The Boy Who Loved

The Boy Who Loved

Chapter One: Nightly Musings

Creak.

Harry paused in mid-turn as the bedsprings let out an indignant screech. A snort worthy of a wild boar drifted in from his aunt and uncle's bedroom, so he carefully lowered himself back down to the mattress (with minimal squeaking) and counted to twenty before making his next move. Settling down comfortably to stare at the dark outline of the perfectly pruned tree outside of his tiny bedroom window, he let out a sigh. He had been sixteen for three whole hours now - he'd gotten the usual cards, squashed cakes, and clever gifts - and yet, something was missing.

What it was, he did not know. The hours he'd spent tossing and turning (or rather, cautiously fidgeting so as not to rouse the Dursleys) as he tried to figure this out had been torturously slow. With a groan of frustration, he shifted and pulled his flashlight out from under his pillow and began reading his notes about the goblin rebellions, but to no avail. That which never ceased to put him to sleep at Hogwarts merely served to give him a headache now, when he sleep was what he most desired. He flipped off the flashlight and sent a surly glare in the direction of the smashed television, which was perched perilously on the seat of Dudley's (or should he say Big D's?) freshly broken chrome bicycle. If only he could write to Sirius. Sirius would know. Sirius...

Finally, after what seemed like hours (but was probably only about fifteen minutes) of silent moping, Harry drifted off into a half-sleep, but not before his drowsy mind told him sternly - it's not something that's missing, it's someone.

***

It had been a long, lonely, and extremely boring summer for Harry. The Dursleys had been sufficiently scared by the scene at King's Cross, so Harry wasn't locked in his room, starved, beaten, overworked, cursed , or even glared at (except for by Hedwig, who had developed a fondness for pumpkin juice during Harry's fifth year and was going through withdrawal). But that wasn't what was bugging him.

It wasn't Sirius, either. Of course, Harry was still grieving the loss of his godfather, but the pain had lessened every day until, somewhat guiltily, Harry had forgotten. At night, he conducted memory drills; he looked through all of Sirius's letters and every picture he had, but suddenly it was hard to remember his voice, or exactly what his Animagus looked like. By his birthday, Harry noted that he hadn't even cried in days. That realization didn't exactly come as good news to him - shouldn't he still be crying himself to sleep? Wasn't it insulting to Sirius's memory not to shed a tear every day? There was a constant dull ache that followed him... but no, that wasn't it either. It was something... at Hogwarts?

Two days after his birthday, as he was hurriedly scribbling away at the sixth of the ten Potions essays Snape had assigned, it came to him in a small letter smelling of cinnamon and toffee.

Dear Harry, it said in a feminine hand, Sorry your present is late - I'd forgotten it was your birthday. Sure enough, there was a parcel tied to Pig's other leg, which Harry hadn't noticed since the excited owl had been buzzing around like Colin Creevey on Happy Potions. Harry forced himself to read on without peeking down at the signature... it couldn't be from Mrs. Weasley, could it?

I hope you like it - I had to beg the twins for a bit of a loan - which is really quite ironic, since the only reason they have enough money to give me a loan is because you gave the Triwizard Tournament winnings to them...

Ah. Ginny.

Well, I won't spoil the present by rambling on about it, but maybe when you come to the Burrow (Ron invited you, didn't he?) we can try it out.

Speaking of Ron, could you talk to him for me? He certainly doesn't listen when I say it - that boy needs to realize that I am fourteen and perfectly capable of taking care of myself. He keeps telling me that Dean is so wrong for me and that I can't possibly love him. As if I believe in love! I gave up on love a long time ago because of And while we're on the subject, I'd really like to apologize for that valentine in your second year. I honestly did not write it, although you probably don't believe me. Personally, I think pickled toads are more of an olive green, which only puts further evidence towards the twins' guilt. Honestly, those boys don't know a thing about colors. I had to charm their shirts yesterday - those morons thought they could get away with canary yellow! They said it was to promote Canary Creams, but I know that was just a lame excuse -- they wouldn't recognize fashion sense even if it walked into Weasley's Wizard Wheezes and bought thirty Galleons of fake wands (which, I might add, now come in five new exciting varieties: squid, salamander, rabbit, eel, and hinky-pink) .

Well, I'm rambling, so I'd best be off to help with dinner - in the best interests of both of us, I suppose!

Ginny

Talkative girl, he thought, reaching for the parcel. I can't remember her saying that much to me since... no, I can't remember her ever saying that much to me. And then he remembered what Hermione had said:

"Ginny used to fancy Harry, but she gave up on him months ago. Not that she doesn't like you, of course."

Strange, that was.

Harry unwrapped the parcel, which was bound with liberal amounts of spellotape. Inside of a small blue box was... something moving, something buzzing... a golden snitch! It zoomed away from the remains of the wrapping and hovered innocently above Hedwig's cage before dive-bombing the water bowl and taking a victory lap around the room. Harry, cursing the low ceiling, was forced to run after the snitch sans Firebolt, and after a good ten minutes of chase, triumphantly snatched it out from under the smashed model airplane. He popped it back into the box, panting, and settled back against the ripped armchair to catch his breath in hopes that Uncle Vernon wouldn't come to investigate the noise.

***

That night, as Harry listened to the quiet whirring coming from the box, he thought about Ginny. She'd really grown up in the last year. Fighting Death Eaters, hexing Malfoy, dating fifth-years... Harry frowned. How come she, a fourth year, was dating, when he was not? And Dean Thomas?! He had to agree with Ron - absolutely not her type. But, he reprimanded himself, that wasn't really an expert opinion. After all, what did he really know about Ginny except that she used to be madly in love with him (--I'd forgotten it was your birthday--), she was bloody good at the Bat Bogey Hex (--I am fourteen and perfectly capable of taking care of myself--) and that she was damn pretty.

Damn pretty? Harry sat up in alarm. Ginny, pretty? Was he going soft for his best friend's little sister? He put himself up to the standard Am-I-Going-Soft-For-My-Best-Friend's-Little-Sister Test by grabbing Ginny's letter and taking in a deep whiff of the scent. Immediately, his fingers felt a little shaky, his heart beat faster, and his brain went into double time. Closing his eyes, Harry could just picture her long, red hair and the cute little freckles on her nose and her gutsy smile and - and Ron's reaction: "You bloody well better stay away from my baby sister, you git!"

Well, he thought wearily as he stuffed her letter into his pillowcase, at least the rest of my summer won't be quite so boring.

***

Four days later, when Harry stepped off the Knight Bus in front of the Burrow, and trudged up the path with trembling knees, he caught himself wishing for the relative comfort of his bedroom back at Privet Drive.

End of Chapter One.