Oh my actual word.

You're going to have to forgive me, because this story fell into such a horrific slump, and I ignored it for so long that guilt was eating me alive. Fanfiction has seriously been the last thing on my list of priorities, so anything that required actual attention to detail and long thought out processes became a tiresome thing to consider.

But please don't worry! This story has a complete plot mapped out, so I know where I'm going with this! It will be completed.

Other stories will also be updated shortly - kind of as an apology for being so willfully ignorant of all of my patient readers. You're all amazing - thank you for any and all continued support. It helps me get back to things like this.

Hopefully this chapter will appease you.

Sorry again! More to come soon - please keep tuned.

Despite having had a brief respite from the thought of his looming duties as Quidditch captain, Harry soon found himself with the unenviable position of having to figure out the Quidditch try-outs. Although it had originally seemed like a great idea – like many of the bright ones Harry had had in his illustrious career so far – it had become less pleasant a thought when he realized just how many people were fighting for a place on the school's golden team.

Well. He said golden. He meant favourite.

It was no small victory for Gryffindor house that they happened to be the rampaging lions of victory as well as favouritism. Apparently all that unbridled stubbornness and inability to back down from any fight pitched at them had won the approval of the other students.

Whether such traits were desirable things in hormonal teenagers was rather another thing.

(He also didn't deny he was absolutely one of those people, least not when a certain redhead was involved.)

Breakfast that Wednesday morning proved quiet, with Hermione pouring over her latest library book (about what, Harry wasn't going to even attempt to guess), Ron flicking through the Daily Prophet with a vaguely disgruntled look on his freckled face, and Harry staring aimlessly up at the ceiling, shafts of cool, morning light piercing the Great Hall in a bleary fashion that made him want to go back to sleep. He hated mornings.

"You'll never believe what they've written now," Ron grumbled, scrunching his nose up in disbelief. Harry turned to look at him, dropping a rather pathetic looking piece of cold toast on his plate again.

"What?"

Ron raised his eyebrows, in what Harry guessed was a show of shock and annoyance. It was always hard to tell with Ron – his emotions were very interchangeable, with minutes passing as he went through every shade of every category of emotion in seconds.

"Apparently-" a sharp flick of the newspaper's corner, clearly with the intention of bringing interest, with a needle-like tone in his voice – "'The Ministry of Magic is unwilling to comment on the serious developments surrounding the rise of You Know Who, with claims made that the investigation pending is serving to both deter and weaken the threat of the Dark Wizard's return"! Come on! As if the Ministry can deny it now!"

"It's hardly a surprise, Ronald – I mean, the Ministry has never been known for its efficiency," Hermione's interjection sounded bored at best, like she'd been reading too long and was finding it difficult to distinguish between times or conversations anymore, so was treating them with the same brush of attitude.

"Yeah, maybe, but my Dad works there. Least they could do is say it's the Minister himself,"

Hermione shrugged, returning to her book. Harry continued to look at the ceiling.

The silence continued.

"I don't even get it, though," Ron said, minutes later, now flicking aimlessly past the lovelorn letters section, printed unsurprisingly beside Rita Skeeter's latest knife stabbing article.

"Huh?" Harry muttered, but he'd felt a little out of the conversation for a while. Perhaps this Quidditch thing was making him overthink – or making him ill. Whichever.

"Well, if you think about it – Daily Prophet's got an audience, right? People working in the Ministry have to be mad they're being dragged into it?"

Hermione had glanced up again, curls falling behind her back as she propped her chin on her hand. For a change, Hermione looked as tired as they did – a smidge of sleep still in one eye, with her hair still looking a little worse for wear, like a tangled bird's nest wrestled into order, but unsuccessfully.

"Maybe. But if you were to pick fights with the Daily Prophet over dragging your job into its headlines, you'd end up in them yourself,"

Ron curled his lip in response, slapping the paper down beside him as he reached for another slice of toast, in the rack running the whole length of the table. As teenage boys went, he was winning awards with his stomach. Despite his seemingly endless pit of an organ, however, Hermione had long since lost her disapproval of it- she'd realized, in a quiet moment, that Ron's poorly-stricken background, despite its comfort, had made him into a scavenger, albeit a kind and considerate one.

A lot of things about Ron had changed, and it had made her feel very strange, especially considering her weird response to Draco at the moment.

Ron had hated him from day one, and she loved Ron. But now she felt something – not a liking, or a consideration, but a curiosity – towards Malfoy, and it was confusing her.

But anyway.

It was never the time to dwell on such things, because the guilt always ate away at her so much that she had become near sure her expression could never hide it. The thought that Draco Malfoy, of all people, was finding his place in amongst her private thoughts felt too intimate, all chalked up from a few chance encounters. That one in the library had been a fluke, she'd told herself. A mere human weakness to respond to affection and the hurt of someone else, and nothing more besides that.

She'd didn't actually believe it, but for the sake of everyone else, she was willing to pretend she did. It was easier than the truth – most things were these days.

Ron's anger over the Prophet had diminished as she'd rummaged through her thoughts, instead content to flip the pages in silence, watching Harry's growing fidgeting with agitation. He had a problem with sitting still – even twirling his fork absently was sometimes a necessity for him, like his hands had to stay busy for fear he'd lose grip on his thoughts. He'd always had a thoughtful look about him, and not just in a physical display of his enduring kindness. Unfailingly so. No – he looked like a thinker; an intellectual in a reckless, heated sort of way, like he had too many ideas to know what to do with. Clever, yes – he was abruptly so, displaying knowledge at the most random times, but cunning?

There was a reason why he so easily could have been a Slytherin.

It was no surprise, then, that her reading was interrupted by a faint shadow cast over her pages.

Turning to look over her shoulder, the figure of Malfoy stood with a shoulder bag draped across his frame, as casual as his slouch, still managing to look primarily snobbish despite it, the light from the early morning casting his hair into silken silver, a little untidy around the edges. His face still had that harsh, knife-like quality to it, though – a cruelty ingrained in him before birth. She wondered aimlessly how he would have fared had the Malfoy household given him away. Probably still an arrogant swot, just without the bite.

"Granger," Again, her name used like an insult. It took very little for her to remind herself that this boy was a bully in essence as well as in practice, despite her thoughts and his vague, rare but definitive moments of vulnerability. The sheen of wealth and privilege was a scar on his face, but one he was contented to wear if it gave him the upper hand of a neatly worn façade that could disguise his true self.

He looked young in this light, yes – all pale features and bright, grey eyes, nose a little upturned – probably for effect – that sort of rich handsomeness about him making him look angelic and vile in some equal measure. He was redefining what it meant to feel crazy about a person, and want to punch them in the same vein, simultaneously, without question.

"Draco," Gracing him with his first name had also become a habit, but from where, she had no idea. Possibly ingrained formality, to avoid fights.

Hermione loved a good verbal spar, but now was probably not the time.

"I assume you'll be ready to start tonight?"

Not one part of that sentence sounded pleased at the concept, but the begrudging tilt of his pale eyebrow showed a certain degree of interest and concern. This was still a class, and still worth something – even he wasn't going to jeopardize it for the sake of petty get-back between the two of them.

Hermione glared at him, shifting a little in her seat as she blinked.

"I've been ready since yesterday afternoon. But yes – I'll be ready tonight," Oh-so-formal, and she was a little thrilled and annoyed that such a conversation was causing her nerves to run on high.

Draco snorted through his nose, gripping the strap of his bag, the sounds of the bustling Great Hall dimmed a little as she watched every movement. She could see his wand tucked into his back pocket, visible from where his robes were unintentionally tucked behind it. Delicate and fine, founded in dark, smooth wood, long enough to appear elegant, but refined enough to dictate heritage and status.

She also knew it was Unicorn Hair core – an even rarer, more beautiful thing than she would have expected from him. Delicate, and painfully so. Easily broken, and pure despite how it was hunted.

She frowned a little.

Such a apt combination with him.

"Well, 8 o'clock then, Granger. Don't be late,"

"I told you – I never am," She snarled in kind.

He leant forward a little, a lock of white golden hair slipping out of place, curling onto his forehead. He looked positively unearthly in this light. Cruel smirk and angelic face, carved from marble and meant for a statue outside a church, where more rustic pleasures were found inside. That's what he was – a church sullied, but not through choice.

"Whatever, Granger. I'll see you tonight,"

The thought would have been romantic, had he not sounded disgusted by the mere thought. His turn on his heel seemed a little ridiculous, but he swept off down the hall, saunter far too evidently practiced for it to seem unintentional.

Harry and Ron had both paused, watching him go – Ron with the Prophet's page corner between his fingers, Harry with a lingering triangle of toast between his teeth, melted butter dripping onto his plate. Both seemed confused.

"I'm still surprised he even can muster up the will to talk to you," Harry muttered, absently crunching on his toast again. It looked limp as it went cold.

Hermione merely snorted at the suggestion. She knew all too well that Malfoy had all the will in the world to talk to her, if only because he knew exactly how to rile her up. She kept reminding herself that this was the boy entirely at ease with dragging her through the mud, spouting derogatory terms at her that he felt best suited her position in wizarding society.

Mudblood.

As if he was one to talk.

Despite his love of Quidditch, standing out on the wet, damp-grassed pitch that Wednesday afternoon had served to put Harry in a worse mood than he had been this morning.

He wasn't just tired anymore – he was tired and cold.

And miserable. And agitated. And frankly fed up –

Harry took one, long breath, closing his eyes temporarily, revelling in the chilled air gracing his lungs. The snow was visible around Hogwarts still, the Quidditch pitch cleaned of its contents so that practice could continue. But the grass had turned muddy from the slush of the ice, and damp air making his skin bubble with goose bumps, cheeks feeling hot to touch and lips chapped from the cold, as well as licking them almost obsessively as he tried to formulate his plan of attack. Quidditch captain meant many things in terms of the title, but one was trying to keep his temper as rookie would-be recruits tried to impress him beyond normal measures, the already chosen team standing to the wayside with frankly annoyed looks on their faces as they watched the noise escalate.

He didn't have time for posers. Even though he could admit to being one some of the time. Everyone was at some point.

But these ones were practically making careers out of it.

"We could just pack it in and tell them to leave,"

Ginny stood beside him as they watched the kerfuffle in front of them, a fight over brooms currently throwing younger students to the outside of the contest, looking severely offended.

Harry raised a tired and disinterested eyebrow, hair blowing a little wildly in the wind. He was looking more windswept than usual, green eyes bright but sparked with anger, brow furrowed in the most deadpan glare he'd worn all month, black hair a wolf's pelt on his head, combed into a mess rather than out of it by the weather.

Ginny thought he looked more interesting when he was less put together.

(She meant, of course, that it made him look like a wilder, more dangerous version of himself, which of course was at least ten times more attractive. But that was of course beside the point).

Harry grunted.

"Yeah we could, but I've suffered McGonagall's wrath enough this term,"

Ginny barked out a melodic laugh, laced with vicious hilarity at his misfortune.

"You wish, Potter. She's only just getting started,"

Harry whipped a glare her way, glasses making his eyes look sharper as the cool, grey sky set off his features and Gryffindor kit in startling clarity. Something about dull weather made him look fierce and primal and very, very powerful.

"Thanks for the vote of support, Weasley,"

Ginny tilted her head, ginger plait whipping over her shoulder as the fly-away hairs around her face got caught in her eyelashes, freckles not at all dimmed by the lack of bright sun. She looked positively radiant, and violently so.

Merlin, he was obsessed with her.

Choking back a retort that he knew would only serve to make her laugh further, he turned to the crowd again, still snatching at brooms and yelling incomprehensible insults that were still managing to offend the intended party.

Harry glared.

"Guys -"

The fighting continued, too interested in their own disagreements to even look in his direction. The scowl on Ginny's face was evident enough, grinding her teeth at the definitive lack of respect.

Harry brushed his hair out of his face, trying to remain calm.

"Guys, come on – quiet, please -"

Ginny's temper snapped.

"SHUT IT, YOU LOT!"

The fighting stopped, Ron standing on the side with a slightly begrudged but sick look on his face. Despite his size – tall, and broad enough in the shoulder – Harry had the distinct feeling that Ron, no matter how fiery his temper could be, and despite how he'd already been chosen for the team, was not great under the pressure that would inevitably ride on his shoulders as he hovered in front of the hoops, trying to embody the role as best as he could. It didn't help, of course, that a small crowd had gathered on the stands – a bigger, more prominent threat to his mental state than anything. Quidditch practice always attracted viewers.

Harry loosed a breath.

"Alright, so this morning – I'm putting you all through a few drills. Just to assess your strengths, your weaknesses, that sort of thing. Chaser isn't an easy position to fill – it'll be difficult, but just – try your best. The rest of the team will help assess who's best for the job. Any others who make a good enough cut might be held as reserves. Is that understood?"

He hated sounding like a teacher – especially when people started scowling at him like he was one.

They nodded once in approval – although Ron still looked a little agitated, his red hair waving limply in the breeze.

Harry groaned to himself, turning round in one sweep as he headed to where his broom was left, Ginny walking with him as she cast a glance back at the hopefuls.

"Good luck with this lot," she muttered, biting her lip with experimental doubt, like she couldn't decide whether to be sceptical or just pretend to wait for the best.

Harry cast a glance at her – watching her plait swing back and forth like a pendulum as she walked, hazel eyes bright despite the early morning.

"I think I'm going to need it," he muttered back, running a nervous hand through his hair, looking back at the team as he kicked off the ground, soaring up into the air with effortless ease, surveying the pitch. The muck and mud was making it difficult to feel upbeat – like a personal reminder that the indoors was a better alternative at this point. The air slapped his cheeks again, keeping him awake. Ginny soared up to meet him, one hand gripping the broom, the other tucking stray hairs behind her ear, licking her lips in anticipation.

She flew in closer to him, a quirky smile on her lips as she pointed carelessly to the team as they each made their way to the skies, some wobbly, others too confident for Harry to even try stomaching them for much longer.

"Dean's trying out for Chaser now," she hissed into his ear, casting a cursory glance at the sky, looking for any sign of encroaching rain.

"Loads are," he muttered, leaning forward on his broom, forearms draped over the handle, feet firmly planted back in the foot grips, the metal digging into the heels of his boots.

"This is either going to be an absolute disaster or a minor miracle," he continued, watching with a casual eye as the potential recruits tried to get to grips with the balance, circling each other as conversation was made, waiting patiently for the first drill.

"I mean, the team's not going to last if people keep dropping like flies." Ginny's response reminded him of Katie – he'd already lost a fabulous Chaser to Malfoy's conniving ways, and having to train the team whilst looking for new recruits for said Chaser was becoming more a headache than he'd anticipated. It wasn't enough to let the team just continue on with their normal drills while he frantically assessed a haphazard group of students eager for a second shot of victory. The tryouts had been in October, and the team was fine. Brilliant, even. But his own distraction, and the gruelling day-to-day of running a team was taking its toll; he could feel it in his muscles, in his sore eyes, rubbed raw from this morning.

Quidditch meant more than most to him, but today it was just making him angry.

Ginny seemed to sense his discomfort, wiping at his face with an painful sigh, hair more mussed as he continued to make lazy but somewhat irritable runs through it with his fingers. Even his kit – usually one to show off his lean physique, and show a potential strength and vivacity to him, as Captain of the team, seemed brash on him today, in spite of his previous look of leadership, well suited to the colours. He looked drained.

A warm hand fell upon his forearm, Ginny's bright eyes looking to him as he swivelled to gaze back at her.

"Harry, it'll be fine. It's just one try-out – for one position. Seriously. Just get today over with. You can skive off the rest of the day if you want."

"Or just go back to bed," he murmured, but that whisper of his cocky, confident smile was back, sitting up a little straighter on his broom.

"Yeah, or that," she laughed, nudging him with her elbow.

She tried to forget how she had felt the heat of his skin under her gloved fingertips, but it didn't work.

Watching him swoop around the pitch, like a hawk on the wind, seemed mesmerising in all degrees, black hair swept back from his face as he put each try-out through their paces, snapping into the position of moody but disciplined and fair team captain – a role that suited him, because leading people was generally his thing.

Even as the morning session had come to a close – with Dean nabbing the hotspot as Chaser in Katie's place – Ginny had felt like Harry's mood hadn't lifted. Whatever was bugging him was still on his mind, and despite his retorts to the contrary, she knew better. She always did where Harry was concerned.

Lunch had eventually swung round, and one look across at him, the Great Hall bathed in cool, midmorning winter light, a small chatter of students surrounding them, pages rustling and forks clinking against plates, she'd given up trying to guess.

"Alright. Out with it. What's wrong?"

Harry's head had lifted from the book in front of him – a rare sight at the best of times. His current plate of bacon and eggs remained untouched, but instead pushed around to the edges of the plate with very little intention made of eating them.

"Huh?"

"Don't act stupid, Potter – what's wrong? You've been in a mood all morning."

Harry shrugged, brushing back his hair again. At this rate, it was going to be dirty by that evening.

Ginny slapped the table in front of him with the Prophet, rolled up into a tunnel, making him jump in his seat, turning to her with an equally wounded and irritated look on his face.

"Merlin, Ginny, what d'you do that for?!"

"Because your head's in the dump and you're refusing to tell me what's wrong,"

That blazing look she so often wore was back, determined enough to wrangle him out of his seat if he didn't start giving answers. There was that part of Ginny that abhorred all types of moping – it just wasn't her way with things. A little insensitive, maybe, but he reminded himself that this was the girl who'd been possessed by Voldemort. What she'd seen, he didn't know, but it had made her tough. Unyielding. Ready to fight and complain and take action when any situation required it.

The first wand to raise when threats were thrown.

He sighed once, in a quick, clarified sort of way – just as he looked straight at her, and slapped his book shut, lying his chin on its cover as he blinked up at her, green eyes vibrant but a little weary.

"I'm worried -"

"About?"

Harry looked at her, his glare enough to let her determine what.

"Malfoy?"

He nodded once, lifting his head as his chin slumped into his palm, unclear how best to express himself. For all his great speeches about equality and the just thing to do, his own feelings always proved both intense and hard to verbalize. He was a living complication, and not just in the ordinary, human way either. He was complicating in himself – always so emotional, yet unable to explain why; always quick to defend, but not always entirely sure how to go about it.

He was kind and fierce and passionate and wily and brave and wild and strong –

And also a hell of a pessimist.

Ginny sighed, getting up from her seat as she pushed her plate across the table, sliding her wand into the back of her bun, stray hairs falling all around her face. Her freckles seemed to glitter in the sunlight, the snow still visibly falling outside the window, the air cool but warm enough not to warrant wearing robes.

She thumped down into the seat beside him, raising an eyebrow in his direction as he looked back at her, watching how her fingers moved to take a sip from her goblet, how she kept uselessly tucking her hair behind her ear, crossing her legs underneath the table as she pulled her jumper cuffs over the backs of her hands.

She leant in a little, swiping a hand towards the body of the students in the hall, mindless chatter dancing in and around with the Christmas lights, the tree standing proud in the centre of the hall, and all too caught up with their personal, private conversations to look at him.

"Not one person in here gives a baldy what we're talking about right now. And you need to talk, Harry. Whether your stubborn head – and stubborn heart – believes it or not."

Her pointed glance was enough to make him smirk a little.

"Have you eaten?"

He bit his lip.

"Have you even slept?"

He said nothing.

Ginny sighed, like she was his long suffering mother – and sounding like her own, too – as she stabbed his long forgotten fork into the scrambled egg and shoved it into his hand, reaching for the goblet on his right, her arm stretching across his chest as she grabbed for it. Her flowery scent went with her, pervading his senses as she sat back and filled up his glass, setting it beside him.

"Eat," she ordered, and it was not to be mistaken for a request.

He begrudgingly ate the forkful of egg, looking at her guiltily.

"I wasn't hungry," he muttered around his mouthful, and Ginny's eyes softened a little, tucking that same stray hair behind her ear again, casually glancing at the scar lacing across his forehead. Far from the tiny little scratch one would think of for a scar, it was a jagged line that looked like his head had been split open and stitched back together, but wrong. Like actual lightning.

It gave his eyes a fierce look to them, particularly when he was angry. Those were the times were fire danced in those green irises, and Harry Potter took no prisoners.

Today, it just made him look broken.

"Maybe not, but your body won't thank you for it."

He merely shrugged again, eating more of the egg. Ginny watched on it silent observation.

When he had finished, she sat up straighter, allowing him to scan her face as she smiled at him, bright and endearing and most definitely pretty. Intelligently so.

"So. Tell me what's wrong."

Harry sighed again, leaning back to look at the ceiling, candles floating effortlessly above his head, as he gripped the bench between his legs, tilting his head back further, glasses slipping off his nose a little.

"I'm just stressed. Over lots of stuff,"

"Stuff?"

"Malfoy. Exams. Voldemort."

He paused.

"McGonagall," He looked sideways at her, a cheeky grin on his face that made him look young and carefree; handsome, too. Ginny briefly wondered whether he knew it – how striking he was. The messy hair, the bright eyes, the lopsided smile, the well-cut features. He looked…

Well – stunning. He just did.

His scars – running on the back of his hand and across his forehead – only served to liven him up. It was that living complication again – marked for life and yet having left his own on many others - many emotional, many others physical.

Ginny laughed, leaning back against the table as she watched him, tilting his head back towards her.

"I dunno, Gin, I'm just – I just need time to get things sorted in my head."

"Maybe ignoring Malfoy would be a good start to that plan,"

His smile was breathless, and just a little acceptant.

"Maybe,"

The silence seemed pregnant – but with a lot more than just the current conversation. Every comment towards each other – every interaction, every breath, touch, look, inner joke – it all felt like it was leading to something, but not sure what road it ought to be taking. Ginny wished it would hurry up.

She quickly reminded herself she was currently with Dean – someone who had proved attractive to her also.

But then she looked at the boy in front of her again – and she wondered why on earth she'd bothered to look anywhere else in the first place.

Something inside her cracked a little, watching his lopsided grin, realizing she'd restored some kind of brightness to him that afternoon, from whatever slump he'd been in. They were good for each other - that much was obvious - and yet...

They kept missing each other. Like walking down a different street, and missing your soulmate. Missing them by fractions, but missing them all the same.

His smile faded a little as he watched her, the joy somehow a little jilted as she smoothed her hand over the cracks in the table's wood, watching how her nails caught in the fissures.

"Gin?"

Her smile was plastered on, and badly so.

"Nothing! Nothing. Just – if you ever need to talk, I'm here," she smiled again, wan on her features, and slid from her seat, a passing hand on his arm radiating warmth. As it slipped from him, he caught her fingers as she left, making her turn a little in surprise.

"I'm here, too," he said, for a moment the noise and chatter of the hall disappearing from his senses as he focused on her hair, on her eyes, on the feel of her slender but calloused fingers in his own, the dark freckles coating her milk-bottle skin a stark contrast to his own dark tone, the scar across his hand a little baiting when he considered the context of the situation.

I must not tell lies.

If anyone deserved to know how he felt, Ginny was one of them. If not the one.

She looked at him, a hard, determined and shattered sort of gaze, like she knew he meant it, but felt he shouldn't be saying it. He knew she was with Dean – and yet he seemed unimportant in that moment. Like a faraway person in a different world where niceties were never entertained. Where he could just have this moment with her without it ever being looked on with a certain sense of guilt. Like he could never look back on this and know he shouldn't have indulged himself, basking in her warmth.

Not when she was with someone else. Someone that wasn't him.

"I know," she muttered, the words barely perceptible in the room, as her fingers slid from her hand and she walked down the hall, plate forgotten.

He knew she had her own worries too.

Maybe they needed to start looking at each other straight.

Maybe they just needed to be honest for a change.

Maybe they all did.

Once again, thank you for reading! I've been in a fantasy mood, and this felt like a good way to work that out.

This story, this story - now that I definitely know what's happening with it, it makes me feel super duper excited to write it out for you guys! I can't wait to see how you all feel about it.

For all interested, I'll probably update Miss Thursday next, what with Endeavour repeats all the time, so if that's on your list, keep an eye out too.

Also! My Spotify playlists for this story have come together nicely, and have been split between the three main ships in this, so feel free to check them out:

user/ingenioussprite/playlist/65kHnLZnpIVeAVRrWWJ5h2

user/ingenioussprite/playlist/12IoHCh0sIwE4MkJLnkfyS

user/ingenioussprite/playlist/1pRp05UdBuqmspvMYm0cz3

Any mistakes, let me know! Any typos, I'll notice them eventually when I do another million rereads!

Also, special shout-out to burdge, for giving me a love for the idea of Harry's scar being a bit more than a squiggle: post/94665202994/ok-but-hear-me-out-what-about-a-lightning-bolt

More to come soon. Eyes peeled, folks.