He grinned. "Maybe this new young gentleman has learned patience and the value of family over mere things."
His mother put her hands on her hips, and gave him a look. "Okay, who are you and what have you done with my son? Do we need to flush polyjuice?"
He rolled his eyes. "Is there a prophet around?" It would be a good idea to keep up to date with what was going on. Plus, it had been four years. Getting some reminders would be helpful.
His father eyed him "You need to steady with the growing up, else we're not even going to recognise you when you get back from Hogwarts." Lord Potter threw him a copy of the prophet sitting on a nearby serving tray.
John smiled and spread the newspaper in front of him. His smile vanished. His brow furrowed.
The headline read — 'Lord Slytherin Announces Construction of Slytherin Manor — Set to Personally Increase GNP by three percent for 1992 through 1993.'
What the hell? He didn't remember this. "Lord Slytherin?"
He father looked over his copy and grimaced. "Yeah, he's going to get a lot of support from this. Parkinson will probably get one of the contracts — he's in construction. Not that I've got anything against stripping the Dark of their support, but you can bet your arse—"
"James!"
"Sorry dear, you can bet your… bottom, that some of the contracts will go to supporters of the Light that are on the fence too. Losing Lovegood was a hard blow. We don't need any more to jump ship."
John bit his lip. This wasn't what he remembered. Not at all. There was no Lord Slytherin. He was sure of it. The heir of Slytherin had been Riddle. And the timeline couldn't have been changed. He'd only just got back. What was going on?
He rubbed his face. If things were different than what he remembered… Oh Merlin, what was he going to do? He couldn't rely on foreknowledge. No, he mustn't panic. So long as the important events happened it shouldn't be too bad…. He needed to know what else had changed. Asking someone would be best. He wasn't going to meet Hermione for another month, but Ginny… Ginny could help him. Yes.
"I think I need to speak to Ginny."
His mother looked at him, eyes dimmed from their usual brightness. "Are you sure that's a good idea, dear?"
What? His eyebrows drew together.
"Of course it is!" his father said, rather forcefully. He grinned. "I told you, Lily — Potter men don't give up easily, see? Don't you remember what happened with us?"
What were they talking about? A sick feeling started to pool in his stomach.
"Yes, but it was different with us, dear." She looked pained. "Ginny is different."
Wha?
"Nonsense! I'm sure John will win her back. Eh, Son?"
Win her back? "Excuse me… I…I'll be right back." He bolted from the room, and fled up the stairs to his room, barged in, and flung himself at his writing desk. He reached for his diary. His hands trembled — they sweated. He flipped to a random page in the last few months.
'May 23rd, 1991 — Ginny still hates me. I tried sending her an owl with an invitation to a quidditch game, but it didn't work. Her reply said she wasn't interested. She asked me to stop trying to buy her. I sent a reply asking what I needed to do to be her friend again. She said it didn't matter. That by the time she could learn to forgive me it would be too late. That I wouldn't be me anymore. What does that even mean?'
His eyes watered. What was going on? It sounded like his yesterday self was just as confused as he was. He flipped around the diary until he found what looked to be the incident.
'April 15th, 1990 — Ginny hates me and I don't know why. I was going to invite her broomstick riding because we hadn't really hung out for a while, but when I went out to the orchard she looked at me like I was the worst dark lord ever. Then she left and I couldn't think of anything else. What have I done? I don't understand. I can't stand being hated. Ginny likes me. I know she does. We've been friends for ages. You don't just suddenly hate someone. I'm going to ask her tomorrow what's wrong. I'm sure it's all just a misunderstanding.'
The writing shook more and more as the entry went on. The ink and parchment was rife with inkblots and water stains. It was clear he'd been crying. His hand had been shaking, just like it was now. Something had changed, and now Ginny hated him. That was… ridiculous. Ginny couldn't hate him. Not the beautiful, kind angel who'd been part of his life as long as he could remember.
He remembered those sweet, moist, chocolate eyes that had made him promise to come back safely, before the fourth task, only a few hours ago. His eyes narrowed, even as his hands shook. Something was off, and he was going to figure out what it was.
John flooed into the Burrow three hours later. His parents had a birthday party prepared for that afternoon. He'd talked his way into trying to invite Ginny personally. His father had been all over the idea.
He walked down to the orchard.
A figure stood among the trees, facing away from him, dressed in a familiar blue summer dress, faded from too many washes and re-sizing charms.
"Ginny?"
Ginny turned her head, giving him a profile view of her young face, framed by fire-red hair. He gave a quiet gasp. Her eyes looked so sharp. So not innocent. In the last timeline, he hadn't seen that look on her until a few weeks after the chamber incident, when some Slytherins had publicly suggested she'd been… used… down in the chamber.
"I wondered how long it would take for you to come here." Her voice dripped venom.
"G-Ginny. What's wrong?"
"Wrong? Is anything wrong? I don't know. Why don't you tell me, John. Is anything wrong?"
He scrabbled, but couldn't think. His diary entries had given him no clue what had happened.
"I don't know. Please. Help me understand." His heart ached. The way she looked at him burned a hole clear through his soul.
She sighed. "Unfortunately, that isn't an option. If you can't figure it out yourself, then I can't help you. Not that I want to."
"Please, Ginny."
She turned, and shook her head. Half her hair fell across her face, the other half held in place by an ornamental hairpin. "No." She walked towards him. Her eyes hardened further.
He fought down the instinct to draw his not-yet-bought wand. Her pose radiated hostility and readiness to attack. She drew almost level with him.
Then, he saw it, something he hadn't seen before. His eyes widened. Then narrowed.
She passed his field of view. "I suggest you forget we were ever friends. It will be easier for you." She carried on walking behind him, back towards the Burrow.
He continued to glare ahead, his eyes still narrowed. His fingernails bit into the palms of his hands.
That hairpin — it wasn't a normal hairpin.
He'd seen one of those before. Once. They were damn expensive. And he knew that Ginny hadn't had one in the last time-line. There was no way that Ginny Weasley— poor, second-hand-clothes-wearing Ginny Weasley— could possibly afford a shrinking, super-rare, limited edition, hairpin Nimbus 1700 broomstick.
John lay awake in bed. Ron snored in the bunk below him. Their parents had been surprised when he'd asked to sleep over at the Burrow, but hadn't objected. He shifted to his side.
Somewhere far outside the Burrow, an owl hooted.
He'd been surprised when none of his birthday presents contained the invisibility cloak, but he wasn't sure how to ask about that without having to explain how he knew about it.
He slipped the covers off and slipped on his indoor shoes.
Not having the cloak made him feel naked. He'd have to learn the disillusionment charm as soon as possible.
He crept out into the hallway.
Either that, or he'd have to figure out where the cloak was. Maybe one of the elves could help him. Damn. He wished he'd thought of that earlier.
He descended the stairs, careful to step over the one that always squeaked.
The more he thought about the hairpin and Ginny's strange behaviour, the more he thought back to second year, and to a Ginny who'd been distant and jumpy. Who'd seemed to be a completely different person. And to a cursed object that'd been possessing her — controlling her.
He arrived outside Ginny's door. He opened the door, carefully, quietly, expecting shrieks of hatred and indignation at every inch of progress.
Not that, that would stop him. It was painfully obvious something was wrong with Ginny. And he was going to save her.
He padded to her bedside and gazed at the peaceful angel, fast asleep, one leg stuck out from the covers. A line of drool ran down her elegantly freckled cheek.
.
.
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