men and women who were seeking him out.

At the end of last term Neville had been talking about setting up Harry's fifth year organisation on his own, and had cobbled together a fairly detailed plan by himself once it became obvious that Harry and Hermione would not be returning to sit their N.E.W.T.S. at Hogwarts. What she hadn't counted on was the apparent communication between members, Neville had been conducting under his own initiative over the summer, while she'd essentially spent the entire time hanging out and wasting time.

Once the plump woman pushing the trolley had left, somewhere around the halfway point in the journey, and the three who were sharing the compartment had all finished eating, Macmillan something-or-other from Harry's year came bursting through the door, waving a Prophet around in one hand, speaking in loud and garbled voice way on the far side of intelligibility.

Neville raised one hand casually, halting the Hufflepuff boy's words midsentence. "Stop," he commanded. "Take a breath, and think about what you want to say before saying it."

In the three or four heartbeats it took for the boy to wrangle his news into a workable order, Ginevra cast her mind on what she knew of the Macmillans. If memory served, the closest Macmillan connection to her own family line was probably Lucretia Flint, Ginevra's three time great aunt on her father's side, and she married into the Macmillan line in the early eighteen hundreds. Ernie, that was the guy's name, he'd be something like seventh or eighth generation magic if her suppositions were correct.

Regardless, when the seventh year Hufflepuff blurted, "Snape is the new Headmaster," and proceeded to open his Daily Prophet to page four, all of Ginevra's musings fled from her mind.

"What?" she, Luna, and Neville all asked at the same moment.

As they read the article accompanying a picture of the man's hook-nosed face, the realisation that Professor McGonagall would not be helping them as Headmistress as they'd all assumed, settled on the three main members of the DA, and that their year at Hogwarts was going to be even more challenging than they'd originally expected.

'Well, at least I might get a decent chance at poisoning Snape at any rate.'

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Ginevra took up a lot of space sitting at the Griffindor table later that evening, scents of the sumptuous meal prepared by House-Elves caressing her olfactory senses with teasing promise, the wordless guarantee of sensate satiation. After six agonizing seconds of vacillation, the curvaceous crimson haired woman submitted to her more base desires, claiming the heavy fats of fallen animals, prepared with lavish seasonings, accompanying new potatoes boiled to perfection, and slathered in freshly churned butter.

The near orgasmic explosion of taste racked its way through Ginevra's body as first contact of her meal kissed her tongue, and she let out a small moan of pleasure, eyes closed and simply taking long moments to enjoy the sensation. When her eyes eased themselves open, the young woman noticed Colin staring at her lips, his own mouth hanging open with disbelief.

"What?"

"Erm-, N-nothing Ginny," her year mate answered, visibly crossing his legs for some reason.

The reason she'd been able to take up so much space on the Lions' table in the Great Hall, was because the number of students normally present seemed to have been reduced by a little more than a quarter of the number she was used to seeing. Muggleborns no longer welcome in the Wizarding World, and therefore unable to legally attend Hogwarts for their lessons, reducing the attendees noticeably.

It was similar to how Ginevra remembered her first year actually, her class, Harry's class, and the class a year below, all had the number of new initiates somewhere around forty of fifty students, but in later years that number had climbed to more than double. In that instant it occurred to her, this disparity must have had something to do with the First War ending, and an apparent baby boom which must have resulted from Harry's unexpected forcing of Peace on that fateful Halloween night.

Fully engrossed in her spine tingling feast, Ginevra ignored the idle conversation going on between the other Griffindors, repressing thoughts of precisely why her mother stopped squeezing out litters after she'd been born. The girl thought on the surprising inclusion of Colin Creevey, obvious muggleborn, and Boy Who Lived sycophant, to this year's pack of sixth year students.

Fun fact Ginevra had not been aware of until her blunt, "how the hell have you not been arrested for being a muggleborn Colin?" from earlier in the day; Colin Creevey's paternal grandmother was none other than Squibby Lestrange. And another almost-as-fun fact she'd learned, was that old scandal's first name had been Ursula, not "Squibby" as everyone remembers the woman's moniker.

Slowly cleaning the last of her treacle sauce from her naked index finger, Ginevra finally allowed herself to look over to the Staff Table, eyes skipping over the absent Divination Professor's chair, toward the two new teachers, one of whom was almost certainly the doomed Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor. Eventually midnight blue chips of ice focused on Hogwarts' new Headmaster, a man Harry hated with the exact same passion that he reserved for the Dark Lord himself.

Snape stood and, gesturing for silence with his three fingered left hand, the room stilled at his command. Dumbledore's murderer spoke in a piercing voice, at first seeming flat, but somehow far more chilling when Ginevra realised a more fitting description would be still, curled up and waiting like a serpent readying itself to strike. The speech wasn't all that out of the ordinary, pointing out the obvious such as his new appointment as Headmaster, the removal of muggleborn students and that the school now only taught those of "true magical standing."

Snape introduced the Carrows, and the young woman felt an absurd anticipation in meeting one of them to ask if they knew anything more about her book on magical trails presumably written by one of their ancestors, and this was despite the fact Amycus was not only a Death Eater like Snape and his sister, but teaching a class on "Dark Arts" instead of the Defence against them.

Ginevra doubted it'd stop Tom's curse on the position however, something as simple as changing a course's title would clearly have been attempted long ago, so the man would likely be injured or dead by the end of the school year.

As Snape's speech ground to a halt, and he informed the students coddling of their magical training was at an end, the doors to the Great Hall burst open, slamming against the walls with a deafening crash, drawing all eyes to the back of the room.

Four men in the dark blue of Magical Law Enforces trailed behind two in the mismatched robes of full Aurors, plain and personalised as a symbol of their status, but obvious in their rank from the unconscious deference being shown the pair, and with the swaggering confidence Ginevra was used to seeing on Kingsley and to a slightly lesser extent Tonks. Recognising neither the broad shouldered man, nor the tall, slimly built female partner, as the procession of six stomped their way up to the Headmaster, Ginevra watched on with interest, alongside the rest of her fellow students.

Following a short, whispered conversation with the dark robed Headmaster, the two Aurors commanded their escort with negligent hand gestures, all six bearing down on the student who was evidently their target:

"Ginevra Molly Weasley, you are under arrest for the Murder of Thorfinn Rowle on the 27th of June 1997."

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Lens of Sanity
Creepy Creevey being related to the Lestranges is standard Fanon, I've read it a bunch of times, Thanfiction originally? The Hangover Potion, I swiped but can't remember from where, let me know if I owe you credit.
And possibly for the first time ever, this chapter has an idea I came up with myself *fanfare!* Instead of disidentifying with the Bay-Bogey Hex like I originally planned, I thought about it, and came to the conclusion it's more insidious than it seems at first glance.
If Voldemort was the spell's inventor, and that's where Ginny learned it… well, implications are kinda chilling.