Ginny Weasley

The Great Hall of Hogwarts was alive with the midday hustle, the enchanted ceiling mirroring a crisp autumn sky dotted with fluffy clouds that drifted lazily overhead, casting soft shadows on the long wooden tables laden with platters of roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, buttered vegetables, and endless pitchers of pumpkin juice. House banners fluttered gently from the rafters—scarlet and gold for Gryffindor, green and silver for Slytherin, and so on—while owls occasionally swooped in with parcels, one nearly knocking over a first-year's goblet nearby. At the Gryffindor table, Ginny sat sandwiched between Ron, who was shoveling food onto his plate like it was his last meal, and Hermione, who absently flipped through a thick tome on defensive spells while nibbling on a salad. Harry was across from them, his messy black hair even more disheveled than usual, poking at his mashed potatoes with a fork as if they held the answers to Umbridge's latest tyrannies. A few seats down, Neville chatted quietly with Dean Thomas about Herbology, while a group of Ravenclaws at the adjacent table whispered animatedly about O.W.L.s. The conversation among the group had kicked off casually, as it often did during lunch—venting about the pink nightmare that was Professor Umbridge. Ron was in full swing, his mouth half-full as he gestured wildly with his fork. "That bloody woman—banning all the fun spells in corridors? Next thing you know, she'll outlaw breathing if it's not Ministry-approved. And her detentions? I heard she made some Hufflepuff scrub trophies with a quill that scratches your hand!" Hermione nodded vigorously, closing her book with a thud. "It's not just that; her Educational Decrees are stifling real learning. Defense Against the Dark Arts is a joke now—no practical magic, just theory from that awful textbook. We need to do something—maybe start our own study group." Harry leaned in, his green eyes intense. "Yeah, I've been thinking about that. Dumbledore's Army, remember? We can't let her win." Ginny, however, had been quieter than usual, her athletic frame tense as she stabbed at a pile of peas on her plate, barely eating despite Molly's constant letters nagging her to "keep up her strength for Quidditch." Her day had been a disaster from the start: a spilled ink pot in Charms, a botched Transfiguration where her teacup turned into a rat with attitude, and then Potions with Snape. That slimy git had droned on about healing draughts—"As if we need curing from anything but his voice," she'd muttered to herself—before assigning pairs with his usual sadistic glee. She'd ended up with Neville (who was sweet but fumbled the ingredients), while You got stuck with that Ravenclaw girl, all clever smiles and "Oh, let me stir that for you," with subtle brushes of her hand and laughs that lingered too long. And You? Completely oblivious, chatting away like it was nothing. It irked her, especially after the string of bad luck, amplifying her frustration into a slow burn. As the talk circled back to Umbridge, Ginny couldn't hold back anymore. She set her fork down with a clink, her brown eyes flashing with mischief and a hint of edge as they flicked toward You. "Oh, Umbridge is bad enough, but at least she's obvious about her games. Some people play them without even realizing—or maybe they do, and just pretend not to notice. Like in Potions today... pairing up with someone who's all helpful and touchy-feely. Bet it made the class fly by for some, didn't it? All those accidental brushes while 'accidentally' flirting."