Chapter Text
Just like the summers before, I watched the sunrise every single day. At first light I would slip quietly out of the house and walk those few steps to my favorite tree in the nearby copse. I’d settle on a low branch and let the first rays of the day spill over me — a little magic that, somehow, always lifted my mood.
On one particular morning, though, something nudged my routine off its track. I sat on the hard bark, wrapped in an oversized sweater so stretched-out I couldn’t possibly wear it around people, watching a gorgeous, enchanted dawn while thinking over the days that had raced by and yet crawled so slowly I’d begun to pray summer would disappear as quickly as it had arrived.
A dark speck appeared against the pale blue horizon, drawing closer. I knew it couldn’t be real. It wasn’t possible. And then suddenly it was there. A large, beautifully marked brown eagle owl landed on my knee and hooted a bright hello. Tears pricked my eyes when I saw the tiny scrap of parchment tied to his slim leg — only two words. Happy birthday.
♛♖
For days after, every bad thing slid off me a little easier. Nothing seemed to matter as much, and more than anything I ached for the thirty-first of August to hurry up so I could pack my trunk and head back to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry — for my third year this time.
My thoughts still came with the occasional surge of panic, doubt gnawing at me about who I was and what I felt. I couldn’t breathe a word about the message — now tucked carefully into my wand case — to anyone in my family. On the surface, that little greeting looked perfectly innocent, but the truth was much worse. Enemies don’t usually send birthday wishes, and I knew that all too well.
At night I lay awake with my eyes wide open, turning over the consequences of my own choices. There was no universe in which I could confess to anyone what I’d been thinking about these last few days. I could hardly look myself in the eye. I knew how badly this might end, and still my stubborn mind wouldn’t stop. I fled to books more often than usual, just to wrench my thoughts away for a while from those cool grey eyes that haunted me.
One early afternoon I was curled up in the sunlit sitting room, nose in a battered Ancient Runes textbook I’d scavenged from my oldest brothers’ left-behind shelves. Most of the household was in the kitchen, eating. The clink of cutlery, the sound of chewing and the occasional burst of laughter drifted through — not loud enough to bother me. Then something altogether different erupted, and there was no chance of keeping calm.
A commotion rose in the next room, so loud the words blurred together — but I could not miss my brother Charlie’s voice.
“Frankie!” he called, delighted, as I stepped into the kitchen doorway — and I ran straight into his waiting arms, grinning. The whole family cheered at the surprise arrival of the second-oldest Weasley kid. We’d last seen him at Christmas.
“What are you doing here, sweetheart?” Mum asked, eyes wet, patting his broad back. I spotted a long burn scar along his bare forearm and made a mental note to ask later. Charlie lived in Romania working at a dragon reserve, so injuries had easy explanations — though I hated to think what danger he might be in any given day. Not that anything could dampen his love for dragons.
“Dad didn’t tell you?” he asked, smiling a little sheepishly.
“I’ll tell them now, Charlie!” came Dad’s cheerful boom as he stepped in from the hot afternoon.
“Arthur! Home so early?” Mum beamed, kissing his cheek. My brothers and sister watched, eyes swinging from face to face. I slid into a seat next to Fred and George and felt Charlie’s calloused hands resting on the back of my chair. Ginny — my twin — took the place beside me, hazel eyes bright. Ron, a year older than us, lingered near our parents, a crease between his brows as he peered out the window. Then he smirked, sharing a secret smile with the rest of us. I was just about to ask when Dad began:
“I’ve got a big surprise for everyone. And there’s another surprise arriving any minute,” he chuckled, tucking an arm around Mum. Right then two more faces with unmistakable Weasley-red hair filled the doorway.
“Alright, everybody,” said a tall young man with an earring glinting in one ear — and another wave of delighted shouting rolled through the kitchen.
“Bill!” We cried in chorus, leaping up again to welcome our eldest. Percy, just back from the Ministry, barely got a glance; he didn’t seem bothered. He went straight upstairs to his room, where he’d spent nearly all his free time lately drafting a report about the thin bottoms of cauldrons used for potion-brewing. He’d finished at Hogwarts in June, and — with Dad’s connections at the Ministry — had landed a position quickly. No one was particularly interested in what he did, though he insisted on telling us anyway.
When the greetings finally ebbed and a rare hush fell over the kitchen, we all looked to Dad, expectant. Something in my gut whispered that whatever came next would thrill everyone in the room — except me.
“I’ve got us tickets to the Quidditch World Cup. This Monday!” Dad announced, chest proud. For a heartbeat the silence was so complete you could hear the ghoul up in the attic.
Then I nearly clapped my hands over my ears — the kitchen exploded. The twins hoisted Ginny onto their shoulders and stormed from room to room whooping while she clapped along above them. Ron darted around babbling about how he’d tell his best friend, currently suffering the summer with his dreadful Muggle relatives. Harry Potter would be just as thrilled as the rest of my family. Everyone — except me.
I tried to be happy, I truly did. But all the energy I poured into fake smiles and thank-yous drained fast, and there was nothing left to do but slip upstairs and hope no one noticed my absence for a while.
In my and Ginny’s room the heavy curtain that split the space still hung — blessed privacy — and I was grateful for how much our relationship had softened. All I wanted was to crawl into bed and stay there till summer ended.
Quidditch. You’ve got to be kidding me, I moaned into my pillow, muffling the sound so no one would hear. Not only did I neither understand nor like the sport, I’d have to spend hours around the boy my sister adored and my whole family worshiped. Even with Bill and Charlie home — joy I cherished — Harry Potter had a way of spoiling everything for me. Since his and Ron’s first year, tragedy and danger had circled us regular as the seasons, scraping painfully close to my family. I couldn’t get past it. It felt like a curse had been laid over the people I loved.
Maybe that was one more reason why I’d found myself edging closer to someone my family despised — because the famous boy with the lightning scar irritated him just as much as he did me. The enemy of my enemy, and all that. Still, calling Draco Malfoy my friend would’ve been… generous.
The moment my thoughts veered back to that pale-haired boy’s slate-grey eyes, the Quidditch headache faded like mist. Without thinking, I reached for the little scrap of parchment tucked with my wand and pressed it to my chest. Then I made a face at myself, shook my head, and hurried it back into hiding. The smile wouldn’t leave my lips.
♛♖
Time crawled even slower, but I managed to survive until the weekend. On Saturday Hermione arrived and suddenly my room was never quiet, even behind the curtain. I spent most of the day outside with Charlie, who told me about the last six months. He spoke — a little ruefully — about a girl in Romania he’d fallen for; every time he tried to get closer, something got in the way, and in the end he let it go. It was the first time any of my siblings or relatives had talked to me about love in any form, and it left my thoughts a little tangled.
I had grown close to one of Malfoy’s classmates last year, but I certainly hadn’t felt anything romantic for him. When he told me at the end of term what he felt for me, I steered the conversation elsewhere. Even so, my feelings about Draco — the ones I couldn’t explain, much less forbid — kept unbalancing me.
I couldn’t tell Charlie any of that, of course. I remembered perfectly well how he reacted last time I mentioned the fair-haired boy. One warning was more than enough. I was already scolding myself; I didn’t need someone else to do it.
I couldn’t believe how easy it was to think about Draco while insisting I hated him. Probably, when I actually saw that pale, sharp face again, the supposed enchantment would evaporate. Maybe I just missed his attention. I’d find out in two weeks, when he’d be strutting through the train and bothering Potter. Absurd as it sounded, I missed his bullying ways — as long as they weren’t directed at me.
Saturday slid into Sunday, and the moment drew near when Harry Potter himself would join the chaos at the Burrow. Everyone was beside themselves — especially my sister, and Ron and Hermione — and of course Mum started cooking ahead, filling pans and pots so the rich, underfed boy could finally eat his fill.
The house might have been oddly shaped and lopsided, but it wasn’t built for this many people. When the boy with the scar finally arrived and settled in, we had to move his welcome feast outside under the open sky.
I didn’t stay long at the two pushed-together tables. After a heroic portion of boiled potatoes and stuffed chicken, I waddled off to the sitting room couch, hoping it would serve as shelter from anyone inclined to come find me. All the chatter about the coming World Cup throbbed behind my eyes. If there was one mercy, it was that the headache — and a very full stomach — let me switch my mind off completely for a while, even stop thinking about the blond boy. I drifted into sleep, and all night strange dreams tossed me in dark water with ghostly sailors and creaking ships.
♛♖
By morning most of us were up early. Mum, in a whirl, set a pot of porridge to bubbling and then readied herself for a trip to Diagon Alley. This year I only needed a book for Arithmancy, my new elective on numbers and fate — Bill and Charlie hadn’t taken it, so for once I couldn’t raid their old textbooks.
Charlie was disappointed I hadn’t picked Care of Magical Creatures, and I understood, truly — but I preferred reading about beasts and shaggy things to feeding and handling them. And after what I’d heard about Hagrid’s lessons last year, only Merlin knew what he had in store; I didn’t care to be a witness.
Back over Easter break I’d told Professor Snape — Head of Slytherin, the only house in my family I had the audacity to belong to — the electives I wanted for third year. He approved. With my patience for people, I’d last ten minutes in Divination, he said dryly, so Arithmancy was ideal. As for Ancient Runes, no one had to convince me; I ached to study old scripts and one day maybe travel to Egypt to join Bill for a few months — and elsewhere, too. Uncovering ancient and new magic through runes would be an accomplishment I could build on for years.
Thinking of Professor Snape gave me a little shot of energy — and the grit to endure a championship in a sport I didn’t care for. It didn’t erase my wish to fast-forward two weeks and be aboard the Hogwarts Express, but it did leave me with a steadier feeling about the year to come.