Some people listen to Mozart. Some people take a deep hot bath. When Ginny needed to relax, she would fit her hands into her brother's old boots. Something about the damp, cold sponginess of the soles curving under her palms and the heavy scent of burning hide made her feel safe. Almost as if she was back in some neverending school holiday, sitting out on the porch with him again. They'd be arguing about brooms or eating bitter apples from the tree or tag team teasing Ron, legs stretched out, shoes kicked off but always nearby, a witness to it all. Sun (be it winter or summer) dappled his skin, and his eyes crinkled when he smiled at her and his teeth gleamed when he laughed at her, which was more often anything else because that's what big brothers are for.

When Ginny needed to relax, she would spread her fingers out inside the old boots, feeling for the contours of his feet imprinted under her touch. Clouds of ash rose like incense in a church whenever they moved and her hands came out clammy and streaked black. Sometimes she would turn them over and pick layers from the treads; dragon scales, foreign earth, shreds of leaves from her own garden.

Ginny always stopped there.