A/N Though this story is written in linear time, the events aren't consecutive - basically I jump time a bit between "scenes".
Secondly, I recently read the story "Harry's Birthday Present" by mioneatheart -and I liked the idea of Harry having a hand on the Weasley's clock so much that - I nicked it. I hope she doesn't mind!
And lastly, I hope you enjoy this story. It was first written for the First Task at sugarquill.net.

*


Backbeat, the word is on the street

That the fire in your heart is out

I'm sure you've heard it all before

But you never really had a doubt

I don't believe that anybody

Feels the way I do, about you now


And all the roads we have to walk are winding

And all the lights that light the way are blinding

There are many things that I

Would like to say to you

But I don't know how

"Wonderwall", Oasis

*

The thunderstorm continued raging outside. Low, scowling rumbles preceded jagged, precise cracks of lightening that briefly illuminated the night sky every few seconds.

Harry watched the lightening without much interest, rubbed his scar wearily out of habit, and rubbed the last of the sleep out of his eyes. Looking out into the black night - it wasn't too difficult to imagine that somewhere out there was him, and he couldn't stop himself from thinking it.

The Weasley's house was different at night; like the family, it seemed to sleep. There were noises, of course; from the moving photographs, the clink of restless cutlery in the drawers, ticking clocks. Even in the middle of night it wasn't still. But it was quieter. And Harry had found that he could be calm and think at night, alone, and quiet.

Though really, thinking was only marginally better than the nightmares. The same questions had crawled around in Harry's head all summer, and he'd been over them again and again, in varying tones of anger, despondency and calmness; he'd reasoned with himself, and he'd even tried to find answers. How long before a poisonous green skull with a snake slithering from its mouth replaced the lightening in the sky? And, when it came, did he really have any chance? Wasn't everyone just fooling themselves? He wasn't even sixteen - he had only just mastered a Summoning Spell properly.

It was becoming increasingly difficult not to think about it, though Harry certainly never thought of asking these questions out loud in front of others. How could he, when faced with mental images of Dumbledore's wise but grave countenance, the tight, set look on Snape's face when he'd walked out of the hospital wing at the end of last term, and the Weasley's fierce resolution and loyalty to one another. It seemed pointless too, but more than that, selfish.

He should go back to bed, and attempt some sort of rest until the morning. He ought to go back to bed, especially before Mrs. Weasley, or someone, heard him and came downstairs to see if he was all right... Dear Mrs. Weasley, so kind and concerned, had already caught him up three times this week and, though Harry was sure she had no intention of judging him, obviously thought he needed his sleep more than ever and ought to try and get it.

He tired himself out playing Quidditch mostly during the day. It was amazing how, up in the air, nothing seemed quite so impossible. Nothing seemed real, either, but that was the best part. Flying took him away from everything. Yesterday, after a particularly exhilarating game of Quidditch, he'd found himself thinking with some dark humour that it would be all right if only the battle against Voldemort could be a Quidditch match.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs interrupted Harry's thoughts; startling him and making him turn quickly. A moment later, a pale figure in a nightgown appeared in the doorway, visibly stopping at the sight of him.

"Oh! I - er - I really -,"

"S' okay, Ginny," said Harry. Ginny, who had before looked uncertain whether to venture any further, entered the kitchen.

"I couldn't sleep, and I saw the light on," she explained. "I thought it was mum, making hot chocolate." Ginny looked slightly odd, all in white - Harry might have compared her to sort of ghost, were it not for the mass of untamed, sleep-tousled bright red hair falling about her head (and a slight flush which had just appeared in her cheeks). She glanced out of the window almost involuntarily, and shuddered. "I hate thunderstorms," Harry heard her mutter.

"Want some?" he asked, indicating the mug of hot chocolate in his hand.

"Please," Ginny nodded and smiled. "I'd make it myself, only it'd taste terrible. Can't seem to get the hang of it..."

"No problem," said Harry. He got up, glad for something to do. Glad, and a little surprised, that she didn't seem about to ask him if he couldn't sleep - a question he'd been asked too many times lately.

"Thanks," said Ginny, as he put a full mug down in front of her. But she didn't drink any, fiddling instead with the little teaspoon in the mug.

"It's been a long summer, hasn't it?" she said.

"Yeah. It has," agreed Harry. Ginny seemed to hesitate over something for a moment, and Harry looked up to catch an expression of awkwardness pass over her face for an instant.

"I'm glad we're going back to school soon, anyway," said Ginny, finally. "I think...I think it'll be easier to be sensible with Dumbledore, and lessons - and Professor McGonagall, having a go at Fred and George -"

They exchanged a grin. Ginny's expression had shifted - it was now steady, with hardly any hesitance remaining, and her eyes were flashing. " - I mean, it's easy to lose sight of things when you're away from what you're used to, isn't it, and you've only got this -" she indicated an issue of the Daily Prophet lying on the table " - to go on for what's happening - and everything's...strange."

Having finished this deliverance, Ginny took a sip of hot chocolate. Harry felt like applauding. Tonight was the first time he'd spoken properly to Ginny all summer and right now, he didn't know what feelings Ginny harboured towards him. He didn't know, really, how she felt about Voldemort's return (after all, he wasn't the only one in the kitchen to have encountered the Dark Lord); and he didn't know, either, exactly how much she had changed since that time, in her first year at Hogwarts. But her words were very wise and comforting, and he clung to them for a moment in spite of himself.

A sharp rapping at the window brought their attention suddenly to a very wet, frantic-looking owl hovering outside.

"Oh!" cried Ginny, jumping up. Unlatching the window, she grabbed the owl skilfully, lifting it inside, and then deposited it unceremoniously beside the kitchen sink. "It's a ministry owl, I think," she told Harry, as she detached a small, flat brown package from the owl's legs.

Harry took the owl, and put it alongside a sleeping Errol in the hanging cage. He was really, really hoping that he didn't need to ask the question already forming on his lips.

"Is...everything all right?" he asked. To his surprise and relief, a mirthful laugh was his reply. Ginny had just unrolled the brown paper to disclose...

"A sugarquill?" said Harry.

"Oh, it's nothing...it's just, well -" Ginny chuckled again. "Bill used to play this stupid game with me, when I was little. What he'd do, is he'd hide, and leave a load of these sugarquills around the house - so each one pointed to where the next one was - leading to his hiding place. And I had to follow them, and find where he was," she finished. A sort of glow seemed to have taken Ginny over, and she showed Harry the sugarquill with shining eyes. "I suppose it's his way of telling me he's all right. Bill hates writing letters."

Harry nodded, and found himself grinning as he looked at her. Mr. Weasley, Bill, Charlie and Percy had all been away from home for the past week, on "Ministry Business" (though the whole family knew that what was left of the Ministry was in extreme disorder at the moment). "Wait a minute, there is letter," he said, suddenly noticing a piece of parchment rolled up among the discarded brown paper.

"Really?" said Ginny, looking up. "Oh, just as I thought. The letter's from dad," she explained, taking up the parchment. "To mum. I'll just leave it here for her to read in the morning."

These words, and the yawn that accompanied them, seemed to remind Ginny that it was the middle of the night.

"Yeah, I was gonna go up in a minute," said Harry, taking his cue. Ginny nodded.

"Better put that to rights," she said, looking at the kitchen clock, two hands of which were not pointing to 'Bed'. She downed the rest of her hot chocolate, then turned to him. "Goodnight, Harry," she said. The sugarquill was still clutched in her hand, and she still appeared to be glowing quietly.

Harry wasn't sure whether to thank her, for what she'd said earlier - because, whether she'd known it or not, it had been a nice gesture, and it had helped. So it should have been easy to say 'thank you'. Somehow, though, he couldn't say it.

"Oh," Ginny looked down at the small quill in her hand. "Present," she said, handing it to him. "No - seriously - I don't want it. Ron's got a 'secret' hoard in his bedroom, and I just help myself when I want. I'd tell you where it is, but it's classified information, sorry..."

"Thank you," said Harry.

Ginny turned and walked towards the door. At the door, however, she stopped abruptly, as if having just thought of something. She turned to him again. "And Harry - I know I said that I couldn't make drinkable hot chocolate - but, as a friend, I think I should tell you...yours isn't much better."

Harry caught the small grin on her face, and then she was gone. He stood, stunned for a second, before a grin broke over his own face. He washed up the two mugs quickly, before going up to bed. On the way out of the kitchen, he too glanced at the clock, his eye lingering particularly over his "own" hand. It had been a birthday present from the Weasleys, arriving via Hedwig on the early hours of July 31st along with a touching, explanatory note from the family. Currently, the hand was pointing to "dawdling." Harry smiled again, then went to bed.

*

Ginny was enjoying sitting in the common room, with its fire and its atmosphere, and above all, the pointless chatter of her own friends.

"I'm telling you, it's true! Auras are what make people attracted to each other," Peg was declaring, looking comically ardent with wide eyes and her short hair sticking up in two high bunches.

"Yeah, er - Peg - you shouldn't take Professor Trelawney too seriously, you know..." said Hester, sensible and cynical as ever.

"Okay, then little Miss. Sceptical - Ginny, what do you think?"

Usually, gossiping on the subject of love in any shape or form would irk Ginny no end - as the only girl in a family with six brothers, there was only so much room for the romantic soul. (That was the reason she gave herself for the annoyance, anyway). But tonight, the conversation was comfortingly familiar. And Ginny had an idea what her own line was.

"All right, children; play nicely, or I'll be forced to hex you both," she said, smilingly.

"Oi, Ginny, have you seen Harry anywhere?" Ron's voice broke through the chatter, and Ginny looked up to see Ron and Hermione making their way across the room, apparently returning from dinner. From the slightly disgruntled look on Hermione's face, Ginny guessed that the two were in the middle of one of their "discussions" (these started as some trivial disagreement and then generally progressed from there into something that could be heard from the other side of the school).

"Not since this morning," said Ginny, feeling the little stab of annoyance that she always did when one of her brothers spoke to her as if she was - well, a house elf, or something.

"Oh, great, he's gone off on one again." Ron was fuming from the armchairs where he and Hermione had sat down. "That's the third time this week. Where does he go?"

"Well, I don't see why you're asking me," Ginny heard Hermione say, cuttingly. "After all, I'm just a girl; I don't come into your delicate male matters. I probably wouldn't understand anyway..." She was evidently still angry with Ron over what they'd been talking about before. Ron himself had got up and was restlessly pacing up and down.

"Oh, not that now, please," he implored, half angrily. "I'm sorry about that, you know I am, and I didn't mean it, and I know you're clever, so forget I ever said it!" he said, all in one breath. "Look, what about Harry?"

"Ron, I'm worried about Harry too, but...but he can take care of himself," said Hermione, quietly. Ron's bumbling apology had satisfied her, it seemed, and she laid a hand on his arm as she spoke, to comfort him, or calm him down maybe; Ginny didn't know which.

"We've always done everything together."

"I know."

"I just wish he'd talk to me," Ginny heard Ron say, as he finally flopped into the armchair in frustration.

At this, part of Ginny was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to shout at Ron not to be so selfish; to tell him that Harry was nobody's property, and was entitled to some time to himself; and how easy did he think it was, just to 'talk' to anyone after everything?

Only, Ron wasn't anyone, was he? He was Harry's best friend. And Ginny had to admit to herself that, at the same time, the other half of her was inclined to act exactly as her brother had done. She had a sudden vision of herself dropping everything at Ron's remarks, running outside, and looking everywhere that Harry might be, before finding him and pulling the old, "Why, Harry, what a surprise to see you here..." (blush, stammer, stammer)

It was a comical thought, Ginny reflected; and one that she didn't find very funny. She was extremely conscious of the fact that her twelve-year-old self might just have done it. No - there was no 'might' about it. A couple of years back, and she would be out there already, telling her friends that she wanted to get some air and needed a sudden walk.

A raucous laugh from Peg roused Ginny very quickly, jerking her back into the present.

"Okay, okay, so...if your aura's sort of turquoise, Hess, and...hmm, let's see...I think that Ravenclaw prefect's is kind of yellow..." Peg was saying, making Hester blush bright red with her latter statement. "Turquoise and yellow...well, it's obvious, isn't it? They clash horribly!"

"Oh, stop talking rubbish, Peg," said Ginny, half-enthusiastically, trying to pretend she'd been listening all along. Peg was giggling uncontrollably, while Hester looked as if her face was about to burst into flames.

Ginny couldn't help glancing over to where Ron and Hermione were sitting. The noise of the common room filling up as people returned from dinner meant she couldn't hear what they were saying, and in any case it looked as though they were speaking very quietly; but Ron's voice from earlier came back to her:

"I just wish he'd talk to me"

She had given up on wishing it would be her that Harry would talk to. But she did wish he would talk; part of her hoping in the same way as a child hoped that it would fix everything if only he could pour his heart out. Ginny knew it was impossible. And, since returning to Hogwarts, she had noticed that Harry had not been spending as much time with Ron and Hermione as usual. "Noticed" was an understatement actually; she'd noticed it and pondered it and had worried over it.

Ginny often saw him wandering back to the castle on his own from somewhere or other, and sometimes, she caught him with an expression of concentrated blankness on his face that disconcerted her greatly. Had Peg seen him, Ginny didn't doubt what colour his aura would be pronounced; for a dark grey, it seemed to her, would envelope Harry completely on some days.

It did worry her. It worried her because she cared and, it seemed to Ginny that it was more important he knew people cared than ever. And, of course, it worried her how much she cared. Somewhere inside her, a slightly younger Ginny Weasley was still asking why everyone else didn't feel inclined to act stupidly when it came down to Harry; and what it mean that they didn't.

Slightly older Ginny wondered why she was still asking these questions when she knew she had no claims whatsoever on Harry. If he didn't want to talk to Ron, his best friend, then -

"Ginny Weasley?"

For a moment Ginny was unsure who had spoken to her. She glanced about her to see a Sixth Year Prefect standing at her shoulder.

"Yes?" she said.

"Message from Professor McGonagall: she wants to see you in her office tomorrow morning after breakfast. Oh, and -" The girl, who had been about to go, had an afterthought. "If you see Harry Potter, tell him the same, please. I can't find him." With that, the Prefect walked away before Ginny had a chance to fully register what she'd said, or ask her the reason.