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Story that inspired/influenced this chapter:
"Snitch" by Hettie Hoffleboffer (HPFF)

Chapter Two: I am Ginevra Molly Weasley

I grew up, like every Wizarding child, hearing the infamous story of the Boy-Who-Lived. Of course, there was wide speculation about the stories, because no one who was present had lived to tell the tale, save one boy, and nobody seemed to know where he was for ten years. Before we would go to sleep, Mum would let me hypothesize on just what happened at Godric’s Hollow that fateful night.

“I think that Harry Potter held up a mirror,” I said when I was seven, laughing hysterically. “And You-Know-Who was so scared of seeing himself that he died!”

Mum would smile fondly at me. I never knew until I started Hogwarts that my parents knew James and Lily Potter. It was also a mystery to me that the Potters’ deaths were so tragic to the Wizarding world. I’d like to think that if I knew, I wouldn’t have joked as I did.

I lived in a black and white world, where good triumphed over evil as it was supposed to, and where people were either nice or mean. I never imagined there were gray areas until I found out about Snape’s loyalty many years later. It was hard for me to believe that such a foul man could be so brave and righteous. I was happy and content knowing that a “great good wizard beat the mean-mean You-Know-Who.”

Maybe this was normal for witches my age, but I developed quite an attachment towards Harry before I even knew him. And I don’t mean when I first met him, but I mean through the bedtime stories. Maybe it was the fact that I was just born when Lord Voldemort tried to kill him and he was only supposed to be a year older than me. He was MY age, more or less, and he was able to do such extraordinary things when I couldn’t even control my magic when I got angry. What was there not to admire?If I had to guess, I’d say it was the ideal of Harry that motivated my childish attraction.

I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, when I listened to the stories, that I was going to be very important to Harry Potter. In my younger years, I even told Mum this. “I’m gonna be his best friend someday,” I said matter-of-factly. She never scolded me for coming up with such wild fantasies. She didn’t even call me cute for thinking such things. I don’t know if she believed me, but she certainly never mocked me for it. She would smile warmly and tell me that she hoped I was right.

Mum was always like that with me. She humored me even if what I said made little sense. I think it had a lot to do with me being her only daughter. After all, I am the first female Weasley born after seven generations of men. I bet it came as a real shocker when little me popped out. I suspect the healers barely even looked before they announced I was a boy. I can see Mum smacking and yelling at them, calling them blind for not seeing that I was a beautiful baby girl.

There I was then, a little girl in the world of men. My hair was the same fiery red that my family was known for. My freckles were thrown on my face in every which way. My brown eyes, I must say, were frosted with determination. That’s because since the time I could walk, I was always trying to prove myself to my older brothers. I would follow Bill around during the holidays. I tried hard to keep my cool when Charlie would find some dangerous creature. I hated to be left out of the twin’s practical jokes. And Ron was always my best friend. The only brother I never tried to emulate was Percy.

With that many brothers, I was a tough little girl. And I was never much of a crier, despite the fact that the first time I appear in JK’s adaptation, I was crying. In my defense, that had not been a very good day for me. Someone had broken my trainer wand and wouldn’t confess, and my last brother was starting his first year at Hogwarts, leaving me without a buddy for months.

That’s when we saw him. Or rather, he saw us. Of course, I had no idea who he was. His raven-colored hair was messy, so it hid that distinguishing scar. His glasses were taped in the middle, taking away a bit of his legendary nobility. And he looked completely and hopelessly lost. And even with this mystery boy’s goofy-looking demeanor, my ten-year-old heart skipped a beat when he looked at me for the first time. I didn’t know what the feeling was supposed to mean. No boy had ever had that kind of influence on me.

When the twins informed us of who he was, I begged Mum to let me on the train to see him. She wouldn’t let me and when the train pulled away, I cried and I laughed, but mostly cried.

Mum took me by the hand and led me away from Platform 9 ¾. She looked at me, grinned, and asked me if I was okay. Sniffling, I responded with a half-hearted nod. “You will see him again,” she said simply, and I knew that she didn’t mean just Ron. She winked at me, as if to remind me of what I always used to say when I was younger.

“Do you really think so?” I asked.

“I suppose we’ll see,” she replied. Her brown eyes sparkled. “Can I let you in on a secret?” she asked, taking out a hanky and wiping the dampness from my cheeks. I nodded. “Dumbledore told me to keep a look out for him today. He thought he might be coming alone."

“Did you know it was him?”

Mum shook her head. “I was trying to keep the Fred and George under control-“

“And trying to drown out Percy’s reminders that he was a Prefect?” I asked.

Mum gave me the look and continued. “I didn’t link the two together. Poor boy, all alone on a day like this. It’s a good thing he didn’t get lost.”

I was worried immediately about Harry. What if he would be as lost at Hogwarts as he was here at the train station? What if Ron ditched him and left Harry friendless?

Mum sensed my concern, and said, “Don’t you worry about that boy. Do you think your brothers would just forget about him? And I’m sure Dumbledore won’t let him out of his sight this year.”

I felt better.

I came home that day a different girl. When I left earlier that morning, I was a child concerned with dolls, and stuffed animals, and toy wands. Returning home, I had one thing on my mind, or rather, one person, but even I didn’t understand the implications of where my thoughts were heading.

I eagerly awaited the first letter from my brothers, but unfortunately it was Percy’s which came earliest. Of course it was! It came two days after they arrived at school, and the letter was as boring as a class with Professor Binns, although I was delighted to hear that Ron had been Sorted into Gryffindor. When I read that Harry had as well, I never squealed so loud.

The next two letters were from Fred and George, the first one explaining their practical jokes on Filch, Snape, and Percy, and also their distress about not finding a Seeker for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. They regretted not being able to send me the toilet seat they had promised since Filch caught them trying to acquire one, which sent Mum into a rampage. I convinced her that they were only joking. The second one was sent no less than a week later, explaining proudly that they had found a new Seeker…. HARRY!

I had always loved to fly and fancied myself a natural, but it was at that moment that I vowed to be a Quidditch player for my school house.

Halloween came faster than I expected. It was my first sad Halloween. My brothers and I always had a jack-o-lantern carving contest, and Dad would pick the winner when he came home from work. The victor would be allowed something new the next time we went to Diagon Alley. In our house and our financial situation, that was a big deal. It was just Ron and me for the last two years. Ron won once, and I won once, and I really wanted to prove that I was better. This year, I was all alone.

Mum told me to stop sulking and make the best of the situation. When she handed me a pumpkin and told me that I would win, I rolled my eyes, but proceeded to carve a face into my big orange canvas. When I finished, it resembled a cute boy with glasses that I couldn’t quite recognize. Mum didn’t stop grinning at me the whole night.

The next morning, we received an owl informing us of Hogwarts Halloween festivities. Apparently, someone let a mountain troll in and almost killed Ron, Harry, and Hermione. Three first years… MY brother and his friends… had defeated the creature. I couldn’t have been prouder, but Mum was livid. “That boy is going to get himself killed! I cannot believe he thought he could take on a troll!”

“But, Mum,” I protested, “he did take on a troll. And he won.”

Mum was still fuming, but I sensed a bit of pride in her eyes after I said that. She didn’t like to say it, but Ron always worried her more than my other brothers did. He had always been the least confident of her sons and usually the most accident-prone. I had seen what my brother could do if he’s not thinking about it and I suspected the troll-hunting was a similar situation.

Fred and George kept me up-to-date on the first Quidditch match. They sang Harry’s praises almost as much as I would throughout the years, and said that he was a natural, born to ride a broom, and won the match by the skin of his teeth. That last bit confused me until I found out later that he caught the Snitch by almost swallowing it!

Christmas was approaching fast. In early December, Mum and I traveled to Diagon Alley to pick out the wool to make her famous Weasley jumpers. In Madam Malkin’s, Mum casually said that Harry wasn’t expecting any gifts this year. My eyes lit up and exclaimed, “Can we make him a jumper, Mum? Please….” In hindsight, I fully think that she intended to do so anyhow, but wanted it to be my idea.

“I think that’s a grand idea,” Mum replied. “In fact,” she continued, “do you want to pick out the material?”

My face flushed. What kind of material do you get a boy who saved the Wizarding world from a madman? Who defeated a mountain troll? Who is the best Seeker the world has seen… ever? Okay, so I exaggerate… he was only the best Seeker until I stepped up… hehe… anyway, I carefully examined all the material that Madam Malkin had available and, after much inner turmoil, picked out this beautiful emerald green wool that felt amazing. I handed it to Mum.

She took it and examined the price tag. She looked defeated. “Ginny, this is a little bit too expensive for us.”

“Oh Mum, please!” I begged. How was I supposed to convince her that there could be no other material? This was the perfect kind, as if it had been waiting here for me to choose! “Look at the color, Mum. Isn’t it the best?”

“Ginny, pick something less…”

“It matches his eyes!” I said quickly, and then feeling slightly embarrassed to admit I had noticed such a thing, I reached for the material to put back, but Mum held onto it. A softness had returned to her face. I pulled slightly harder, but she wouldn’t let go.

“Does it mean that much to you?” she asked, and I nodded. She patted the material in her hands and said, “I do still owe you something for the pumpkin carving contest.” I smiled.

We spent that Christmas with Charlie in Romania, but without Ron and the twins, I didn’t feel as excited as I should have been. Charlie was working most of the time but did manage to cure my Yuletide blues once December 25th rolled around.

Mum and I stopped getting as many letters after Christmas passed. Percy was working hard on his OWLs. Fred and George were practicing hard for Quidditch and probably working hard on some elaborate practical joke. Percy did send one letter, saying, “Ron and his little friends do seem a bit pre-occupied.”

Nobody understood what this “pre-occupied” meant until we found out what had happened. Near the end of the term, the Golden Trio (as all the textbooks now call them) had single-handily stopped Professor Quirrell and Lord Voldemort from stealing the Sorcerer’s Stone and bringing the Dark Lord back to power. My parents couldn’t have been prouder of Ron.

And of course, this gave me all the more reason to admire Harry Potter. Waiting with Mum and Dad at the train station, I listed all the reasons Harry was amazing. His eyes… defeating Mountain Trolls… talented Seeker… taking on Voldemort twice and winning…

Butterflies danced in my stomach as I scanned the crowd, half-expecting his eyes to light up and reveal his location. My anxious 10-year-old mind could hardly contain the anticipation. I finally spotted a sea of red hair, and in the middle was him…

“There he is, Mum, there he is, look!” I squealed. I pointed towards him. “Harry Potter! Look, Mum! I can see…”

“Be quiet, Ginny, and it’s rude to point,” Mum snapped at me, and I shut up, though I could hardly contain my glee. The boys approached us. “Busy year?” Mum asked Harry.

“Very,” Harry said. “Thanks for the fudge and the jumper, Mrs. Weasley.”

“Oh,” she said, giving my hand a squeeze. “It was nothing, dear.” When Harry’s attention turned towards his Uncle, Mum glanced at me and grinned. “He liked the jumper, Ginny,” she whispered to me, and I shuddered with excitement. “But stop treating him like a muggle clown. You’ll never win his heart by gawking and pointing.”

I stifled a gasp. “But… I don’t want…” I stumbled over my words, trying to think up an excuse. I was embarrassed. How dare Mum accuse me of such things! Boys were the last thing on my mind. Even if I didn’t recognize my growing crush, my mother did, and the look in her eyes told me she was approving. Though I doubt many mothers would disapprove of Harry fancying their daughter.

I couldn’t say goodbye to Harry. I mean, I tried… but I couldn’t.

Later, when Ron told me Harry might visit, I nearly fell off my chair.

This was going to be an interesting summer.

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