A/N: So here we are again, co-writing canon sixth year Hinny and taking it a notch further - from Kindle to Torch *wink*

Love,
gryffindormischief &
fightfortherightsofhouseelves

The train sways and shakes its way to Scotland, following the same old tracks it's done year after year for entire centuries, and Harry's steps are uneven and a little bit uncertain as they lead him to Ginny. He can see her at the other end of the corridor, poised yet relaxed, leaning on a nearby compartment's door as she laughs easily with some friends. It's a strange feeling, new even, that his heart skips faster and his breath slightly catches when she grins and laughs, runs a hand through her wild mane of hair.

Still, Harry dismisses the feeling, sauntering closer to her and taps her on the shoulder.

"Fancy finding a compartment?"

Her brown eyes widen for the briefest of moments, harboring something Harry can't quite put his finger on.

"I can't, Harry, I said I'd meet Dean," says Ginny brightly. "See you later."

A twinge of annoyance or maybe a pang of something more hits Harry as he watches her walk away from him, most probably off to meet Dean.

Dean, hm. What an odd turn of events, him and Ginny. Not that Harry has anything against him in particular, it's just unusual, that's what it is.

He's left to do whatever else one can do while stuck on a what feels like a never ending ride to Scotland until he receives the oddest invitation: the Slug Club. Perplexed, Harry feels that nothing can sink his boats further down - no Ron and Hermione to spend his time with, no Ginny, no desire to do anything in particular - so he shrugs and says to himself yeah, alright, what can be worse?

Only to walk right into a compartment full of...Ginny? A very dumbfounded and bemused Ginny, crammed into a tiny bit of space between Horace Slughorn and the wall.

She shrugs at the same time as Harry does and they'd both share a laugh if not for the diverse and unusual company. Hermione, Neville, some arrogant looking prick, and Blaise Zabini from Slytherin all bundled into the same two meters is not a sight Harry sees every day.

And speaking of sight, Zabini seems to be in top form since his eyes have been scanning Ginny head to toe on repeat ever since Harry stepped through the compartment door. Or maybe even longer. His dirty little eyes staring at her, pausing at the small bit of exposed freckled chest, lingering on her hair, her face, her lips. Harry could just -

Could just what exactly? Defend her? Foul as he is, Zabini didn't as much as touch one flaming red hair on her head, but -

But still she's Ron's little sister! Harry owes him so much as kicking any arsehole's stinky butt if they dare...Dare what Harry does not know and he shakes himself back to the present before he can find out. Slughorn's been asking him something or rather talking at him and he's starting to draw unwanted attention. As usual. He almost longs for the days of Snape's tenure as Potions Master.

Ginny's cheeky and confident as she speaks and so very far from the nervous girl he met five years ago, and yet there's something that remains the same. She's always had that undercurrent of Gryffindor bravery that lead to anything from telling off Malfoy in Diagon Alley to following him almost blindly into the Department of Mysteries to battle Death Eaters.

Before he can fall down that rabbit hole, whatever it is, the odd little gathering's over and Ginny joins him in the hall.

"How come you ended up in there, Ginny?"

Her eyes light with enough mischief that Harry finds himself pitying Molly Weasley - it seems the Weasley troublemaking gene did not wane with the youngest children. Hell, between Ron and Ginny, Harry almost understands the need for a child mapping clock.

Apparently, at least according to Ginny's explanation, Zacharias Smith was being a bit of a prat - as he's wont to do - and was faced with the business end of Ginny's wand. Complete with the best the young Weasley's bat boogies had to offer. And instead of detention, Slughorn decided her prowess would be a boon to his little collection of students. Harry's had enough detention in his career as a Hogwarts student to know a little patience testing hobnobbing was likely an ideal trade.

Not a bad move, Professor Slughorn. Not a bad move at all.

Zabini brushes by, still obnoxiously overt in his appreciation, and Harry can't help but grumble. "Better reason for inviting someone than because their mother's famous."

"He's such a prat," Ginny grins, leans towards the great big windows of the Express, and Harry finds himself vigorously nodding in agreement.

"Can't believe I'll only live this twice more," she sighs after awhile, her gaze still lost somewhere in the crude greens of Scotland.

Harry'd been too entranced, the flaming red of her hair contrasting with the browns, greens and mountainous greys outside, the deep yellow hue of the setting sun in her eyes - and perhaps it's visible on his face because she smiles and goes on to explain, "The trip to Hogwarts. With the Hogwarts Express."

And as Harry realises that she's right it also hits him hard and strong that maybe, for him, this might be the last ride to Hogwarts, the final trip home. It hits him like a kick in the gut, so intense and impossible to carry that he's certain he's tasting bile on his tongue.

Again Ginny cottons on, rapidly diving in to change the subject.

"So we've established that Zabini's a prick, but what about that McLaggen bloke?"

She grins and all thoughts of leaving Hogwarts get erased from Harry's mind as they abuse McLaggen for a good ten minutes, seasoned with Ginny's top notch impersonations and sprinkled with a bonus one of Snape too.

Once Ginny leaves again, Harry decides he needs a bit of a distraction, and if he can pull one over on Blaise in the process, it'll be all the better. So he slips beneath the silken invisibility cloak and manages to sneak his way into Malfoy's compartment.

Ron and Hermione might not believe it yet, but he's certain Malfoy's up to something out of his usual sleaziness. And Harry's instincts never betrayed him, except...Except nothing, not now, at least. There'll be time to let it eat at his insides later. Now Harry's on a mission and plans on following through.

Things go well enough, Harry might have let his feet slip out from the invisibility cloak, but the little junior Death Eater meeting progresses. Even if being a member of the Slug Club wasn't on Harry's to do list, the fact that Draco seems so carefully not irritated about his own lack of invitation that the whole scenario's actually shaping up to be pretty nice.

That is, until Draco lingers in the compartment once all his cronies have left, body binds Harry and breaks his nose for good measure. Sadly, Harry's got nothing to do for awhile except vacillate between trying to decide whether he can bleed out from a broken nose and wondering just how long it'll be before someone either stumbles over him or realizes he's missing.

Ron and Hermione are probably doing their 'we fight to ease the tension' pre-feast chatter and Ginny's probably off with Dean doing - doing something Harry doesn't want to think someone who's practically his sister is doing.

He's resigned himself to ending up back in London and probably digesting his own stomach for hunger when a certain Metamorphmagus-Auror turns up in the empty compartment and manages to stumble over his prone form. It seems her tendency to trip over anything and everything does serve a certain investigative purpose, Harry muses with a grin that only aggravates his broken nose.

Somehow, he makes it to the welcome feast and stumbles his way through some vagaries, and disappointingly finds his theories and findings brushed aside. Some mates, huh.

The first week of his sixth year is a blur of new and old classes (and ones he'd hoped would never visit again, but unfortunately McGonagall had other plans), hating Snape with a newfound ardour, avoiding being jinxed in class by said slimy bastard, delivering one of his sickest burns yet (to be honest, he is rather proud of his quick thinking of "No need to call me sir, Professor". Yes, rather proud indeed) and somehow becoming the wonder child of Potions? Granted, Harry never thought he'd go through any of those, but him and Potions?

If he's being honest, his only merit resides in following some scribbled notes on the battered copy of his Potions textbook, the one that Ron refused and latched onto the sparkling new one instead. But following rules or indications was never as fun for Harry as it was during this first class with Professor Slughorn: he got to see Hermione nearly combust in frustration, won points for his House (a change he'd happily get accustomed to), and also won a nifty little something for his troubles. Felix Felicis. Liquid luck.

And to top off an odd start to school, Harry finds himself alone in the Common Room, engrossed with the Potions textbook - apparently what used to be the property of someone who quite dramatically styled himself The Half Blood Prince. Harry himself appreciates a pinch of drama, but…

But it's already past midnight, he's tired and yawning and about to get up and go to bed, when a familiar voice caresses at his eardrums.

"Ron told me that Snape tried to jinx you, that absolute tosser, that slimy foul - argh!"

Harry's insides feel warm and nice as Ginny stomps her way in, plops into the other armchair, curses blasting from her lips. Harry grins imagining Molly Weasley's reaction to this travesty of manners displayed by her only daughter, but he'd be a little liar if he said he wasn't enjoying watching it play out.

"But Ron also told me how you burned him," Ginny grins once she's done fuming. "Bloody brilliant, Harry! I swear, if anyone's keeping score, between that, your "Sorry, Professor, but I must not tell lies" thrown at Umbridge last year and "Yeah, you can have a word - goodbye" you slapped at Rita Skeeter the year before, I truly don't know which is my favorite."

Harry smirks as she laughs, palms slapping her knees in mirth and somehow that makes him feel really happy with himself. Yeah, pretty chuffed indeed.

"So Hermione's a bit vexed, huh?" She grins and nudges him with her elbow once she cools off and they both wind up discussing their mutual hate for the former Potions Master.

Harry snorts, "What did she say?"

"Oh, only that you cheated your way into winning."

He can see the mischief glowing in her eyes and fully knows that Ginny won't lecture him if he tells her about the Prince. Harry grins widely.

"Nah, I'd say it was Snape who was the shite teacher."

Ginny giggles, leans forward, their foreheads close like there's a conspiracy about to be planned between them. Harry's breathing hardens for a minute, gaze falling on her lips, on a small freckle plastered atop her upper one, all alone and a little taunting.

What if he told her about Felix? And that he's thought about using it? No, certainly he can't open that door without - without what? It's all confusing, his thoughts, his feelings, the fact that she's so close, and Ron's little sister, it's -

"What if you happened to pour a dash of your handy little prize into my brother's and Hermione's morning pumpkin juice, eh?" She flashes him a devilish grin, eyelashes fluttering.

"Ginny, what?" He laughs.

"Look, I'm not saying you do it on purpose. I'm just saying that maybe your hand slips a little one morning."

"You don't trust them to figure it out on their own, do you?"

"I'm afraid all hope has been lost over the summer," Ginny pouts as she pretends to mourn said loss of hope.

They share an easy laugh, cosy by the fireplace, and Ginny's freckled palm comes to rest on Harry's shoulder. Easy, comfortable, warm.

"I might have to follow your advice, though. Reckon I can't take another year of their hogwash," Harry sighs dramatically, ruffles his hair.

Ginny's eyes follow his hands as they travel through his dark hair, leaving it messier than before. She draws in a breath.

"How 'bout you actually use it for yourself?" Her small teeth sink into her bottom lip as the question raises from her lips and Harry doesn't know or rather can't fully decide if there's something she's implying.

"I - er, I'll think about it," he rolls the words out as his mouth goes dry, a flush stretching from his cheeks to the back of his neck and he feels quite hot. Probably from the hearth, he reasons and shifts in his armchair.

Oddly enough, the sensation lingers even after Ginny's disappeared up the stairs to her dorm and he's quickly shuffled his feet towards his own bed, dropped into it and kept on staring at the ceiling for a long time, confused and slightly bothered.

After Dumbledore's odd note and their subsequent 'lesson' Harry's life doesn't seem to take the hint and become less stressful. Between the likely helpful but as yet uncontextualized information regarding Voldemort's history, and the standard demands placed on a sixteen-year-old wizard, most days it feels like a chore to roll from his bed. Let alone be a model student. Perhaps he's lucky to have avoided appointment as a prefect after all.

In a rare free moment, one Hermione would say was better used as a study period, Harry finds himself lounging on the soft grass near the Great Lake while the Giant Squid swims about lazily. The sun overhead warms him bone-deep and the light breeze kicks up his messy curls. It's gloriously, wonderfully restful, and when Ron and Ginny turn up - well it feels like a stolen bit of time.

Ron arrives first, dropping like a boneless blob of - something onto the grass next to Harry. "Hell if Sixth Year isn't the worst yet. Also sorry for being a bit of a ponce about making Prefect. If it's any consolation the whole set up is shite."

Laughing quietly, Harry tosses his balled up bit of parchment higher overhead and catches it, eyes squinted against the ever-reaching rays of the sun - much like someone else two decades earlier. "Do tell."

"Apparently it's 'unethical' to go around taking points from Slytherins 'willy nilly' - well then what should I be doing?" Ron rants, "'Sides, it's not 'willy nilly.' I'm just evening things back out after Draco and Snape have their way firebombing any other house's chances at winning the house cup."

Before Harry answers, a light flowery scent drifts into their airspace and Ginny tosses her bag aside and makes herself at home, using Harry's stomach as a pillow. He doesn't realize she's missed whatever turn the conversation's taken - distracted as he is with the weight of her head, the dramatic gestures of her hands - until she tilts her face and addresses him directly, "Don't you think?"

"I - ." Wow, her eyes are beautiful. "Er - say that again?"

Ginny reaches over and flicks his nose. "I was saying that we don't need Ron's suspect tactics to win - we've got the best Quidditch team in the school this year. I'll wager we have Malfoy crying into his oatmeal by Christmas."

And for whatever strange, odd, indiscernible reason, Harry finds himself patting Ginny on the head and wishing he could run his fingers through her hair. Maybe it's to complete the whole 'cat curled up in his lap' set up they have going.

Regardless, he does manage to realise first, Ginny would think he'd fallen off his rocker, second, Ron would likely slap him silly, and third, Dean would definitely put itching powder - or worse - in Harry's bed if he found out.

Honestly - and Harry finds he's really only fully honest in the privacy of his own mind these days - he's most concerned with somehow injuring Ginny's opinion of him than anything else. Ron's anger is certainly not something he'd like to invite on himself, but they've come back from some pretty heavy stuff and Ron's just a bit of a drama king at times. And well, Dean can like it or lump it.

All this flashes through Harry's mind, it's kind of a constant background mantra since the start of summer in the handful of a few seconds, and the moment to affectionately stroke Ginny's hair has passed. Likely for the best, despite Harry's increasing conflict on the subject of the youngest and most confounding Weasley.

They chat easily about potential strategy for the team, training regimens Ginny read about in Quidditch Weekly, and a few new defensive maneuvers Ron can start working on and Harry begins to think Ginny would make a better captain than he ever will. She's bloody brilliant, she is.

With breakfast the following morning comes Ron and Hermione's usual self-deluded banter - one day he might lose it and lock them in a broom closet - and the usual delicious spread of food. The good thing about the unbelievable frequency of his mates' flirting turned arguments is Harry's become rather adept at tuning out to the extent that his blood pressure doesn't skyrocket when Ron goes full grouch and Hermione's reached her high-pitched potential.

Though sometimes he wonders whether they might end up snogging with equal ferocity and he'll just be in an alternate sort of hell. Luckily, the subject does turn soon enough, and even better to Quidditch. When he'd retrieved the sign up sheet for tryouts that morning, there'd been a few more names on the list than he'd expected - particularly the non Gryffindor candidates.

Hermione's theory is basically that Harry's publicity as 'not off his rocker' has somehow catapulted him to teen-heartthrob status over the summer. And she also notes his recent growth spurt, which hasn't helped with his hand-me-down sizing issues but does seem to be catching some attention around Hogwarts. Though a certain someone seems impervious to his increase in desirability.

In fact, it seems this summer he's been determinedly shunted into the role of friend just when he's starting to realize he doesn't particularly want to be - since he started noticing that -

Well, honestly, all he's really looking for is a few good sassy sparring matches and a solid trouncing on the Quidditch pitch, all rather innocent desires. After all, Ginny Weasley's teasing and trash talk almost outmatches her abilities on the field - which is saying something.

They'd had a few matches over the summer and hell if she wasn't the most gorgeous thing he'd ever seen - which he means in the most confusingly motivated way possible. God, it's lucky Ron's so caught up in whatever his current argument with Hermione's turned to.

As it turns out, Harry's appetite seems to have waned.

They don't dally much longer, gathering their things to head for the first classes of the day. As they wander from the Great Hall, Harry can't help but let his eyes search for Ginny among the throngs of Gryffindors. It shouldn't take long to spot her - yup. There she is looking glorious and radiant and smiling at - at Dean. Some days just really are destined to be shite and should therefore be erased in their entirety.

Gladly there's still Quidditch to take his mind off certain older brotherly feelings. Quidditch, where he's focused, poised, determined. Head in the game with a mission to win the House Cup, come what may. As they say, nothing can stop them now. Harry can only hope that those they are right, for his own sanity and probably also for his pride and ego.

Until a hurricane of red hair dashes close to him and he's almost knocked off his broom before the tryouts even start. Some Captain he is. If Wood or even Angelina were there to see him, he'd never hear the end of it.

However, neither of them is and it's all on Harry to put together a decent team and sweep the floor with Slytherin again this year.

Still, Harry feels confident enough choosing Demelza Robins to join the team, an excellent new find to fill the empty chaser slot. He's semi-happy with Coote and Peakes as Gryffindor's new Beaters - but alas, it is rather hard to meet the standard set by Fred and George, that much Harry can admit. And of course there's also Katie, Ron, and Ginny going forward with the team for another year.

Ginny, who'd make Captain for sure next year. To Harry, it's a fact, even though she might not know it yet. She's determined, strong, smart, and a natural born flyer. The fools talking about his own innate ability to fly must have never seen her.

Quite frankly, there's nothing more Harry'd like right now than to take her on in a race - she did suggest it before tryouts, so why not? Just the two of them, hands gripping at the hard wood of their broom handle, wind slashing at their cheeks, Ginny's hair flying everywhere like a brilliant pennant, her lips chapped, those lips she bites in concentration, drawing attention to that one freckle -

Alright, so maybe accepting her challenge is not the best idea. Not with Ron next to him, at least. And even more so when said best mate is nearly giving himself a coronary over Keeping, head locked in a contest with that git, McLaggen. The git whom Harry definitely can't have on the team or he might end up expelled from Hogwarts before the end of the month, so pull it together, Ron!

Turns out he doesn't even need to do something, anything for Ron to save enough goals to put a nice safe difference between himself and Cormac McLaggen, as the latter seems to have become slightly - erm, confused? While the former only grows in skill and confidence once a certain bushy haired witch smiles at him from the stands.

Harry can practically feel himself vomiting inside his mouth. Is this really how it's going to play out? The two of them dancing around each other all year long? Do they need a drawing or some instructions? Hermione'd love instructions. But Harry knows what she'd love even more: for Ron to finally untwist his pants and snog her for the love of Merlin. And maybe then Ron will be happy enough to not be bothered by Harry kissing Ginny -

Harry kissing Ginny? Now that's new. Harry'd like to wonder and over-analyze and maybe stress about where this idea came from, but unfortunately tryouts are over and people are looking at him, expecting to hear something. So he channels his best inner Oliver Wood to deliver the most decent pep talk he can squeeze out of his confused and tired brain, then sends everybody to the showers.

Everybody, except Ron, whose big blue eyes are glued to Hermione and her smiling face, and so Harry knows, he can just feel it actually, that this little calm period they're enjoying is literally too good and banter-free to really keep going for more than a hot second.

As if his thoughts summoned the undesirable situation, Slughorn's invitation - and for Ron, non invitation - to a little 'get together' after dinner stirs up yet another argument between Ron and Hermione. It's to be expected and he can't be too put off at Slughorn, if it wasn't a dinner invitation, it would've been something else.

At least Slughorn had the decency to schedule it for a night Harry couldn't attend. Though it's hard to determine whether an evening spent with a bunch of schmoozers or locked in a classroom with Snape is more tortuous.

Demelza's special delivery kind of decides it for him - at least Slughorn'd give him something to eat. As it is, it sounds like Snape's trying to either permanently destroy Harry's appetite or his ability to lift a fork.

Harry lets his mind wander for a minute, and his eyes find Ginny across the common room where she's letting Arnold run riot up and down her arms and giggling as his fur tickles her skin. Her cheeks are bright with laughter, her eyes sparkling with happiness and - and Harry doesn't really know what to think. Emotions are hellish, aren't they?

Instead of moping around (much like someone Harry'd rather not name as of yet), he gets his sorry arse up and ready for a night of unspeakable terrors - or whatever degree of terror Dumbledore allows to be inflicted upon Hogwarts students, all complete with added layers of Professor Snape's undesirable presence, breathing over Harry's shoulder. The image is so depressing he reckons he'd even be content with trading his prized broom just to turn into a small pink Pygmy Puff for the next couple of hours.

And in case anyone ever asks, Harry can now confirm that a detention involving Snape and flobberworms is about as awful as one might imagine. His fingers are raw and his shoulders ache like the summer Petunia decided to add paving stones to the garden and Vernon said he needed to 'build character.'

So by the time he stumbles back through the portrait hole, the Fat Lady's tipsy blustering about being woken so unceremoniously falls on deaf ears. He feels decidedly icky, the semester's barely begun and Harry's already exhausted.

He slumps into the nearest couch and the lumpy seat gives an irritated oof. "He wins one potions contest and suddenly thinks he can sit on whomever he wants - wait until I give this scoop to Rita."

"Potter Pompous Prick - full story on page 3," Harry announces, hand sketching the faux headline in the air.

Ginny chuckles, the low burning fire casting a warm glow over her freckled cheeks, and nudges his thigh with her socked toes. "You should go into journalism."

"I am quite adept at alliteration," Harry muses, grinning playfully.

"Now you're just showing off."

"At least I live up to Snape's hype."

Grumbling some choice words under her breath, Ginny sits up and inches her way closer, one arm tossed over the back of the couch and her feet now warmed by niggling their way between his leg and the cushion. "How was it? Is he as awful to you in private?"

"Hm. Hard to compare apples and oranges, though the level of arsehole-ishness is probably even."

"I suppose he gets credit for variety," Ginny laughs quietly, her head pillowed on her arm.

"So why are you up, then?"

She bites her lip. "Had a sort of date."

Harry ignores the itchiness in his chest and asks with forced lightness, "How was it?"

"Alright," Ginny shrugs, "Nothing to write home about - not that I make a habit of telling Mum about who I do and don't kiss."

His hand clenches involuntarily causing the skin on his knuckles to smart with the stretch. Apparently he winces or does something because Ginny's immediately on alert. "He hurt you."

"S'alright," Harry hedges, "Nothing to worry about."

"If you go to Pomfrey she'll have you fixed in a jiffy."

"Then I'll just give Snape another reason to hate me."

"Much better to have him on your arse for a good reason - sir."

Being called sir by Ginny kicks up a confusing array of emotions he'd rather not unpack so he focuses on the banter with dogged determination. "Still not over my spectacular sass, I see."

"Half the school is talking about it, if you weren't so popular for being the Chosen One this would've done it."

"I prefer this reason," Harry says, dry.

"Your cheek is quite attractive," Ginny adds, rising and patting him on the shoulder, "G'night Harry."

His face is still flaming when Ginny's footsteps fall silent on the stairwell.

Blimey.