August, 1989 (One month before Hermione started the ten-months-of-reading project)]
Eight-year-old Ginny Weasley slipped out the back door of the Burrow, broomstick in hand, righteous indignation just outweighing fear of getting caught. She picked her way across the lawn, the moon highlighting gnome hole shadows, and entered the orchard.
It wasn't fair.
Ginny fiddled with the bent bristles of the borrowed broom.
Why couldn't she play? Because she was a witch? Humph.
Ginny swung her leg over the broom's shaft and kicked up off the damp floor.
If she was going to be treated like a pureblood princess, she should at least get the good things that went with it. Money, fancy balls, dresses, jewellery, and stuff.
She pitched the broom, making a gentle curve before diving and snatching a pinecone from the ground.
And if she wasn't getting any of that stuff, then she was damn well going to do what she wanted.
Ginny tossed the pinecone and watched it sail through the two branches that stood in for a quidditch hoop.
Of course, she knew that one day, she'd be married to The-Boy-Who-Lived, John Potter. She'd be Lady Potter. It was destiny. But that wasn't now, that was forever away.
Ginny swerved, looping around in a figure of eight, pretending the moths flitting in the moonlight were bludgers.
John Potter had warmed up to her recently. He still didn't care to defend her quidditch playing to her brothers, but he'd accepted the idea she wasn't just his best-mate's little sister. That was good.
Ginny slowed, hovering just below the tree line.
Something felt off.
She floated to the nearest tree. The feeling got stronger. She backed away. The feeling faded.
Weird.
She approached again and circled the trunk. She looked around. Nothing. Wait, what was that?
Far away, on the tip of a tree branch, something was hanging on the far side of the ward line.
She edged forward, slowly, cautious, and stopped just before the ward line — the hedge below marking the limits of her safe haven.
Ginny could see the object of her curiosity better up here. It was a necklace. What would a necklace be doing hanging on this tree? Still, she shouldn't go any further. It would be too dangerous.
She inspected it from a foot away. She could see every detail. It was a silver chain, holding a silver pendant. A pendant in the shape of lightning bolt.
It was beautiful.
It would look even better on your neck.
The pendant felt light in her hand, the chain hung over her palm.
It would look even better on her neck.
Legs gripping the broomstick, Ginny unfastened the chain's clasp, bringing it around her neck. She flicked her long, red hair out of the way.
Wait. Was this really a good idea?
*Click*
"…"
"…"
"…"
What was she doing all the way out here? The orchard was way away. If Dad caught her out here she'd be in trouble. She wasn't sure how the wards worked. She hoped he hadn't felt her leaving them. Then again, he always looked surprised whenever she and Mum got back from shopping, so he probably couldn't.
Gripping the broom with one hand, Ginny zipped back to the orchard, grabbed an apple from a tree, and pitched it straight through the makeshift hoop.
Hah! She'd show them all.
Ginny's broom floated just outside her grasp.
She tried to reach it.
The broom turned into an apple.
The kitchen door opened.
"You're going to be a proper lady, Ginny, and proper ladies don't have brooms."
"But Muummmm," she tried to protest.
"No." Her Mum morphed into John Potter. "I need a real pureblood. Your house isn't even noble."
"But, but."
John Potter disappeared. Her bedroom window opened.
A bird flew in.
It perched on her shoulder, before lifting her high up in the sky.
Desperation flooded her being. It mustn't drop her. She didn't even have her broom.
She fell.
She landed.
That was a weird dream.
She looked around a small, comfortable living room, but something didn't quite feel right.
She was still dreaming? This felt a lot more real than a dream. She could smell the scent of baking. A baby started crying. No. Two babies started crying.
A younger looking Mrs. Potter walked in from another room wearing an apron. The adult redhead walked up to a cot in the corner of the room, reached in, and lifted out a small toddler.
Ginny could recognise the still-growing, scruffy black hair anywhere. John?
Mrs. Potter reached down again, and drew out a second, identical looking toddler. "There there boys. Mummy's here."
One of the toddlers threw up.
"Oh, Harry," the mother sighed, putting the other child down before cleaning up the one called… Harry?
This was strange. It felt far too real to be a dream, but it was showing her things that clearly weren't real. Why did Mrs. Potter have two children?
Her world faded to black.
Back in the waking world, Ginny sat at the kitchen table eating toast. John was supposed to be coming over to play with Ron today. She was hoping he'd say something to Ron about letting her fly with them too.
.
.
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