"Ginny, dear, Tonks has things to do. Quit bothering her and come help me." Ginny made a face. Tonks gave her a sympathetic look. "Really, Mrs. Weasley, she's not----" But Tonks's protest was cut short as Fred -- or was it George? -- raced past the front entryway and up the stairs carrying an entire pan of treacle tart. "FRED!" snapped Mrs. Weasley, hoisting her skirts and puffing up the stairs after him, "That's for TOMORROW!" Whatever snide retort Fred (or George) threw back down the stairs was drowned by the sudden shrieking of Mrs. Black's portrait. Ginny made another face and moved to jerk the curtains shut again. "---MUDBLOODS AND BLOOD-TRAITORS IN MY HOUSE, IF I EVER LAY HANDS ON THAT NO-GOOD NO-SON-OF-MINE I'LL TURN HIM INTO---" "--- the rest of the dirty dishes into the sink -- it's already charmed to wash them -- and don't dally, I'll be down to check as soon as I'm finished with your devil of a brother." Ginny almost didn't catch her mother's words, so badly were her ears ringing from Mrs. Black's shrieks. "You hear me?" she prompted. Ginny scowled and gave a noncommittal shrug. "Well, scoot!" Mrs. Weasley made a shooing motion and hurried up the stairs. "Ah. Well." Tonks gave Ginny another sympathetic look. "I'll see you tomorrow, then?" "Yeah, if I don't have to spend the whole day locked in my ROOM again," Ginny replied. Having the whole Order here carrying on big important meetings right under her nose should have been exciting, except for the part where she was only ever allowed in places they weren't. "I'm sure we can work a way around that," Tonks said encouragingly, and gave Ginny a hug. "'Night, Ginny, see you tomorrow." "Yeah, see you tomorrow." Ginny watched the door close and then stomped down the stairs to the basement kitchen. She considered making enough noise to wake Mrs. Black again, but decided at the last minute that the possibility of annoying her mother wasn't worth having to put up with that horrible noise again. The hearthfire that served as the main source of light in the kitchen had faded to a dim glow of embers; but even so, Ginny could see from the bare silhouette of the long table that all the dinner dishes had already been cleared. She cursed under her breath, virtually certain that her mother had just invented this 'vital' chore to stop her talking to Tonks. She thought about stomping right back upstairs again and finding a quiet corner to hide in with a good book; but with a half-dozen Weasleys in residence at Number Twelve, quiet corners were hard to come by. At the moment, with her mother and the boys upstairs, her best bet was probably here, in the basement. Well, then, she'd perform the non-task her mother had set for her. Conscientiously. She circled the table slowly, peering idly along it, beside it, and under it for signs of any dirty dishes, or stray crumbs, or anything at all amiss. She neared the end of the table closest the hearth -- and with a start realized she was not the only person in the room. Sirius Black dozed in a chair by the fire, his booted feet propped on the edge of the hearth. Now Ginny KNEW her mother had invented this task for her out of thin air: Mrs. Weasley would never voluntarily have sent her daughter into a room alone with Sirius Black. Sure, both her parents spoke highly enough about poor Sirius, how he'd been wrongly accused, how really he was a good and loyal friend to the Potters and the Order; but Ginny had overheard them whispering in private about the ways Azkaban could damage even the best of men. They pitied him, and feared him. Fascinated, Ginny crept closer. His head lolled to the side and a little forward in slumber; his long, unkempt hair hung in his face, hiding his eyes. Ginny could see his mouth, fallen slightly open, and could hear his slow breathing. Her gaze strayed to his chest, rising and falling in time with that sound; and to the dark edges of the tattoos -- beautifully twisted runes and ancient symbols, dark souvenirs of his imprisonment -- just visible where his shirt had fallen open at the collar. One, two, three buttons he'd left undone. It would take only the tiniest tug on his shirt-front to give her a much better view of those marks. Ginny wondered how deeply he was asleep. The next instant she wondered how many decades her mother would ground her if she'd had any inkling what Ginny was contemplating. She was just about to abandon the idea when she noticed the large empty bottle lying on its side by the chair. The smell of it -- like grapes mixed with pickles -- clung to the air around Sirius. And then she saw the bone-colored mug balanced in Sirius's lap: empty, but stained dark on the inside by the former contents of the bottle. A dirty dish. Clearly, Ginny thought in rebellious triumph, it must be put away. She had her orders, after all. Biting her lip and trying to slow her breathing, she crept up beside Sirius's sleeping form. She reached cautiously for the mug -- and if her thumb just happened to catch the front of his shirt along the way.... A hand clamped hard onto Ginny's wrist. She froze. Her pounding heart leapt into her throat. "I hardly see why you should prefer Potter to me." What? Ginny thought, alarmed. His voice was thick, like a man talking in his sleep, and for a moment Ginny wasn't sure she'd heard correctly; but try as it might, her brain couldn't force the sounds to mean anything else. What? she thought again. Then, How does he know about Harry? She hadn't breathed a word about her crush for almost a year to anyone save Hermione. And then, again, What? Sirius had been a long time in Azkaban, true, but he couldn't POSSIBLY mean.... She ventured a glance at his face. His eyes glittered blackly at her through the tangle of overgrown fringe; but even obscured and dimly lit, she recognized their teasing expression. He was playing some sort of game. Well, then, she'd try to play along. She raised her chin a fraction. "At least Potter understands about proper grooming habits," she shot back. "You need a bath, Sirius." Which was true. That was another of the effects of Azkaban she'd heard her mother complain about, not so privately. He sat up a little taller in his chair -- it brought him very nearly eye level with her -- and taunted: "Who's going to give it to me, then? You, Evans?" Evans? She looked a little more directly at him. She could almost see the much younger man leering back at her from the eyes of an older self blurred by time and drink and dream. And he thought... and he thought.... Oh, shite. She knew her discomfiture showed on her face, because he smiled. It was more a baring of teeth, really, and rather doglike; but he was clearly pleased with himself. He still had firm hold of her wrist, and began drawing it toward his face, plainly wanting to make her believe he would bite her like the dog he was. She stared, open-mouthed, too stunned to respond appropriately -- and what would be appropriate, anyway? Resisting the pull? Scratching at him like a cat? She knew at the very least she should say something sharp, or funny, or preferably both -- but her tongue felt stuck to the roof of her mouth, and her brain seemed to have exploded in a shower of sparks. He locked eyes with her in challenge and pulled her hand to his mouth. She felt the wiry prickle of his mustache, and waited, hardly breathing, for the sharp pinch of teeth; but at the last moment he flipped her hand over and pressed his lips wetly into her palm. Heat surged through her body; she knew she was flushed, and was very glad for the dim light in the room. Suddenly it occurred to her: maybe he'd show her his tattoos if she just asked.... "GINNY?" Hermione's voice rang sharply from the foot of the stairs. Ginny thought she caught Sirius wink at her, grinning like a naughty schoolboy just one step ahead of being caught, before he released her arm and slumped back into his chair. She curled her fingers protectively around her damp palm and turned her gaze to Hermione, who continued, "Y-your mother wants you upstairs... now... please." Even from across the dimly-lit room, Ginny could see how wide her eyes were. "Yeah, sure," Ginny replied, her tongue free and her mind clear once more. She moved through the kitchen without even glancing at Sirius; she had no idea what her face might betray if she did. She and Hermione were halfway up the stairs before Hermione ventured to ask: "Was... he... sniffing your hand?" "Well, he is a dog," Ginny replied smoothly. "He was just getting to know me." Hermione gaped at her, obviously unsure whether she was having her on. "I think," Ginny contined, "that when Mum tries to set us chores tomorrow, we should offer to give Padfoot a bath." "GINNY!" Hermione gasped in horror. "You wouldn't---" "Well, he's OBVIOUSLY not doing it himself...." But before she could wind Hermione up any further, Hermione shot back, "Well, that would be a fine welcome for Harry, wouldn't it? 'Sorry, dear, the girls couldn't be here to greet you, they're BATHING your GODFATHER'---" "What? Harry's here?!" "Tomorrow," replied Hermione. "It was supposed to be a surprise -- well, a secret really -- but I heard your mum yelling about the treacle tart, and I worked it out." Ginny's fingers slowly uncurled. Surreptitiously, she wiped her damp palm against the leg of her jeans. "So I asked her was there anything we could do to help her get ready for tomorrow," Hermione continued, "and she said, well, yes, as long as we knew, we might as well make ourselves useful. We're to put fresh sheets on the other bed in Ron's room. And I thought we might make him a welcome card, to make up for not being allowed to write a proper letter all summer, and...." Hermione continued her litany of things they should do, but Ginny only half-heard her. Her brain was a shower of sparks again. Everything -- Hermione, her mother shrieking upstairs, the incident with Sirius -- was blocked out by one overwhelming thought: Harry's coming. Tomorrow. Ginny smiled.