The Three Brothers

27th December 1992

Ginny rinsed the plate in her hand before putting it up on the rack to dry. Picking up the next one, she began to scrub it mechanically.

Of all the chores, she always preferred to do the dishes above anything else. In an odd way, it was almost soothing—the repetitive nature of the task kept her mind occupied, yet leaving it free enough to wander off wildly.

Ever since her parents had learned about the diary, Ginny had found herself suffocating in her mother's concerns. Their weekly meetings in Headmaster Dumbledore's office were usually filled with stern interrogations about her activities during the week. Ginny was glad that her dad was also present during these meetings; She wasn't sure whether her mother believed that she was a victim or thought of her as the culprit. To be honest, Ginny wasn't sure either.

Either way, Ginny found herself resenting her first year at Hogwarts. Bill and Charlie and all her brothers had always droned on about the magical experience that was their first year at Hogwarts, and thus she had boarded the Hogwarts Express with the same expectations. And nearly three months later, she had been dreading the Christmas break and her return to the Burrow.

But now, almost a week in, Ginny found her break to be much more cheerful than she had expected it to be the day she arrived from the Express. Of course, staying back at Hogwarts would've been better—maybe she would even have had some opportunities to make some friends. Amongst all his machinations, Tom had managed to ensure that she made no new connections at Hogwarts—he must have been threatened by her friendship with Mark on the Express. Well, he was right to be threatened in the end, wasn't he? It was what had helped Ginny escape his clutches.

As she picked up the next dish, Ginny's mind wandered to the wonderful Christmas they had had last year when they visited Charlie in Romania. The snow-covered countryside had been something straight out of a fairy tale. And the dragons—they were just so beautiful. Something had awakened inside Ginny that day, on seeing the majestic dragons full of fierce strength and fiery warmth. It spoke to her, deep inside her heart—spoke to her by letting out a huge burst of flames into the air and spreading its gigantic wings far wide.

As she watched the water now slide off the plate in her hand, Ginny realised that Tom had managed to snuff out some of that flame in her. Not all—Ginny wouldn't give him the satisfaction of that. But some? Yes. He had shaken her confidence away. She—who always believed herself to be much more m.a.t.u.r.e than her age—had been reminded of the fact that she was nothing more than a kid. A stupid kid who put her trust in the wrong person.

She wished she could talk to Bill. As much as Ginny loved her dad, there were some things you couldn't tell a parent—especially if there was a remote chance of her mother finding out. Ginny considered writing it down on a letter to Bill, but she couldn't. The moment her quill touched the parchment, it was like Tom all over again. There was no way she could pen her thoughts on paper or parchment again. At least not for a while.

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30th December 1992

Sitting cross-legged on the cold bathroom floor, Harry silently observed as Hermione leaned over the bubbling cauldron with a stirring spoon in her hand. So far, everything was going according to plan. Harry watched as Ron drummed his fingers on the tiled floor.

"What's next?" he asked, his impatience spilling over.

"Fluxweed," answered Hermione, not bothering to look up from the cauldron. "Is it chopped?"

"Yes," replied Harry, passing her the board on which he had prepared the ingredients. She took it absently before her eyes flickered over the cut-up magical herb. Harry panicked a little as a shocked expression came onto her face. He hadn't messed up, had he?

"Wow Harry," said Hermione, after a long pause. "These have been done fantastically. I've never managed to make the cuts so uniform," she added, her voice hiding a hint of envy.

"Harry's cuts are always uniform," Ron chipped in a bored voice. "Snape still manages to find faults in them, though."

"Professor Snape, Ron," muttered Hermione, still examining the Fluxweed. Harry began to feel a little uncomfortable at the less-than-deserved praise. After all, the only reason he was good at it was that he had spent large amounts of time prepping for the kitchen work at home. That and the fact that Aunt Petunia had far stricter standards for uniform cuts than Snape. Deciding to change the topic, he turned to Hermione.

"What did you tell your parents? About staying back during the holidays?"

"Just that I wanted to experience the Christmas celebrations at Hogwarts. Learn more about magic," said Hermione. "I'll be going home for Easter though," she added after a moment in a guilty tone.

"That's alright Hermione," said Harry, trying to reassure her. "You shouldn't sacrifice spending time with your family for us."

"What about you Harry?"

"Hmm?"

"Will you be going home during the Easter break?"

"I don't think so. The Dursley's will likely be gone on vacation then. And I prefer staying at the Castle anyway. I wish I could, even during the summers." Harry looked up to see Hermione observing him a little too carefully for his comfort. Realising that he might have shared a bit more than he had intended, Harry decided to turn the topic back to the bubbling cauldron.

"How many times does it say to stir?" he asked, trying to sound as offhanded as possible as he peered into the potion.

"Thirteen clockwise for one anticlockwise. Repeat twenty-three times," Hermione replied in her usual rote tone. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed that her face was still holding the same inquisitive expression. Fortunately for him, Ron's impatience came to his rescue.

"When does the powdered bicorn horn go in?"

"The twelfth day—day after tomorrow," answered Hermione turning to look at him.

"Are you sure you've got the right one? I remember reading in the book that it's supposed to be all curly."

"That's the other bicorn horn—it has two types of horn. The one you're referring to goes in Polyjuice Potion," she clarified. Ron looked at her with narrowed eyes.

"How do you know that?"

"I may have copied all the other potions in the book as well," Hermione answered with a hint of smugness. "Never know when something might come in handy."

Both Harry and Ron nodded in agreement, and Hermione continued with a mischievous glint in her eye.

"Are you sure you don't want to keep a vial of the Veritaserum. To interrogate Malfoy?"

"Ha-Ha. Laugh all you want. I was wrong, and you were right. Happy?"

"Of course, I was right," she scoffed. "When am I not?"

Harry decided to interrupt the banter with the thoughts currently on his mind.

"We haven't yet worked out how to get the potion to Lockhart."

"Easy. Just put it in his pumpkin juice," Ron answered casually. "He won't notice it. This is Lockhart we're talking about."

"Yes, this is Lockhart we're talking about. A man like him—with secrets to hide—he won't just drink any pumpkin juice. I bet he gets his food tested beforehand, for any potions and such," Harry said testily, trying to make Ron understand the seriousness of the problem.

"It is very possible that's the case, Ron," Hermione said, turning back towards the bubbling cauldron to add another stir. "Even if he didn't have secrets, he's still a celebrity. There's the possibility someone might him slip him a love potion or something."

Harry closed his eyes as he tried to think of different ways he could try and convince Lockhart to drink something without testing it for potions. Judging by the silence of the room, the others were too. Finally, Ron broke the silence.

"Maybe we can give him something exotic—something that's not available easily. Like elf-wine, or Firewhiskey."

"Ron, we're barely thirteen," retorted Hermione. "If we give him a bottle of Firewhiskey—assuming we can afford one and get our hands on it—it will still raise a lot of red flags."

"Flags? Why would someone raise red flags?"

"It's a figure of speech, Ron."

"Maybe Ron's right," said Harry after a moment. "Not about giving Lockhart Firewhiskey. But about something exotic." A hint of a plan was slowly bubbling away in Harry's mind. After a moment he turned to Hermione. "Do you reckon Lockhart's ever had some Cola?"

"What's Cola?" asked Ron, but both Harry and Hermione ignored him.

"That could work. I could ask my parents to send a couple of cans," Hermione replied. "Still, the problem remains. Lockhart will still test it for potions."

"Leave that to me." Harry turned his concentration back to the bubbling cauldron. "I have an idea"

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3rd January 1993

'tap, tap'

Mark knocked on the compartment door to where Ginny was sitting. To his slight surprise, she was sitting alone, staring out the window at the passing scenery. She turned to see him standing in the doorway.

"Can I come in?" Mark asked.

"Yes. What's the matter?"

"Nothing," Mark answered, stepping inside before taking a seat in front of her. "Neville's dozed off. Just thought to check up on you."

Ginny looked at him oddly; as if she was still lost in thought, barely present inside the compartment.

"Okay. Thanks," she finally replied. Realising that she wasn't going to initiate the conversation, Mark decided to do it himself.

"How was your holiday? Everything went okay?"

"Yes," she replied after a moment, looking away at her feet. "It went—alright."

Mark could sense that she wasn't entirely being honest, and he could guess the reason why.

"Everything okay with your mum and dad?" he asked. Ginny snapped her head back towards him, embarrassment and panic etched on her face. Deciding to reassure her, Mark just gave her a soft, encouraging smile. He watched the tension slowly disappear from her shoulder, her defensive shell finally cracking away. Looking at him, Ginny finally just gave a shrug in reply.

Okay then. Everything wasn't okay with Ginny's parents. It wasn't exactly unexpected, given what he had seen that day in Professor Dumbledore's office. Ginny must have felt as awkward as he had in the prolonged silence. She turned to look at him.

"How about you?" she asked. "How was your Christmas?"

"As usual. Spent some time with my dad," Mark replied casually. "He's always excited to know more about magic. Keeps asking me all about what I learned and how the spells work."

Ginny chuckled at this, and Mark felt better for the first time since entering the compartment.

"My dad's the same way—about muggles that is," Ginny said. "Sorry—non-magicals."

"Huh?"

"Fred mentioned you don't like the word muggle."

"Ah." Mark realised what she had meant earlier. "Well yes, I don't prefer it. Sounds a bit condescending in my opinion. But it's in common use, and most people don't use it in a condescending manner, so I'm okay with it now. You don't have to —"

"But I will. You're right, it doesn't sound very polite. I told my dad about it and he agreed too. It just slipped out earlier." Ginny defended him. "After all, we have to start somewhere, don't we?"

A small part of Mark wanted to insist that it was alright, while another felt overwhelmed by her thoughtfulness. He decided to stick to an intermediate response.

"Thanks," said Mark. "You were saying something about your dad?"

"Oh—yes. He's crazy about all the non-magical stuff," Ginny said, her pride for her father evident. "Fascinated by the technology. Keeps experimenting with plugs and everything in the workshop."

"Is he the one who enchanted the car Ron flew into the Whomping Willow?" asked Mark. Of the entire incident, the car had been what had drawn Mark's attention the most. Ginny nodded in reply.

"I helped him a bit too, you know," she added after a moment.

"Really?!" Mark exclaimed. "That must have been fascinating!" Suddenly he remembered something. "Wait—you said he experiments with plugs? Is he trying to circ.u.mvent magical interference to electricity?" If Mr Weasley was trying to do what Mark thought he was trying to do, then perhaps it could solve the problem of shielding his electric guitar from the magic at Hogwarts. And probably a lot more.

"I think so," Ginny said, her eyes furrowed as she tried to remember something. Finally, she gave up and turned to Mark. "I can ask him if you like. He writes down all his observations—keeps records. I'm sure he'll be happy to send you a copy."

Written data and observations? From someone who had enchanted a car to fly? Mark couldn't believe his ears, and he stared at Ginny as if she had handed him the most precious thing in the world.

"That's amazing," he finally whispered. If he would have been more aware, Mark would have realised that his reaction was less than articulate. But Ginny didn't seem to mind—she understood the sentiment alright.

"That's just my dad. He'll be happy that someone's interested," said Ginny in a dejected tone.

"Of course, I'm interested," said Mark. "Who wouldn't?"

He was surprised when Ginny snorted in reply, turning back to look out the window.

"Tell that to my mother," she said, "She thinks it's a complete waste of time, a grown man like him spending his time tinkering in the workshop."

Mark didn't really know what to reply to that. Sensing that Ginny was more vocal now, he decided to ask her his earlier question.

"Everything went okay with her?"

"Of course," Ginny replied, a little too quickly. "Why wouldn't it?" Mark stared at her with his head c.o.c.ked, trying to give her his most sceptical look. It worked, and Ginny finally relented.

"She's okay now that my punishment is decided," she said with a sigh, her fingers picking absently at her faded black Hogwarts robe.

"What's that?" Mark asked. Ginny didn't answer immediately, looking out the window in an effort to avoid his gaze.

"No Quidditch," she finally answered in a low voice.

"What?"

Mark had actually wanted to exclaim it out loud, but in the shock, it ended up turning into a throaty whisper.

"No Quidditch," Ginny repeated; her voice stronger. "At least until my third year. So that I'll remember to be more careful in the future."

Mark's head reeled with a million thoughts. He didn't understand what to make of Ginny's punishment. On one hand, he wanted to object against the idea of punishing Ginny for something that wasn't even her fault, while on the other—well he wasn't exactly sure if there was another side to this argument. But they were Ginny's parents, and Mark knew for a fact that not every kid had a relationship with their parent like he did with his Dad.

"Are you—are you okay with it?" he finally asked, unsure of his own thoughts.

"As long as I get to fly. It's not like I can make the team while the current chasers are still at school, right?"

"No, but there's the reserve team. I would have liked someone to practice alongside," Mark pointed out, a small part of him angry at Ginny's easy acceptance of the issue.

"I don't even have a broom," Ginny replied, clearly not wanting to discuss the issue any further. Mark nodded to himself in understanding.

"Neither do I," he said after a moment, "which reminds me, what broom do you think I should get?"

Ginny looked up at him with her eyes narrowed; she was aware of his obvious change in topic.

"You're asking me? Why?" she finally asked.

"Why not?"

"I meant why would you ask me?"

"Are you in some way disqualified to answer?" Mark asked, miffed at her obvious non-cooperation.

"No, but there are other, more qualified people you could ask," she retorted sourly.

"What makes you think I didn't ask them already?"

"Oh, so I am the last person you come to for advice, then?"

"No, that's not what I —" Mark began to apologize before noticing a mischievous glint in Ginny's eyes. "I see what you did there. It's not nice to take advantage of me like that, you know."

"Who, me? I'm just a poor little girl. What could I possibly do?"

"I can see that." Mark grinned at her. He decided to rile her up a little. "I can see exactly what George was talking about when he called you a cunning little —"

It worked since Ginny immediately pounced and punched him on his arm. Mark tried tickling her a little but she sat back in her seat immediately.

"Ow," Mark cried loudly as he nursed his arm exaggeratedly. "I think you broke it," he lied.

"Shut up," said Ginny. "I didn't even hit you that hard." She turned and pointedly looked out of the window.

The two of them stayed quiet for a while, with only the sound of the moving Express filling in the silence. As the train swayed gently on a turn, Mark felt glad that there was a smile on Ginny's face.

"You didn't answer my question. What broom should I buy?"

Ginny turned back at him and considered the question for a moment.

"I don't know. That would depend a lot on your budget."

Mark nodded in reply before replying.

"I figured as much. Consider there's no budget."

"Then go buy the Nimbus 2001. It's the best broom on the market"

"Come on Ginny, you can do better than that. The Nimbus is a seeker's broom. I tried Harry's. Too light on the controls and too heavy on the acceleration."

"You'll get used to it," she said, now seemingly disinterested in the conversation.

"Alright, forget all of that," said Mark. "What broom would you get? If you could wish for one broom for yourself, what would it be?"

Ginny c.o.c.ked her head as she thought of the question. After a moment, she turned back at him.

"Any broom? Or just the ones currently in the market?" she asked. Mark was slightly surprised at the question, but his curiosity sought an answer.

"Any broom that exists, or existed," he clarified. "Why, you want an older broom?"

"If I could, yes. An Oakshaft 1400," she replied, her eyes radiating in excitement. "It was released in 1854. I saw one once when we went to watch a quidditch match at Holyhead. It was kept there, in the hall of fame. The most beautiful thing I had ever seen." Her reverie must have been broken on seeing the large grin on Mark's face, and she looked at him pointedly.

"What?"

"Nothing. Its—you just sound like my dad. He's got a thing too, for old cars. He has a '63 Morgan Plus 4. Four-seater convertible, British racing green—a beautiful thing," Mark said, picturing the car and his Dad's obsession with it. "He keeps tweaking with it, you know—trying to customise it. We worked on it a lot when I was younger. Don't get much chance now," he paused, trying to keep his emotions in check. Turning back to Ginny, he smiled.

"So Oakshaft?"

Ginny nodded as she propped her head on her arm.

"Yes. It isn't really available anymore. Stopped production ages ago—there isn't really a market for old brooms in the magical world."

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