HARRY

Harry had never known life at Hogwarts to be boring.

So it was strange to hear one of the seventh year students say the other day how they wished "everything would go back to normal." Harry wracked his brain, trying to imagine when that might've been. Before he came to Hogwarts, surely, because you'd have to be barking mad to consider a three headed dog "normal."

Although, to be fair, he did have summer at the Dursleys to compare it to. The constant droning of lawn mowers, dizzying maze of replica homes, blank expressions on interchangeable neighbors. Time stood still there, and that's how they liked it.

For Harry, it meant living in a world to which he didn't belong, with people who'd give anything not to belong to him. But this year as the brighter days stretched towards summer, they carried the promise of being the last time he'd have to return to the Dursley's.

Sometimes, and he really couldn't help it, he imagined what it'd be to end the school year with a summer in Godric's Hollow. He hadn't been there, but he had visited often in his imagination. If he'd told Ron and Hermione, they'd call it "morbid or broody", but it wasn't, not at all.

It was a collection of his favorite things, that daydream. His parents' house was a less vertical version of the Burrow, painted white and surrounded by a few oak trees. There was a chain location of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream just a five minute walk away. Because why not? Out back, there'd be a make-shift Quidditch pitch where he, Ron, and Ginny would play two-a-side with his dad. Later, they'd return home and kick off their shoes, where it'd be his mum who greeted him with a hug at the door. They'd stay up late playing games and getting a stomach ache from gorging on sweets that Ginny brought.

He'd spent so much time there, filling it with details, tinkering with memories, that now it was just as real to him as the first ten years of his life.

There was even a period of time, back when he'd first met Sirius, that he wondered if pieces of that life might not become his future. But then the Department of Mysteries happened, and with it the truth of a future that had already been decided for him.

It had been validating, in a twisted way, to learn the truth of the prophecy. Like finally receiving the correct diagnosis for a terminal illness.

And now, almost two weeks after the match against Hufflepuff, he was still struggling to complete the only real task Dumbledore had given him so far: retrieving the memory from Slughorn.

The light of the sunrise gradually crept in, illuminating his curtains so they took on a more fiery shade of scarlet. His sheets, a warmer shade of ivory. He never used to be the last one out of bed. But lately, he liked to savor stolen fantasies during those in-between hours on the edges of consciousness.

Because Harry knew that when he finally wakes up, it'll be another day of working the memory out of Slughorn. He didn't think he could stand being under that cold, still disappointment from Dumbledore after the last meeting. In fact, there would be no other meeting if he failed to get that memory.

"But WHY do you have to keep it in here, Neville?" Harry opened his eyes to Seamus' shouting.

"It's a Lyschitus Britannicus!"

"Gesundheit," said Ron.

"I grew it from a seedling and it's really delicate," Neville insisted. "But I guess it's budding early."

"Well, it's stunk up the entire dorm," Dean's voice was muffled from holding his shirt over his nose. "Please get rid of it."

Harry drew back the curtains of his bed, greeted by a wave of what smelled like Dudley's wrestling shorts which he used to leave on the floor of the bathroom.

"Ah, look who's up. Got enough beauty sleep?" Ron said, tossing his pajamas in a drawer of his wardrobe.

"Yeah, looks like you could use more."

"Not that it'll help us much," Ron mumbled, fanning a hand in front of his face. They watched as Neville hurried out of the room, clutching a large yellow-flowered plant with butterfly-like petals.

Harry quickly changed into his school robes (attempting several unsuccessful charms to remove traces of Lyschitus Britannicus), but his mind was still searching for connections in Dumbledore's lessons that would help him with Slughorn.

The lessons were different than he and Ron had imagined over the summer. After standing by during Dumbledore's duel against Voldemort last year, Harry couldn't help but feel that they might be missing several important opportunities to advance his defensive skills. Anything to help him stay alive during the final duel against Voldemort and not be caught with his wand held uselessly by his side like at the Ministry.

But he knew it could take years to learn those spells. And if the track record held, he'd be facing Voldemort any day now. So again, he decided to put his faith in Dumbledore and his covert missions to gather intelligence, complete the puzzle before Riddle even knew they had the pieces. Perhaps the words would just come to him, like they had when he stared at the etching of the snake in Myrtle's bathroom.

It had occurred to Harry that what Slughorn might find uniquely interesting about him was his fame. But each time he tried to think of how to leverage it, he heard Lockhart's voice in his head, like a song stuck on repeat: "Fame is a fickle friend, Harry. Celebrity is as celebrity does."

Useless.

When he and Ron were the only two left in the dorm, Harry pulled out the Map.

"Where's Malfoy now?"

"Great Hall," Harry replied. "Breakfast."

"I reckon even aspiring second-assistant death eaters enjoy toast," Ron said, stomach growling. "C'mon, let's go."

"Just a second."

Normally, he intentionally forced himself not to look for her name. Because that would be creepy. Wouldn't it? But after what he saw yesterday evening, he just wanted to be certain again that she was safe.

When the two of them joined Hermione for breakfast, Harry's eyes darted every few seconds to the double-door entrance, hoping to catch a glance at Ginny rushing in. But Harry knew he liked a lie in too.

"Say, Harry," said Ron, filling his plate. "You wouldn't mind letting me - erm - borrow your Cloak from time to time? Would you?"

"What for?"

"Oh, y'know," Ron trailed off, Lavender had just entered the Great Hall and found a seat with Dean, Seamus and Parvati. There had been a deal struck in which Ron spent breakfast and lunch with Harry and Hermione, dinners with Lavender. This generally resulted in Ron loitering around after Quidditch practice, running out the clock until there was only fifteen minutes left of dinner when he arrived.

"What, to hide from Lavender?" Harry asked.

"You can't be serious," said Hermione, voice dripping with disdain. "And if Voldemort storms the castle tomorrow and murders Harry all because he didn't have the Cloak, what then?"

Harry winced at the thought.

Ron looked between them blankly, "Well, I'd give it back."

Hermione rolled her eyes in her exaggerated way and returned to the Daily Prophet.

"Sorry, mate. Can't let you have it," Harry said. "But I do know one way you can get rid of her."

"Don't start, Harry."

"Why even stay with her?" Hermione rounded on Ron again. "She must have some idea you want to end it. What possible reason could the two of you still have to be together?"

"Well, I mean…," Ron tilted his head, fighting back a smirk. "Harry knows, don't you?"

"Nope," Harry said, shaking his head to get Ron to shut up. "Not a clue."

"Un - be - lievable," Hermione spat.

"What?!" Ron said defensively. "Look, I don't make the rules. It's the law of attraction, isn't it? It's the law."

"So you'll stay with a woman just because —"

Ron cut her off, "Didn't you hear me? I'm trying to ditch her! But every time I do, she just sort of…" he said, gesturing vaguely.

"Throws herself at you," Harry offered.

Hermione's jaw moved side to side, grinding her teeth. She glared at Ron as if she might use a nonverbal spell to curse him. Instead, she turned her back to him and buried her face behind the newspaper.

Ron made a face at Harry, asking: Did I do okay?

Harry gave a noncommittal shrug.

"It's nice, the three of us are all back together again," said Ron, obviously saying it to butter Hermione up, but she ignored him. "Isn't it?"

Harry, however, privately agreed. The past two weeks have been the best he can remember for the last several months. The fact that his two best friends were on speaking terms again made the last two weeks the best he'd spent all year. And he thought that this must be what family felt like.

"The Canons have been on a losing streak since my birthday," said Ron a few moments later, moodily folding up The Prophet's sports section. "This happens every time I don't listen to a match."

Hermione grimaced, apparently forgetting that she was ignoring him, "Weren't you saying the other day how they've only won once since Christmas?"

"It was a major upset though!" Ron said, rounding on her, and looked sorry she'd asked. "They won against the third in the league! Of course, the Magpies were playing one Beater short after officials found him tampering with his broomstick's enchantments. But the Canons have always been good at dodging Bludgers, so it wouldn't have mattered anyway, would it?"

"Maybe they can give me some pointers," Harry mumbled into his eggs.

Ron gestured towards The Prophet and asked, "Anyone we know dead?"

By now, Harry can usually tell the answer by the mood of the students as the Owl Post arrived, carrying letters from loved ones outside the school. This morning there was a good deal of whispering and glances towards the Ravenclaw table.

Hermione flattened the paper against the table and said, "No, but listen to this."

"Yesterday evening Marshall and Lucretia Fawley were taken by Ministry officials into St. Mungo's FOR suspected spell damage. The couple had been found wandering several kilometers from their home, apparently confused, asking Muggles for directions home and the name of the current Minister of Magic.

"Upon admission to St. Mungo's, Marshall and Lucretia Fawley had no recollection of the event. Or any events, for that matter, that might present clues for their recent change in cognition. After members of the Fawley family urged Aurors to launch a full investigation, Auror's office released a statement early this morning that confirmed forced entry into the Fawley's home in Cornwall.

"As one of the 'Sacred Twenty-Eight' pureblood families, the Fawley's are a well known family in Britain, particularly for their financial contributions to the Foundation for the Protection and Rights of Muggleborn Children.

"Their son, Grim Fawley, is currently a second year student at Hogwarts."

A little ways down the table, Harry's eyes flicked to Neville reading the same article, face screwed up in anger.

"Did the article say who did it?" Harry asked.

Hermione skimmed over the article again, "Aurors are still investigating."

"Death Eaters, it's got to be," Ron said darkly, glaring down at his empty plate. "It'll be their way of intimidating any 'blood traitors'."

Most of the Ravenclaw table had gathered around a group of young-looking students who looked to be friends of Grim Fawley. A small Ravenclaw girl was weeping, surrounded by several of the older students. Harry overheard one of them saying, "You'd think someone would be doing more about all this."

Harry pushed his eggs around his plate, no longer feeling hungry.

An hour later, after Professor Flitwick's lecture on Fundamentals of Magical

Transportation Charms, he had the sixth year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs pair off to practice safety charms on portkeys.

Lavender had pulled Ron over to an empty desk, but seemed to be maintaining her distance from him, apparently repulsed by the smell emanating from his robes. Ron saw Harry looking and gave him a thumbs up.

"So frustrating, watching someone you care about with someone who's poorly suited to them. Isn't it?" Hermione whispered as she began to tap a used milk carton with her wand.

"Erm, sure," Harry replied, refocusing on the "Five Tips for the Appropriate Selection of Portkey Rubbish."

"Maybe the Weasleys are just overly considerate of others' feelings… That can make it difficult to end a dysfunctional relationship… Especially if it's with a decent person."

"Since when have you considered Lavender a decent person?"

"Don't be obtuse, Harry."

Hermione leaned in closer and continued, "Perhaps if they just knew how some else felt, they could be more encouraged to … adjust their engagements."

Harry kept his face still while thumbing the pages of his book, trying to piece together what she meant. Was she hinting that Ginny wanted to break it off with Dean? Like Ron with Lavender? He wouldn't necessarily call what Ron was doing "considerate". More like avoidant. And he'd never known Ginny to shy away from a confrontation. One of the things he liked most about her.

"Well?" Hermione emphasized.

"I see what you're getting at… So when exactly do you plan to throw yourself at Ron?" She shot him one of her withering looks, but the years had made him impervious to them. "Just so I can plan to chuck myself out of the way."

She swatted him on the shoulder with their milk carton. Harry grinned down at diagrams of common junk items, satisfied that she remained rather quiet through the end of class.

–

At Quidditch practices now, there was a palpable undercurrent of drive to perform well in the next match. Harry tried to put aside an hour each evening to draw up strategies and plays to use against Ravenclaw in six weeks. But he was finding it hard to concentrate after a day puzzling over Slughorn's memory and attempting to catch Malfoy in the Room of Requirement. They had to be sure to score enough points that when he caught the Snitch, they'd win both the match and the Cup. But so far his best strategy was staying close enough to the Snitch that Cho would have to avoid it as well.

So at lunchtime Harry stood outside McGonagall's office again, mentally rehearsing his speech to the brass doorknob. It stared back at him harshly. As if it, too, could straighten him up with just a look.

Harry knocked and entered the room, holding out the small, round tin.

"What is this?" Professor McGonagall asked.

"Biscuits," Harry replied, timing his smile just a second too late, thinking fleetingly of Hepzibah Smith's flowers.

Professor McGonagall regarded him suspiciously. Harry cleared his throat and continued. "I thought that yesterday's Transfiguration lesson was really well done. I hadn't understood the theory of Wisenbalm's -"

"Wisenberg's," she said, eyelids narrowed.

"Right - er - Wisenberg's Magical Material Theory until you pointed out that -"

"Out with it, Potter. What do you want?"

"Oh, nothing, I just - er -," he stammered, trying to quickly think how to redirect the conversation. But her stern, lined face was an impasse. "I'm wondering if we can get additional practice hours on the pitch."

"My answer will be the same as the last two times you asked," she said definitively, now shuffling and rearranging paperwork on her desk. "It would be unfair to provide additional hours to just one team. Madam Hooch would then have eight more hours of weekly supervision. Teacher's need time off too, you know."

Harry nodded, his thumb tracing the dragon design atop the biscuit tin.

"And seeing as all four teams are still in equal running for the Cup after the last match -"

"You don't have to say it like that, Professor."

"It seems you should be more worried about keeping your team out of the hospital wing," she said, peering at him over the top of her glinting spectacles. If he didn't know better, he'd think she sounded amused. "You'll need to get better at this part of the job."

Harry looked up quickly, his heart began to race, "Whatdoyoumean?"

"You still intend to be an Auror?"

"Oh… Right… Yeah," he said, standing there stupidly for several moments. Turning to go, he mumbled, "Thanks anyway, Professor."

"Potter?"

"Yes?" He turned around hopefully.

"You may leave the biscuits."

–

The N.E.W.T level students shuffled into Potions class later that afternoon, as usual fighting off the post-lunch drowsiness that mixed invitingly with the warm, humid air of the classroom. Harry was able to complete his assignment early with the Prince's help, even after drifting off during Slughorn's introduction, and planned to use the extra time at another shot at retrieving the memory.

Upon seeing his finished concoction, however, Slughorn openly congratulated Harry and cut him off before he got a chance to speak. "You'll be so kind as to fetch me several ingredients from Professor Sprout, won't you dear boy? She'll know the ones."

"But sir, I wondered if -"

"And while you're at it, better drop off these books!" The Potion Master flicked his wand and a large stack of books slid off his desk, almost as if he'd prepared them for just the occasion. "Chop, chop, now…"

Harry kicked the leg of the table before standing, making his potion slosh over the side of its cauldron. He wondered for the thousandth time if he'd missed his one chance to acquire the memory from Slughorn. It was getting harder to resist the daily urge to ask Dumbledore for a clue. Or some tip to finding the correct combination of words that might convince Slughorn to listen.

All the other students were in class, so the halls were empty but for the sound of his footsteps. He liked Hogwarts best like this, all quiet and peaceful, how he imagined the ancient halls had stood for hundreds of years. And he knew all the secret passageways, how to navigate it in the dark while invisible, hugging the walls so he wouldn't accidentally run into Filch.

Harry paused at a larger window to see the gusts of spring breezes picking up speed across the grounds, pulling at long tendrils that snagged on partly regrown branches of the Whomping Willow.

Droplets of rain began to fall, splattering dark spots on the rough-edged boulder where he and Sirius stood the night they met, where he'd asked Harry to come live with him. Harry stared until the entire boulder became stained over with a darker shade of grey.

He sprinted through the rain, slipping to a halt outside Greenhouse Three where Professor Sprout was teaching class. She took the books from him ("He's had these for months! And they're all wet! You couldn't have used an Impervius Charm?"), and returned with a crate containing a precarious tower of neon-colored vials and bags of dried leaf clippings.

Harry turned to go, but a flash of fiery red hair made him stop and double take. Ginny sat several feet away in an oversized gardening apron, head supported on her hand, staring directly at him. He grinned, almost dropping the crate in an effort to wave. She smiled and waved back with the trowel in her hand, then refocused on the purple Puffapod at the center of her groups' table.

He hurried back to Slughorn's classroom, arms burning under the weight of the Herbology ingredients, his mind replaying what Hermione had said about Ginny that morning. The glimmer of a soft, hopeful flame ignited in his chest. His imagination zoomed into overdrive, visualizing a scene where Ginny confessed to Hermione that she still fancied him. Surely Hermione's cryptic advice meant to encourage him to tell Ginny how he felt. Was he allowed to do that while she still had a boyfriend?

–

"Why do you three reek so bad?" Ginny asked, gesturing towards Harry, Ron and Dean in the locker room before practice.

"Neville's Gas Plant is blooming," Ron replied.

"Pardon me?"

It had been revealed that Neville's Lyschitus Britannicus had, in fact, been coined the 'Gas Plant'. Appropriately named by Herbologists given the stench it produced upon maturation. There was a particularly heated exchange when the others found out, in which Neville defended his plant and its usefulness in warding off known scavengers of household gardens, and ended with an agreement that new dorm plants were to be approved by vote of all sixth year Gryffindor boys. Because "some of us want to keep our girlfriends, Neville."

The cool March air whipped around them as the Gryffindor team strode onto the pitch that afternoon, blowing their robes viscously side to side. Harry straddled his broom, kicking off hard, cutting through the wind. And it was as though the stadium had protective charms around it so all he could hear was the rushing of air in his ears, feel the familiar balance of his broom, and watch as the world fell away.

Harry spent most of practice studying Ginny for clues. She looked pale and exhausted. When she smiled with the others, he could tell it was forced. At the end of practice, he landed beside her, several paces behind the others.

"Harry, have you filled out my Quidditch application forms yet?" she asked.

Harry cursed. "I'm so sorry, I'll work on it this week."

"It's fine, no rush," She didn't sound angry, but she also wasn't looking directly at him. Harry found that he couldn't stand it.

He lowered his voice and asked, "Hey, is everything okay?"

Ginny came to an abrupt halt. Looking up at him, as if gauging how much he knew. He held his breath and stepped forward as the wind whipped around them. She seemed like she was about to speak when Dean called out to her, urging her to get out of the cold wind.

The moment was gone. Ginny smiled weakly at him before jogging inside. Harry followed her, clenching the handle of his Firebold and glared at the back of Dean's head.

After dinner he, Ron and Hermione sat around a table in the Common Room. They had a Defense Against the Dark Arts examination the next day, and Hermione was asking Ron to quiz her, insisting she needed more practice given it was her "worst subject."

Under the table, Harry pulled out the Map to check it again.

His eyes bored into the small, lonely letters of her name, "Ginny Weasley." Just like the night the previous night. He'd never seen her there before. But with a pang of regret, he realized he hadn't really bothered to notice.

The internal debate raged again. Should he tell one of the others? Dean was across the room, taking turns with Seamus tossing popcorn into each other's mouths. Even a small crowd had gathered around, whooping when they made an impressive catch.

Harry considered telling Hermione, but quickly discarded the idea, knowing the look he'd receive for mentioning Ginny's name at all, particularly if he'd been watching it on the Map.

If he told Ron, he might react by storming in on her, asking her what she was doing there. Well meaning, but overbearing. They'd probably fight again like when they found her and Dean behind the tapestry. And Harry didn't want to relive any part of that scenario.

Besides, it was entirely possible that Ginny would be upset with him for violating her privacy and telling her brother. Or seeing her on the Map at all.

Of course, selfishly, he wanted to be the one to go to her. The only one. He'd spent the last several weeks looking for any reason to get her on her own. If only Dean wasn't on the team, then it'd all be much easier. Perhaps Ginny would realize that they got on so well and she might ditch Dean.

Without thinking further, he shot out of his seat.

"Where are you going?" Ron asked.

"I forgot something," he said, folding up the Map and heading for the Portrait Hole, leaving Ron and Hermione behind looking confused.

He wasn't sure why he was running, but when he reached the corridor he slowed to a walk to catch his breath and calm his rapidly beating heart. He hadn't been down this hall in years. There was one window at the far side of this hall, where he could see the blood tinged slant of light spilling over the wall adjacent.

When he gently pushed open the door, she was sat on the ground, her back against the wall that faced the rotunda of sinks. Her flaming red hair casting the only color in the room.

Ginny looked up, as if expecting him. "The Map?"

Harry nodded. She gave him a look he couldn't quite read. But sensing that she wasn't going to throw him out, he sank down to the floor beside her. His eyes roved over the sink on the opposite wall. "May I ask - erm - why?"

The girls bathroom looked the same as he remembered it from second year. The floor beneath them was coated in a thick greenish-grey grime. Dimly lit by a window in the upper corner of the room that looked as if it had been added as an afterthought.

"Do you still have dreams?" She asked. "Like the ones you had last year?"

"No," he said. He took a moment to respond, being sure not to reveal just how different his dreams were now. "I've always had strange dreams, even before Hogwarts… but last year's were different."

"How'd you get them to stop?"

"I didn't…" Harry said honestly. "He did."

For a time, there was no sound but the dripping of water from a loose tap, the occasional groaning of pipes. A hundred questions echoed in his mind, but he waited for her to speak.

"I've come here a few times this week. When I do, the dreams aren't as bad that night," she said. "I think it's because it doesn't seem as big as it used to… and I can see it's just a tap... just pipes… nothing's coming out… or going in…"

He understood her reasoning, but was confused why it helped her to be here. It felt like she was picking a scab off a healing wound.

"D'you want me to open it?" he asked.

"No," she said, hugging herself into a ball on the floor. "I remember how."

He wanted to ask her what she meant. As far as she'd told him, she didn't have any memories of when Riddle had possessed her.

"Can I ask you something?" Her voice barely above a whisper. She seemed to take a steadying breath and spoke louder. "Did he… What did he say to you? Down in the Chamber?"

His eyes roved over the bright outline of her face, but she continued to stare down at her knees, looking like a child who had just owned up to a horrible mistake.

Harry thought for a long time, deciding how he might answer.

"He's good at manipulating people. And it's mostly without them ever knowing it. He makes them think it's their idea… ," he said, remembering the reflection of Voldemort's face in the Mirror of Erised. "And if he can't, he'll take it by force and … there's not many who have survived after that."

There was no sound but the dripping of water from a loose tap, the occasional groaning of pipes.

"Last year when he possessed me at the Ministry, I thought I was dead," Harry said.

The cold from the stone wall at his back reached through his clothes, making him shiver. They were both quiet for a long time. Harry felt his chest contract, making it only possible to take slow, shallow breaths.

"Thank you," said Ginny, barely above a whisper.

He was about to ask what for when they heard the hollow, solemn tones of a funeral hymn. A moment later, Moaning Myrtle materialized over her toilet.

"Oh. Hello again, Harry. Twice in a week," she said, straightening her thick round glasses, drawing herself up straighter. "I suppose you've come to apologize?"

"Er - for what?"

"You haven't visited for ages," said Myrtle, her eyes beginning to tear up. She glared pointedly at Ginny. "But I see now that she's here, my bathroom is worth a visit!"

"She never did like me," Ginny whispered in his ear, causing goosebumps to erupt down his neck. "Can't imagine why."

"Forget it, Harry," Myrtle said, letting out a great, straggling sob. "I've moved on." She paused as if to see if Harry would react, before diving back into her stall.

"You must be gutted," Ginny said with mock concern. "Do you need a good cry? You can use my shoulder if you like."

"Worst thing that's ever happened to me."

Ginny laughed. "Didn't know you and dear Myrtle were still in touch."

"One of my closest friends, actually."

"That's … disturbing."

"She just sees right through me."

Ginny snorted. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"Yeah, maybe… but it lifted my spirits, so…"

"Make it stop," Ginny put her hands over her ears, shaking her head. He watched her laugh, marveling at how they could be sitting there, joking just outside the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. Minutes went by, where Harry wished every evening could end like this. "Does that have something to do with why you were outside the Room of Requirement the other day?"

"Hermione told you?"

"Tonks."

"Right," he said, and updated her on how he'd gotten Kreacher and Dobby to track Malfoy's location down to the Room of Requirement. Since then, he'd spent several hours of his free time under the Cloak, attempting to find the perfect question to convince the Room to reveal itself, and Malfoy's secret. "Oh, and do you have any idea why Tonks was so upset that day?"

Ginny didn't respond, merely shrugged.

"I see," he said, catching the mischievous light in her eyes. "Is this payback for the Dumbledore thing?"

"You know that not all mysteries in this castle concern you, right?"

Harry laughed, "There you go sounding like Snape again."

"He's a role model of mine, didn't you know? One day I hope for my hair to be just as greasy as his."

"Your hair is perfectly fine the way it is."

Harry's stomach gave an unpleasant turn, internally kicking himself for saying it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ginny's fingers weave through the top of her hair, sweeping it over one shoulder.

"Thanks," she said quietly.

Harry cleared his throat and was about to ask her more about her dreams when the bell rang, signaling curfew in five minutes. Ginny sprung up. Harry tried to follow, but was momentarily paralyzed as blood rushed painfully back into his leg.

Ginny laughed, "C'mon old man," holding out her hand to pull him to stand.

She held open the door for him as he limped over the threshold to exit Myrtle's bathroom. It was completely dark now, even the wind had died down.

"So, I suppose you think I'm going on about Malfoy too?" Harry asked, as they walked together back to Gryffindor Tower.

"No, actually," she said. "It does sound suspicious, him spending all that time in the Room of Requirement."

"Hermione keeps telling me to drop it and just focus on… other stuff," he said, almost revealing his assignment for Dumbledore.

Ginny pressed her lips together and hummed. "Well, she's a smart girl, Hermione. Maybe you should listen to her."

Harry raised an eyebrow at her, but Ginny averted her eyes with the slightest hint of a smile.

That evening, he carried thoughts of Ginny with him to bed as he crawled into crisp, clean smelling sheets (the house elves had worked all day to rid Essence of Gas Plant from the room). A whole uninterrupted, glorious, shining hour alone with her. Pulling the scarlet hangings closed, he set to memorizing how the warm glow of her cheeks stood out against the bathroom walls. How it felt to walk next to her back to Gryffindor Tower, her hand swinging temptingly by her side.

When his head hit the pillow, he began turning over the words he should've said to take away that clouded, empty look in her eyes. But eventually he drifted off to sleep, imagining all the ways she would've reacted if, in that moment, he could've just been bold enough to take her hand.