Disclaimer: All chracters and settings belong to the wonderful JKR. I'm just borrowing them for a bit.

A/N: Thanks to all who reviewed the first chapter - you reallymde my day, and gave good advice. And thanks, as always, to Bob the Frog, for being such a wondeful beta. Hope you enjoy this next part.

Lightening Bolt: Harry's Memory:

Harry's feet hit the ground with a thud, and with great regret, he swung his legs from his broomstick and stood up straight. The Quidditch pitch was shaded and quiet, and as he started to walk towards the castle, the wet ground squelched under his feet.

The first match of the season was fast in a week; Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw, and Harry had spent the last few hours practicing the complicated dives, turns and rolls that were part of Gryffindor's new strategy. It was a marvellous feeling to be up in the air again, after a long magic-and-Quidditch-deprived summer. With all the work his professors had assigned, Harry had barely had time to step outside. His mind was constantly clouded, crammed with facts and spells to practice and remember, and for once, it was nice to forget it all. The air rushed through his hair, whistled in his ears, and the only things that filled his mind were careful precision and extreme concentration.

Lately, the Quidditch pitch had been only place where he felt truly happy. Everywhere else was too full of Sirius, of the prophesy, of memories of the past. These thoughts that normally pressed down on his mind and heart, dragging him ever deeper, where left on the ground when he mounted his broom. And blissfully, as he stepped through the giant front doors of Hogwarts, they hadn't yet sunk back in.

He walked into the entrance hall, and made his way to the foot of the great marble staircase leading upstairs. Suddenly his stomach gave a loud rumble, and Harry reconsidered, going down the staircase to the kitchens. He had barely eaten at dinner, his mind preoccupied by thoughts of flying, and now, after hours of hard exercise, he wasn't surprised to find himself hungry. Down the stairs he went, right to the painting of the fruit bowl, and just as his hand reached out to tickle the pear, there was a meowing sound.

Harry looked behind him and spotted Mrs. Norris, her beady eyes glowing as she stared at him. She stood upon a set of wet and very muddy footprints, her tail waving with glee. For a moment Harry felt sorry for the student who had made those tracks. Since Umbridge's departure, Filch had been very, very cranky, and he vented his anger on pranksters and mess-makers. But then Harry looked down at his own feet and robes, and his stomach gave a sick jolt. The tracks were his.

It had rained at some point during his practice, but with his glasses charmed against water and wind, Harry had barely noticed. Only the falling night had brought him in, reluctantly touching down as the sun disappeared behind the horizon. Still working over plays in his minds, only now did he realize that his robes were sopping wet, dripping rainwater onto the floor, and that his shoes were completely muddy.

Quickly Harry looked around. Being caught by Filch would mean three days of detention, using up the precious little practice time he had. The only option was to somehow slip away, though wet, tired, and without the Marauder's map or the invisibility cloak. It wouldn't be easy to do, especially watched by Mrs. Norris,

Briefly he thought of his broomstick. The entrance hall had a high, vaulted ceiling, and if he flew to the very top, Filch would never think to look up. The footprints would disappear right in front of the fruit bowl painting, leading the angry caretaker on a wild goose chase through the kitchens. But if he were caught, his punishment would be far worse. Flying inside was a major breach of Hogwarts rules.

Harry heard footsteps from far down the hall, and Mrs. Norris meowed even more insistently. Making a decision, he raced up the stairs, back into the entrance hall and out the front doors, knowing that his feet were just as wet as the ground, and that his steps would be impossible to pick out. He could hear Filch calling to Mrs. Norris, and Harry ducked into a garden he hadn't entered since the Yule Ball.

He walked past rosebushes, and over to the trees and hedges, planning to sit on one of the carved stone benches until he could safely return to his dormitory. As he rounded a corner, walking deeper into the garden, there were sections of hedges that squared off into little alcoves, concealing groups of benches from view. Harry stepped into the farthest one, and was met by the sight of a huddled black shape with long, flaming red hair. Ginny Weasley.

Suddenly the turmoil of thoughts and problems left by the Quidditch pitch flew back to him, his mind and heart instantly heavy, his good mood gone. In a flash he remembered the common room buzzing with talk, the Great Hall flooded with copies of the Daily Prophet. Death Eaters had made an attack in the magical Underground, and all of Hogwarts - all of the wizarding world - buzzed with doubt, worry and shock. He remembered Hermione's concerned face, Ron's carefully cheerful banter - his best friends had acted like he was an emotional time-bomb, ready to explode. He remembered Ginny's pale and stricken face, he lips pressed tightly together as all of Gryffindor speculated and talked.

During the summer Harry had gotten to know Ginny, for what seemed like the first time. He no longer considered her as simply Ron's little sister, or the clumsy young girl who used to like him. He found that it easy to be around her, and that she always listened to him and made him laugh. Friendship wasn't exactly the right word, because it was different with Ginny than with Ron or Hermione, though Harry didn't know exactly how or why. But it was a good difference. Except for right now, because if it were Hermione crying, or Ron sad, he would have idea of what to do. But it was Ginny, and Harry was completely lost.

He wondered whether he should leave her be. He didn't want to invade such a personal and private moment. And a crying girl, even one he knew, was an absolutely terrifying prospect, much more so than detention with Filch. He almost turned to leave, but then looked at her again. She was curled up on the bench, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Under the shelter of a tall elm tree, the ground around her had stayed dry, and surrounded by wet and puddles, she looked like a shipwreck stranded on an island. Trying to ignore the panic signals his brain was sending, Harry slowly approached the bench, and gently tapped Ginny on the shoulder.

Ginny spun around, so quickly that Harry was surprised to find her suddenly sitting beside him. She stared at him, her eyes wide, her face red and blotchy and her eyes shinning wet. As she registered who was sitting beside her, her mouth formed a small O, and then a tear slid down her cheek as she turned away from him.

Harry was absolutely terrified. Ginny was crying, she looked a mess, and now she had turned her back from him, obviously wanting him to go away. But it was too late for that. Now that he had seen her, he couldn't just leave her alone. Something about her quiet despair shook Harry, and dimly he recognized himself in her eyes. How many times had he been depressed or sad, and had hidden his emotion so well from the world that the comfort he needed had never been given? Ginny couldn't turn into him, couldn't be sad like him. More importantly, Harry wouldn't allow her to be sad becauseof him, and right now, he was the source of her fresh onset of tears.

He thought of what her brothers would do: Fred, George, Bill, Charlie or even Ron. Surely he had seen them comfort her at some point! As Ginny's body curled up even tighter, Harry frantically racked his brain, trying to recall some sort of gesture to make her feel better. Then he remembered Charlie, during his fourth year, clapping him on the shoulder to show his support. Bashing Ginny would do no good, but maybe if he were just a little gentler…

Carefully Harry reached out, and quietly he patted Ginny's shoulder. Her crying seemed to worsen, but at a complete loss for anything else to do, he just kept patting, until she stopped sobbing and shaking and her tears dried up. As she turned to face him, sitting up, Harry quickly removed his hand from her back. Her face was still very red, and so were her eyes, and as she opened her mouth a hiccough escaped. Besides that, there was silence, and as the seconds passed it seemed to grow larger and heavier, until the space between them was completely filled. Harry could almost feel the quiet pressing down, but he still had no idea what to say, and so his heart sank gradually, heavier and heavier, until finally Ginny uttered a sound.

"I…"

Then the tension snapped, and Ginny's troubles flowed out of her mind. Harry listened, not daring to say a thing, She was talking so fast that her words barely registered. He caught You-Know-Who, Tom, evil and my fault before her speech accelerated to a speed undecipherable by man. But still, Harry though that he caught her drift, and was immediately outraged.

How could she think that what had happened in the Underground was her fault? Or what had happened with Tom Riddle's diary - Ginny wasn't to blame for that either. It wasn't her fault that Lucius Malfoy was a completely evil git, or that the magic in the diary had been too strong for her to withstand. On the contrary, Dumbledore thought that Ginny's will was what had stopped the basilik from killing anybody outright. But here she was, going on about how she should have done something then, and how maybe those people in the Underground might have been safe. Tom chose me because I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't good enough, and he used the evil in my heart.

How could she say these things? Ginny was the nicest, purest, most kind person he knew. At times in the past months, she had been able to cheer him up when even Quidditch, Ron or Hermione could not. She had smiled at him, smiled at everybody, even clumsy Neville and annoying Dennis Creevey. And all because of Voldermort she believed that there was evil in her heart, and that –

Harry noticed with a jolt that Ginny had stopped talking. His mind raced. How could he convince her that she wasn't evil, that really she was the nicest person he knew, and that what Voldermort had done was no fault of hers? For a second, this last thought struck him as ironic. How often had he placed the responsibility for Voldermort actions upon his own head? But then Harry pushed that thought out of his mind, as Ginny said:

"I'm sorry."

Sorry? How could she be sorry? It was he who should be apologizing, for having invaded her space, for not making her feel better…

"I didn't want to worry anybody, so I came out here, and –

Unwillingly, a sob wracked through her body, and tears welled in her eyes once again. Thinking of the comfort provided by Mrs. Weasley, Harry did the first thing that came to mind, and reached out his arms to envelop Ginny in a hug. On impulse and perhaps, like Harry, reminded of her mother, she wrapped her arms around him, clinging as if he were a lifeline. Her hair fell around her face in a curtain, and her forehead almost touched his shoulder as she cried herself out, one last time, allowing her grief to escape.

Suddenly Harry was very conscious of himself, and of the fact that his robes were still soaking wet. Surely Ginny didn't like being hugged by someone who was practically dripping. He waited for her to pull away, and was surprised to realize that he didn't want her to. She didn't move, and from behind her hair, gave a tiny sniffle. He stayed completely still, afraid to chase her away, but then she took away her arms from around his body, and despite wishing to keep her there, he felt obliged to do the same. With her head still nearly touching his shoulder, she lifted her hands, tucking her hair behind her ears. Harry could just barely see her face, and her eyes were finally dry, her features more peaceful. She sat up straight and lifted her head, causing her body to move slightly closer to his. Fully looking at her face now, Harry searched for something to say.

What was there to tell Ginny, now that somehow, things had changed? She had shared her deepest secret with him, had opened her heart. She was a friend, but different than anyone else, different than Ron, Hermione, or any other person. He could feel the cold air on his robes, brushing the spots where her arms had held him, and he wanted that warmth back. He wanted to make her feel better, to prove to her that she was beautiful and nice, because she had always listened to him. He wanted to tell her that he was happy to do the same for her, but the only two words that came to mind were the ones that Ginny had just used.

"Thank you".

She moved closer to him as she spoke, and leaned her face in so that they were looking eye to eye. Her eyes were very brown, Harry noticed. He could hear her breathing, soft and slightly unsteady, and he closed the gap between their bodies, wanting her warmth against him. He could feel her breath on his cheek, and a million different thoughts raced through his head: what am I doing? What's going on? He ignored them all, and instead, listened to an instinct that he hadn't known to posses until now. He turned until her breath fell on the corner of his jaw, then on his mouth. Ginny didn't move. Slowly, bit by bit, Harry leaned in, until ever so lightly, his lips brushed hers. She didn't pull away. They stayed like that for a moment, just barely touching, and then suddenly Harry had a horrible thought.

"What about Michael Corner. And Dean?"

What was he doing? His feelings for Ginny were a brand new realization, but hers had been present since second year. Had been present, because then she hadn't liked him anymore, and had gone out with Michael Corner, and maybe Dean Thomas. And she was Ron's little sister, and the daughter of Mrs. Weasley, who was practically his mother.

But Ginny just shook her head, answering all his questions and worries at once. Yes, she still liked him. No, she hadn't gone out with Dean. And no, it didn't matter that she was Ron sister, or Mrs. Weasley's daughter, or related to every other highly protective Weasley male. Harry looked at her, her eyes, and caught the message. All that mattered was here. So he leaned in to kiss her again, wrapping his arms around her middle, closing the space between them. Her arms twined up and around his neck and their lips met again, less hesitant this time.

Harry could feel her hair against his cheek; feel her soft lips move against his, warm. He could feel her spine beneath the fabric of her robes, and he knew that with her hands on his back, she could feel the same thing. He was still unsure of all his feelings, unsure of what to say or what to do. But there was one thing that Harry was sure of. That Ginny was more than a friend, beyond that, and that right now, things between them were changing once again. And that was OK.