A/N: *Shows up late to my own party*

Hooey! Long time! Sorry lads, but life is crazy, you know?! Anyway, here's a chapter that's actually done! Thanks for sticking with me, or coming here for the first time!

Warning: this chapter discusses both genocide and fascism.

Chapter 6: The Nile is a River in Egypt

September 1st, 1997, 3:32 PM

Clanging metal, wind and steam echoed around them as the train barreled down the tracks, eardrum-shattering in the silence that held the compartment. Ginny dropped her head back against the seat with a dull thunk, settling her gaze on the place where the wall met the ceiling, the gold leaf thread running along the green mocking her with its cheerful design. While Anthony burned a hole into the windowpane, the rest of them were frozen, facing each other like they were in a standoff from one of those American Western films that Burbage had screened in Muggle Studies. But instead of gunshots, the moment broke with protests and pleas.

"No. No —"

"This is insane, are you insane ?"

"Well, perhaps there's a wrackspurt in—"

"Luna, for fuck's sake—"

"There has to be another expl—"

"—cuse me, I'll have you know they're quite difficult to spot—"

"Isn't there any other—"

"No, hold on!" Seamus practically shouted, his chest heaving. "How can you be so sure that whatever is happening will end with— with what you say?"

"None of this is unique," Anthony responded without turning around. "I'd go as far as to say it's completely unoriginal. Derivative." Seamus threw a perplexed look at Neville, who shrugged, equally flabbergasted, before sending a surreptitious glance her way. Ginny thumbed a rip in her jeans and reinforced her commitment to dissolving into the seat cushion.

Neville rounded on Terry, who had stayed silent since Anthony's declaration— unsurprisingly so; Terry did nearly everything internally. "You think he's right?" he asked, his tone just on the other side of harsh.

Terry's expression betrayed no emotion, but his gaze flickered, briefly, over to Anthony. He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. "Without all the facts, anything I say right now would be conjecture."

"Oh my god." Anthony slammed his hand on the windowsill and spun around. "Again with the conjecture? Are you kidding me?"

"They seem to be starting in the middle of a conversation instead of the beginning. What an interesting choice," Luna observed mildly.

Anthony jabbed a finger at Terry. "It's not conjecture if there are five-fucking-thousand pages of history behind it. Two is a coincidence, three's a pattern, four's a bloody tradition! It's not conjecture, it's instinct. I'm right."

"I'm not saying you're wrong," Terry responded flatly. "I'm saying that without all of the facts, it's still conjecture." Anthony groaned and dragged his hand down his face, drooping his eyes and cheeks clownishly. Terry gave him one more lingering look before clearing his throat and rising from his seat. "I should get back to patrolling," he said awkwardly. "Bye."

As he shuffled out of the compartment, Anthony gave him a sarcastic wave that morphed into the middle finger the moment the door shut. "Always a welcome perspective, that Terry Boot," he grumbled.

Neville frowned at him in confusion. "Aren't you the Ravenclaw Prefect?"

Anthony smiled grimly— though Ginny couldn't remember the last time an expression on Anthony's face wasn't grim— and shoved his thumb into his chest. "Half-blood. Not worthy for the New World Order."

"Did you know that when kelpies migrate south for the winter, they swim in a curve around a seamount that eroded twelve million years ago?" Luna asked out of nowhere, demonstrating it with her hands and then waiting for a confirmation. When no one gave one to her, she shrugged. "Sometimes history no longer applies, even if we think it does. Maybe it doesn't here."

Anthony snorted. "And there it is. The wishful thinking of the desperately optimistic."

Seamus growled, his nose pinching into an angry wrinkle. "You know, you say all these snappy feckin' lines, but that's all they are— there's nothing to them, no bloody substance! Give me one good reason why we should believe you!"

"Because I know this story," Anthony snapped. "It starts with rumors, then denial, then more rumors, and then people arguing over whether it's worth it to get out because, you know, they have families and school and work and dogs and fucking lives. And it ends with imprisonment, starvation, shooting eighteen-year-olds in the head just to— just to— prove a point… " He trailed off, his chest heaving. Seamus and Neville exchanged a decidedly different kind of look.

Anthony shook his head irritably. "Okay, no, this is— I'm not doing that thing where you reveal a dramatic backstory that explains why you are the way you are. It's boring, so let's cut the bullshit. The Muggle-borns are being led to slaughter," he said bluntly. "That's what's happening, so there's no point in pretending otherwise. And it's happening exactly like it has a thousand times before. Although, I mean," he amended, tacking on a tangent like they were having a normal conversation, "if You-Know-Who were going to take a leaf out of any muggle's handbook, it'd be Hitler and the Nazis', wouldn't it? They've both got a skull fetish," he finished nastily.

"Hitler. The Nazis," Neville repeated slowly, his tone coloured with disbelief. "You're talking— the Muggles who— who killed millions of people?"

Anthony shrugged, though his attempt at nonchalance was piss-poor. "Them. Others. Just calling it as I see it," he drawled. But then he gave up the act and said, more urgently, "Look around us. The government is churning out stereotypes and racist bullshit," he pointed to the Ministry-issued propaganda tacked on the compartment wall, decrying Muggle-borns as sub-human criminals, "they're running Muggle-borns out of their jobs, forcing everyone to register their blood statuses…" he pointed to the letter, now lying on the floor next to Seamus's shoe, "and so the logical next step is this: men, women, old people, children, being taken away, used as slave labor, tortured and probably—"

"Wait," Seamus said quickly, "wait-wait-wait, so— so you—" his whole body jerked unnaturally, "you actually think this is like 1939?"

"Yeah," Anthony said bluntly, flipping his palms over in evidence, his mood shifting from listen to me to fight me. "If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it's a fucking genocide."

"Merlin, Anthony, ease up, will you?" Neville winced, just as Luna protested, "That saying is misleading. There are plenty of endothermic vertebrates that walk and talk like ducks that are not ducks." Anthony ignored them both.

"You're mental." Seamus shook his head in amazement at Anthony, his eyes wide. "I can't believe you."

Anthony laughed darkly. "Oh, I know you don't believe me," he said, and the danger in his voice sank the atmosphere below zero. "It's no shock when you don't believe something. Don't think we all forgot about how long it took you to wise up about Potter."

The whole compartment seemed to suck in a startled breath. Seamus reeled back, stung, his face contorted with rage and, underneath it, what Ginny thought looked a lot like shame. "Yeah?" he snarled. "Fuck you. I'd rather be the skeptic than the boy who cried Holocaust."

"Jesus Christ, do you even hear yourself?" Anthony hissed, looming closer to Seamus, who squared his shoulders defensively.

"Me? You're the one whose mouth doubles as their ars—"

"Oh, fuck off, you twa—"

"You fuck o—"

"Shut up! Merlin, will you both shut up?" Neville snapped. Anthony and Seamus simultaneously jumped and turned to look at him. The outburst was so surprising that even Luna raised her eyebrows. Neville glared at them for a moment, grinding his teeth, then jerked around to face Ginny. "Why are you being so quiet?" he demanded.

Ginny lolled her head in his direction. He wasn't wrong; this stretch of time was probably the longest she'd gone without speaking in three years. But she hadn't joined the debate because she didn't need to debate.

"Because he's right," Ginny said, finally, once she could unstick her throat. "Anthony's right."

Anthony stopped giving Seamus the stink eye and looked down at Ginny in unabashed surprise. "You— you believe me?"

Ginny sat up straight to make sure he saw her roll her eyes. "I believed you even before you did the history lesson," she said. But then she nodded, pursing her lips around the unpleasant taste in her mouth. "We have to stop kidding ourselves. I think— I dunno." She heaved a shaky breath, then shrugged, accepting this horrible truth. "I really don't know what's going to happen. But I don't think Death Eaters deserve the benefit of the doubt." Neville's stare dug into her, still searching for any other possibility, but she saw the acceptance dawning. It was almost there— one more push ought to do it. "You said it yourself," she reminded him, pointing to his black eye for good measure. "They don't do mercy."

It hit two seconds later. Neville's face flooded with a violent panic. "Oh god," he breathed. "Oh god ." He clapped a hand to his forehead. Seamus gave her one last look of desperate disbelief, holding out, but she shook her head; for all his bluster, she almost pitied him. He slowly sank onto the bench and dropped his head into his hands, a mirror image of Anthony when they'd started this whole mess. Ginny glanced at Luna and found her already staring back, with a frown that plainly said, if you believe, I believe.

A poisonous shroud of misery slowly fell upon them, the macabre kind that made a posey smell like perfumed decay. But before it was allowed any permanence, Anthony blew out an obnoxious breath and opened his mouth. "Now we're getting somewhere. Also, I know that vindication is not a good look, but I told you so ."

"You should probably be quiet, Anthony," Luna suggested.

Neville looked like a lost child trapped in the middle of a crowd. "W— what— what do we do?"

"We tell them. Prepare them for what's coming," Anthony said, sitting down beside Ginny, taking the direction of the conversation in stride. But then his face fell. "Or we don't— I dunno if ignorance is a blessing or a death sentence. Jesus."

"No," Neville shook his head. "No, what do we do?"

Anthony squinted at Neville. "…What do you mean?" he asked blankly. "W— there's nothing else to do. That's it. It's over."

"No," came out of Ginny's mouth before she even finished thinking it. "No. No way. Fuck that," she hissed, passion and— what was that? Anger? It was anger— steamrolling through her. "That's not how this is going to go down."

"It isn't?" Anthony asked, eyebrows raised. "I dunno what this looks like to you, but from my end, all I see is a total catast—"

"Yeah, that's because you're you, Mr. Doomsday. You should write headlines for the Prophet," Ginny snapped. She swept her hand through the air. "'Everything is terrible; citizens encouraged to curl into the fetal position and wait to die.'" Anthony gave her a glum little pout, but she couldn't even bring herself to enjoy it. She dropped her head into her palm and scraped her nails through her hair. A non-stop train; innocent people, trapped— they might as well have been in one of Burbage's Spaghetti Westerns. Maybe Ginny had slipped into a fever dream after all. Though at this point, usually, the robbers would have already taken the treasure they were hunting and esc—

She stood up so fast that she made everyone jump, cracked both her knees and nearly lost her balance when she got to the top. "What time is it?"

Neville, standing directly across from her, gave her a puzzled look and checked his watch. "3:57."

She ticked her fingers down; one, two, three-ish. "How many Muggle-borns are there at Hogwarts?"

"Erm," he floundered, taken aback by her quick change of topic, "I do— in our year, there's…" his eyes went up, trying to remember, "seven, I think. Does seven sound right?" Anthony grunted in agreement.

"Okay," Ginny said. "Okay. And in our year there's…" she paused as each of their faces flashed through her head: Mel, Colin, Ian— was Des Jones a Muggle-born or just really into Manchester United?— Priya, Clementine Persky, Ned Jenkins, Delia… maybe Sabrina Durand, but Ginny knew next to nothing about her… "Eight," she decided and looked at Luna, who nodded. "At least eight."

"There are probably more than that in the years below us, though," Luna noted. "Our year and theirs have smaller classes, I think, because of… well, you know."

Yes, Ginny knew, but she didn't ever want to think about that, so she charged forward. "So assuming there's seven to, I dunno, 10 muggle-borns each year, that means that there are between 49 and 70 of them altogether." Ginny's stomach lurched; 49 to 70 people… Merlin, that was a lot.

Anthony threw his palms up. "All you've shown me so far is that the outlook is bad and your multiplication skills are good," he said incredulously, but his brow was narrowed in suspicion.

Ginny shook her head. "Giving them a warning is as useful as giving them a pat on the head and a kick on the arse, and I don't know about you, but I'm not loving that strategy…" she trailed off, repeatedly thumping her fist against her palm. "No. That's not how this is going to go down," she said again, quieter but with no less conviction.

"You want to try and get them off the train," Neville said, reading her mind, and when she looked at him, his eyes were wide. There was a hopeful twitch at the corners of his mouth when repeated, "You want to try to get them off the train?"

Slowly, Ginny nodded, nostrils flaring, a kind of confident warmth ascending her arms and legs, enveloping her. Neville was smiling for real now. In a fit of excitement, he lunged forward and squeezed each of her arms, his grip tight and eternally comforting. She grinned and clasped his shoulders in return.

"Ginny…" Luna said, "how?"

Her smile faltered; she hadn't gotten to that part yet. "Well…" she floundered. "We can't do anything that can be seen by Muggles or regulated by the Ministry, so that rules out flying, portkeys, floo powder, if that's even an option in the first place…" She flipped through the dusty tomes that made up her brain, grasping at every crazy scheme she'd seen pulled off in storybooks and/or by Harry Potter right in front of her eyes, and then… she dragged her hands up and down her cheeks… Is this it? She thought wildly. Is this the option they have? "If there are up to 70 muggle-borns on this train, some of them have to be 17," she said slowly. The road ahead was unfolding unevenly, in scattered zig-zags and swirls, but it was there; she saw it. "And if they're 17, they can do magic without worrying about the trace… They can apparate… and they can take people with them." She inhaled a deep, steady breath. Yes. This is it.

A baffled, "Sorry?" came from behind her. She blinked confusedly at rolling greenery and realised she must have turned to face the window without knowing it. She spun back around and found Anthony's mouth gaping, Neville's eyebrows so far up his forehead they almost blended in with his hair, and Luna chewing her lip, deep in thought. Even Seamus had taken his head out of his hands to eye her warily.

"Is that even possible?" Neville asked. Ginny rolled her eyes; congratulations to him for going from yay to nay in a record-breaking 45 seconds.

"Of course. It'll have to be at a time when the train slows down, obviously, at least enough so that wherever they go they won't go flying from the momentum—"

"But, wait," Neville stammers. "Wouldn't the train be warded against apparation like Hogwarts?"

"Nope," Ginny shook her head emphatically. Skepticism permeated the compartment, so thick it might as well have been airborne soup, but she refused to breathe it in. "I know for a fact that it's not. It's impossible to do a location-locked incantation on an object in motion because it violates Gamp's Second Law of Dimensional Magic. Also," she laughed, despite herself, "trying something like this is just bonkers, so I doubt they even thought about it."

"And yet that's your plan?" Anthony asked dubiously.

Neville considered her, the soft line between his eyes pinched in concentration. She raised an eyebrow at him, waiting. Finally, he nodded, the smile slowly returning to his face, and said, "That's her plan."

"That's my plan," she agreed. "We can make this work. Do you know why?" She smirked. "Because anything's possible if you've got enough nerve."

Ginny snorted loudly, ducking her head to try and muffle it in her sleeve. Hestia stopped pacing with a pivot, her heels screeching against the tiles, and gave Ginny a small, quizzical smile.

"What's funny?" she asked.

"Sorry," Ginny choked out, trying to hold back another snort, clapping her hands over her mouth then dragging them up to rub at her eyes. "Sorry." Neville clamped his hand around her upper arm to make her stop; more than a few spectators were giving her scandalized stares. "Hey, look, I'm sorry," she repeated, defensively this time. "This is how I cope with tragedy. I know it's a problem, but it's not going to get fixed in the next 30 seconds." She shook her head, and then, suddenly, whatever humor had been there vanished in one breath, taking all her energy with it. "It's just— I was so naive." Her shoulders hunched as she went down, one vertebra at a time. "So stupid."

She brought her gaze up to the sea of enrapt faces. In the third row, Padma tried to subtly wipe a tear from the corner of her eye, but Ginny saw it anyway.

"Okay, come-on-come-on-come-on," Ginny said bracingly, returning to her fist-palm rhythm. "First of all, what are we dealing with? How many Muggle-borns are still here?"

Luna smiled serenely, gesturing to Ginny from head to toe. "Your confidence makes it seem like you have everything figured out, even though I know you don't yet. You're good at that."

Ginny laughed and mimed clutching at her heart. Had she thanked Merlin for Luna lately? "So, Hermione isn't here…" Her enthusiasm faded at her next thought. "Is it true— about Rivers?"

Anthony shrugged. "The best way to go about it is to think that all the rumors are true," he answered, despite the fact that he was still clearly unsure about her plan. He blew out a heavy sigh. "Twenty galleons says that Justin Finch-Fletchley's already in another country, maybe even on another planet. I haven't seen Thomas yet, but—"

Seamus jerked upright so fast that all their heads snapped towards him. "Dean's not here," he said harshly. "Dean's not here."

There was a long moment of uncomfortable silence. Neville coughed awkwardly. "I heard someone say they couldn't find Louisa Ridge anywhere," he said.

"Delia Okunjo too," Luna added.

"Right, we'll count that as five… escaped," Ginny said optimistically. "I think Priya Singh and Ian Fleming made a run for it too. And they've both got little brothers, so at least we can say that's another four."

"Right, so, for our year, that leaves," Anthony broke off, closing his eyes and groaning, as if just remembering. "Sue… Megan, and, Wayne Hopkins from Hufflepuff, I think. What about yours?"

"All I know for sure about is Mel," Ginny said, somewhat reluctantly.

"Mel? Your Mel?" Anthony said, in an oddly incredulous tone. "Huh." Ginny narrowed her eyes at him curiously, but then decided she was too overwhelmed for any more of his opinions.

"And then Ned Jenkins, maybe," Ginny finished. She tensed, because that was everything she had. She stayed tense as an empty silence followed her words. "That's it? That's all we know?" she said, not bothering to hide her disappointment. When no one responded, a new bout of anxiety slammed into her. Somehow, this felt worse than anything so far. She shook her head and took a step towards Neville and the door. "I— That is definitely not enough to go on. We need help."

"Wait," Anthony said, clamping a hand around her wrist. "That's another thing— we don't know who to trust."

Neville cocked his head, narrowing his eyes at Anthony. "What are you talking about? Of course we do. We know who everyone on this train is."

Anthony shook his head. "Not now, we don't. It won't be that simple. You can't trust any Slytherins, not even vaguely okay ones, or any of the pureblo—" he cut himself off and winced, realising what he was about to say.

Ginny was proud of how smoothly she'd accepted their impending doom, how in-check she'd kept her urge to smash her fist into the wall and scream until her throat collapsed in on itself. But there was only so much she could take.

She jerked her arm away from Anthony's grip before exchanging furious looks with Neville. "So we're supposed to be doing the 'us versus them' shit too, are we?" she snarled at Anthony. He had the decency to look slightly shame-faced, but he simply shrugged, silent for what was probably the first time in his life. She snorted unhappily and checked her watch, needing something to do to look away from him. 4:12. They were running out of time.

Knock knock knock.

They collectively jumped in alarm. Neville let out a strangled shout and Ginny flung her wand forward, ready to stun. But then the knock was followed up with a sing-songy, "Anything from the trolley, dears?"

Ginny sighed with relief. "Christ," Anthony grunted, clapping a hand over his eyes.

The trolley witch slid the compartment door open, beaming brightly at them under her tight grey curls. "What'll it be, then?"

"Erm," Neville said shakily, probably as emotionally whiplashed as Ginny. "Er… One Cauldron Cake each, thanks," he requested, gesturing to Seamus and himself.

"Could I get a Pumpkin Pasty, please?" Luna requested, unbothered, fishing out change from her pocket. The witch counted their coins, took Anthony's murmured request for a pack of Sugar Quills, and handed them all their snacks, before turning to Ginny.

"What about you, my love? This is my last round before we get to Hogsmeade Station."

"No, thank you," she said, shaking her head. She doubted she could eat anything right now.

The lace-fine lines etched across the witch's face deepened in concern. She tsked softly. "You look a bit peaky, dearie. I reckon a bit of chocolate would do you wonders. How about a Frog, on me?" She was already holding out the Chocolate Frog for Ginny to take.

"Oh, erm," she floundered, holding out her hand awkwardly. "Alright. Thanks." She grabbed the Chocolate Frog and, once the witch backed out of the compartment and the door slid closed again, tossed it on the bench. "Weird," she muttered to herself. Neville threw one of the Cauldrons into a still-sulking Seamus' lap and nudged him encouragingly.

"I have a question about your rules," Luna said to Anthony, although her primary focus was on unwrapping her pumpkin pasty. "Am I to assume that all purebloods— including myself— are completely untrustworthy, all half-bloods are only trustworthy half the time, and every Muggle-born is someone I can bet my life on?" She took a bite then said, muffled, "What about the odd instance where someone is three-quarters one way or the other?"

"No— that's not what I—" Anthony stammered, and despite herself and the situation, Ginny smirked. He grunted in frustration, at himself or Luna, she didn't know. "Well, it doesn't actually matter, anyway," he said. "Because we still have no plan for how we're going to get them out of here."

"Yes we do," Ginny retorted stubbornly. "I just told—"

"No, no you didn't," he protested, slamming the 't' down hard. "You told me the goal. But we have no logistics for how to make this work. There are a million things we need to think about to pull this off and twice as much that could go wrong."

"Fine," she snapped exasperatedly, throwing her arms out and internally cursing him for being so bloody difficult. "Aside from the train crawling with informants and traitors, what are your concerns, mon Capitaine?"

He gave her an alarmed look. "Well, now my number one concern is that you're going to start calling me that. But otherwise…" he continued, eyes flicking to the compartment door window, "how do we get all the Muggle-borns in the loop without letting anyone else know?"

"Well, we would—" Ginny started, but then she stopped; of all the components of the plan, she'd thought this would be the easiest part. "I mean," she shrugged, "the only way to do it is word of mouth, innit? No one knows who the Muggle-borns are better than the Muggle-borns. We find a few, tell them to spread the word—"

"You what?" Anthony asked, agog. "You want to rely on a game of Chinese Whispers?"

Confused and quickly climbing up the ladder of irritation, Ginny shook her head aggressively. "I dunno what that means," she said loudly.

"You know…" Anthony stuck out his pinky and thumb and wiggled his hand near his ear, "The telephone game."

Ginny shook her head again, nonplussed. "You're just saying words at me!"

"Doesn't that mean 'rock on?'" Neville asked, mimicking the hand sign.

"What? No." Anthony shifted his fingers around until his pinky and pointer fingers were up and the rest were folded together. "This means 'rock on.'"

"Oh wait a minute, I know about this telephone thing!" Luna said excitedly. "It's a game Muggles play where they whisper something to each other down the line and see if the first message matches up with the last message!"

Anthony snapped his fingers and pointed at her. "Yes, thank you, Luna, Jesus. Anyway, the whole point is that the first and last message never match up, because humans are stupid and unreliable unless we write everything dow— oh shit," he said suddenly, eyes growing wide. "I know what you can do."

Ginny's spine went ramrod straight almost involuntarily. "Excuse me?"

Anthony squeezed his eyes shut and punched his forehead. "Ah, dammit. Hold on." He grabbed his rucksack off of the luggage rack and began rummaging through it. Ginny peered over his shoulder impatiently, until he finally pulled out an old, water-stained notebook and began flipping through it haphazardly.

"What are you looking for?" Neville asked, eyes rapidly following Anthony's frantic page-turning.

"Er," he said distractedly, "there's a spell in here you can use, one of Sue's from fifth year, when— I dunno if you remember, Neville— she went on that personal strike against quills and ink but still wanted to pass notes."

"One of Sue's," Ginny repeated. "Are you saying— what are you saying? That she made it up?"

"Yeah," Anthony responded absently, as if this wasn't shocking information.

Ginny blinked at him, dumbfounded. Who the hell was Sue? "And you don't remember it?"

Anthony didn't look up from his search, but his cheeks reddened slightly. "I haven't had the need to use it, obviously." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "We haven't been together since January, so excuse me for not remembering exactly how it goes." Ginny raised her eyebrows and glanced at Neville, who shrugged. They'd certainly kept that quiet. Although it was possible she'd forgotten; she had been quite distracted at the end of last year.

Anthony's page-flipping was becoming more and more clumsy. "I think it's written down somewhere… is this even the right— oh, here it is." He slapped his hand down on a page in the middle of the journal. "Invatramento," he muttered, pointing to the margin, where the word and description was written in perfectly rounded penmanship that didn't match the rest of the page's speedy scrawl. He looked back up at them, eyes alight with a frenzied excitement.

"It's nonverbal. You think the spell as you draw your wand in one-and-a-half clockwise circles right over your pulse point on your wrist and then up to your head line on your palm. Then think of what you want to say," he said breathlessly. "The writing will show up in your field of vision, anywhere you look, but only you can see it. Then you touch the person you want to send the message to— pulsepoint to pulsepoint— and it'll show up in their field of vision, and only they can see it. It'll last until the message is understood. Like invisible ink, or… a watermark on your optic nerve." He seemed to think about it for a second, and then his mouth slowly turned up into another first of the day; a genuine smile. "This could actually work."

Heart racing, Ginny shoved her wrist at him. "Show me."

"A sixteen-year-old girl gave you that spell and told you she invented it?" Esnaider asked, grinning. "That's what the Americans call moxxie— chutzpah, no?" He turned towards Klein, raising his eyebrows, and she responded with a painfully thin-lipped smile. Beside her, Anthony's hands curled into fists.

"This girl, her name is Sue Li?" Ivanova asked, sweeping a sheet of parchment up from her desk and skimming it up and down. "Suyin Li?"

"Why?" Anthony's eyes were narrowed at Ivanova in suspicion. Ivanova set down the parchment and sat forward in her chair.

"It is puzzling to me, Mr. Goldstein, that both you and Miss Weasley are so reluctant to divulge details that may be critical to this trial," she said plainly. "This is an internationally-recognized court of justice. I do not understand why you wish to keep things secret."

"It's not—" Ginny began to protest, but then stopped short because she didn't know the answer. She turned to Anthony, hoping he had a better handle on it, but he looked just as conflicted as she felt.

"I'd like to respect people's right to remain anonymous," he said finally. "Especially if they can't choose it for themselves." It was a good response, but Ginny didn't know if it was the right one.

Shira Klein sighed tiredly, tapping her fingernails against her desk. "Mr. Goldstein, please confirm whether or not it was Suyin Li who showed you this spell."

It was not a request. A muscle in Anthony's jaw twitched, but he complied.

"This is… bloody fantastic," Ginny whispered as the message faded away— more and more on every place she set her eyes on until it disappeared. She shared matching grins with Luna, Neville and Anthony, an intensity bubbling under her skin, then clapped her hands together. "Okay. So, we'll focus on finding sixth and seventh years and rely on them to discreetly move down the chain— tell them to use that forearm-handshake thing. The first thing we'll put down in the message is a warning so they don't go bonkers when they see—"

"Are you going to eat that?" Seamus asked. He said it quietly but Ginny still startled as if someone hollered right in her ear.

"Bloody hell, I forgot you were here," she gasped, clutching at her heart. He scowled at her and raised his eyebrows, tilting her Chocolate Frog to and fro. "Yeah, fine, go for it" she said, waving impatiently. "Anyway, no suspicious moves, no reference to any danger so we don't cause a panic…" she listed, gaining steam. "We'll just tell them they need to meet us—" she screeched to a halt, her engine stuttering. "Meet us… where are they going to meet us?" Panic lurched through her, and the confidence slipping off Anthony's and Neville's face didn't help. "We can't stay here!"

"Well," Luna said calmly, "what about the Prefects' lounge? The Slytherins never even go in there, and I think the other ones would be fine with what we're doing—"

"We can't bank on that," Anthony said hurriedly.

"Slughorn fit seven of us in one of the bigger compartments up front for his first Slug Club meeting, remember? And there was room enough for lunch," Neville suggested. "Maybe that could work?"

"No, no," Ginny groaned. "Anyone could walk by, and even if we cast Muffliato, they could see us. We'd be obvious to anyone with a shred of common sense!" She shoved her fingers through her hair. How could she not have even thought this through? Where had she gotten off thinking she was some sort of master planner when she'd run into obstacles every step of the way?

"Erm," Seamus coughed, sounding oddly surprised, "I think I have the solution."

Ginny whipped her head towards him so hard her neck cracked, and was surprised to find him holding the card from her Chocolate Frog aloft. He flipped it towards her as she leaned closer. Instead of containing a famous witch or wizard, the card only had four words, written in neat, gold handwriting.

"'I give you permission,'" Anthony read. Neville and Ginny exchanged a wary glance.

Seamus shrugged and pushed the card toward her. "It was meant for you," he said simply. The others watched with rapt attention as she reached out slowly, holding her breath; they were all holding their breath. Carefully, Seamus dropped it into her hand. The moment it touched her skin, a finely-etched arrow appeared below the writing in a soft, golden glow. It spun clockwise and wavered for a moment before pointing to the right. She turned so she was facing the right and the arrow moved with her, pointing forward. She turned around and the arrow spun the opposite way.

"Bloody hell," Neville said in an awestruck voice.

"It must lead to her quarters," Luna whispered.

Ginny nodded slowly, gnawing at her lip. She ran her thumb down the card's glossy surface, over the raised imprint of the arrow, and suddenly couldn't spend another second in the compartment. She shoved the card into her pocket, pushed past Neville and barreled into the hallway.

"Wait, what the f—" Anthony said, scrambling to his feet and reaching out for her, but she ignored him, violently veering to the right and stalking towards the end of the train, barely registering the still-twitching curtains and hushed mutterings along the way. Neville, Anthony, Luna, and Seamus trailed behind her, discreetly attempting to keep up with her relentless pace.

The only thing past the last compartment was a banged-up, heavy door with, "CREW CAR: EMPLOYEES ONLY," written across the top in red block letters. On any other occasion her social norms might have kicked in, but she heaved it open and barged through it without a second thought. On the other side was a tin can of a room that amounted to a dumping ground for miscellaneous things. A strange mix of locomotive equipment and art supplies lined shelves under the industrial windows on each wall, a stained sink with a half-empty bottle of Mrs. Skower's in it stood in one corner, and an old, definitely-broken radio sat atop a rickety wooden stool in another. Ahead was another metal door that was marked, 'EMERGENCY EXIT,' in the same red lettering and then… nothing. But she knew from life and the numerous action films that Mel had described to her over the years that this had to be a red herring. She darted forward and began tearing through the equipment, searching for a clue.

Neville burst into the car first, panting heavily, the other three right behind him. "Ginny—"

"Why does everything have to be so bloody mysterious?" she interrupted him, as she finished with the contents of the room and went to slap her fingers against the wall. She ran them up and down in broad strokes, madly scouring the windowpanes and panels. "Why couldn't the trolley witch just have said, hey, I know what you're going to do and my door is always open, just FYI!" She paused for a second, fingers skidding against the wall, to shake her head and laugh at the ridiculousness that was her entire bloody life. Behind Seamus, the door slammed shut and the room turned into an echo chamber.

"I don't think we should call her that," Luna said. Ginny reached the end of the wall and flung herself to the other side.

"What, 'trolley witch?'" Anthony asked.

"Yes," Luna confirmed. "The 'trolley' part is fine, I suppose— she does push one around, so that makes sense. But," she paused, and though Ginny was focused on sliding her fingers under the window ledge, she knew that Luna was pensively scratching her chin, "I do not think that she is a witch."

"How the hell did you come up with that?" Seamus grunted, as Ginny, once again, found nothing.

She growled in frustration and stomped back to the center of the room, hoping that starting over would give her some kind of answer. She dug the card out of her pocket and laid it flat on her palm. The arrow was still pointing forward, but now it was pulsing, bright gold flashing to yellow. She looked up and only saw the emergency exit door. She looked back down at the arrow, then looked back up, then back down, then back up. Dread curdled in her stomach. "Oh no," she groaned.

"What?" Neville asked, panicked.

She swallowed thickly and pointed to the door. "I think we have to go through there."

"What?" Anthony squawked. "But—no, that's the emergency exit," he said dumbly.

She raised an eyebrow at him then turned back to the door, giving it a dramatic, scrutinizing once-over. "Yes," she conceded.

Anthony still wasn't having it. "Doors only go two ways, and that way is outside! A moving train!"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "We'd be so lost without you," she snapped. She shook her head and took a few cautious steps towards the door— but then faltered, backpedaling. Anthony, damn him, had gotten to her head after all. "If it does just end up being the outside," she warned, "someone better be ready to catch me." Anthony and Seamus merely gaped at her— typical , she thought exasperatedly— and Luna appeared to be deep in thought, so in the end it was Neville, mouth set in a determined line, who stepped forward.

"Would you look at that, turns out chivalry was only in a coma, eh?" Ginny said, grinning up at Neville and elbowing him in thanks. He rolled his eyes and gave her a humble little smile, a slow blush creeping up his cheeks. She made it all the way to the door this time, Neville a half-step behind her. Up close, the red letters were chipped and peeling. The E's were the worst off; mrgncy, Ginny thought stupidly. A cold wind whistled through the cracks, in a way that proved she was on the safe side of an airlock— and that this door wasn't supposed to be opened. Neville grabbed the back of her shirt, his fingers twisting into the fabric. Ginny puffed out a deep breath, gripped the handle and—

The door flung open, faster than it should have, and Ginny was suddenly staring at miles upon miles of track.

"AAH!" she shrieked, as the others let out equally astonished cries. But they were almost totally drowned out by the explosion of sensation around them. The amplified clatter of the train hitting the tracks assaulted her ears. Wind lashed her face and hair at a blinding, painful speed, its force threatening to suck her in. "Shit, oh-shit-oh-shit!" she gasped, clinging to the side of the train for dear life. "This is a lot scarier than I thought it would be!"

"Ginny! This is a bad idea!" Neville yelled over the din, his fingers clenching as he tried to yank her back.

With one hand braced on the train, she fumbled for the card and managed to hold it straight for a handful of seconds, long enough to see that the arrow was pulsing faster and brighter than before.

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" she screamed back, unsure if she was talking to the others or the card. "Am I supposed to jump?"

"JUMP?!" Seamus repeated incredulously, just as Anthony shouted, "Do NOT jump!" Neville's grip on her got impossibly tighter.

"She wouldn't have made it that hard!" Luna said, voice just slightly louder than usual. "If it says go forward, just go forward!"

"Shit," Ginny hissed. "Okay. Ohh-kayy." She tried (tried) to psych herself up by puffing out a few quick, short breaths, then reached back and pried her shirt out of Neville's grasp.

"No! No, don't —" he said frantically.

"It'll be fine," she interrupted, but the absurdly high pitch of her voice betrayed her. "Yeah. It'll be fine. I can do this." She inhaled deeply, squared her shoulders, stuck her leg out and—

"Oh my god!"

"No, Ginny—!"

— Her foot hit solid ground. Everything went quiet.

A/N: Thank you for reading! As always, please feel free to leave a review :))