Disclaimer: Not mine. All JK's. The poems are written by my close friends, and a couple of them are mine. :D

A/N:I've always thought of Ginny as a writer, because at the age of eleven she had a diary, and that she had managed to tell Riddle a whole lot through it. And I want Harry to start noticing her not by her beauty first, but by something more substantial. His noticing of her beauty will just have to follow. Enjoy this fic. :D Yay! I am finally able to log in here in ff.net after a lot of successful tries for quite a time. :D

*  Mighty is the Pen  *

Ginny stared at her room's ceiling. Just two floors above her was Harry Potter. He was staying for the rest of the summer, and Ron was sharing his room with Harry. Ron's room was located exactly in the same coordinates as Ginny's, only a couple of stories higher. Ginny imagined that Harry might just be lying directly above her location in her bed right now, and that they were just separated by a storey, her room's ceiling, and Ron's room's floor.

She sighed resignedly. She was sixteen years old, but she might as well be eleven when it came to Harry. Her feelings never wavered, and if possible, they grew stronger in time. People had said that she would forget about Harry in time, but they were all wrong.  She frowned. Time was definitely not her friend.

Ginny pulled up her blanket up to her chin and snuggled under the covers. She consoled herself with the fact that at least, she was finally able to talk to Harry without embarrassing herself. Sure, their conversations, though considerably numerous, were purely small talk. But at least they talk. And at least Ginny learned how to act like a normal human being around him, even though it was not without effort.

She could not stop liking Harry—that was, if what she had for Harry was simple 'liking', but she had a growing suspicion that it was more than that. But Ginny stopped fighting against it, because it was useless. Harry was deserving of anyone's attention, anyway. He was brave, loyal, humble, strong, noble, smart, gentlemanly, funny, and oh…so much more. It was the way he walked, the way he pushed his hair out of his eyes, the way he flew when he played Quidditch, the way he scratched his nose when his glasses pressed on its bridge, the way he kept quiet when something upset him. It also did not hurt that he had grown up very nicely. He was now tall and built, and his face had grown a bit angular. At seventeen, he was very manly when it came to looks and personality. Oh no, Ginny could not get over him even if she tried.

An overwhelmingly acute and painful sadness suddenly overcame Ginny. It was because she suddenly thought of what she did not want to think about anymore—that she would never be of any importance to Harry. It was unfair, because Ginny believed that she knew Harry in ways other people did not—even Ron and Hermione. Years of watching Harry and his little gestures and facial expressions gave her a look into the person inside. And that was not an easy task, because Ron himself said that Harry was such a reserved person that it was hard to tell what he thought.

But Ginny somehow always knew what Harry was thinking or feeling based on his movements, facial expressions, and most importantly, his eyes. His eyes were usually guarded, but there were certain flashes in them that passed quickly every now and then. The flashes might be fast, but not fast enough for Ginny. She knew when he was angry, happy, scared, or lonely. At first she thought that she had just been assuming that she knew Harry, but soon she discovered that she was right whenever she predicted what was going on inside him. Hermione, who knew about Ginny's feelings and supported her, would often ask her what she thought Harry might be feeling and thinking whenever he suddenly decided to be all quite and solitary. Years of careful observation made Ginny know Harry the way she knew him now.

Ginny felt angry at the unfairness of it all. She manifested her anger and frustration on her pillow, which she absently squeezed hard in her grasp. Yes, she thought, it was unfair. Modesty aside, she knew that she would be good for him, because she knew him; and she was not so bad herself as a girl, anyway. Unlike with other girls to whom he might have to pretend to just to impress them,  Harry did not have to be anything for her except be himself. Didn't Harry want that? Why would he not let her in?

At this moment, her frustration, anger, bitterness, loneliness, self-pity, and misery washed up inside her. She needed to vent them all out. After all, her reason told her that it was unhealthy to harbor all those feelings without outlet. So she threw the covers off her and grabbed an envelope and quill from her bedside desk. She felt for her slippers with her feet. When she felt the fluffy material with her toes, she put them on and grabbed a coat hanging behind her door. She hurriedly dashed down the stairs towards the couch in the first floor.

It was already past midnight, and the living room was dark as ink. Ginny felt her way around for a while until her hand rested on an enchanted candle resting on the table in front of the couch. She tapped the base with her forefinger thrice, and instantly, the candle lit up and illuminated the small living room area. 

Ginny sat at the table and placed the quill on top of it. She opened the envelope and carefully pulled a few pieces of parchment from it. It was her collection of poems. She had been writing poems ever since before she went to school, but she really only started to write poems in a regular basis after the Chamber of Secrets incident. Writing was her outlet, but she was too traumatized to keep a diary, so she turned all her creative and emotional energy to poetry instead. And she had improved a lot through the years. Her poems were far better than the stupid Valentine Harry received when she was a first year. Ginny cringed at the thought. She had written the poem but she had never had an intention to send it to Harry. But unfortunately for her, the twins had. She had never been so angry at them and embarrassed in front of Harry in her entire life.

She frowned slightly. The reason she came down here was to give her feelings an outlet, and not to nurse them. So she took out a blank piece of parchment from her envelope and poised the quill over it.

Ginny closed her eyes in concentration as if summoning all her emotions to pour out of her. In the silence of the night, it was not that difficult. Soon she was writing frantically on the piece of parchment, the words flowing like the turbulent stream of the river. Every emotion she felt that night was translated into words, and the adrenaline of her anger, bitterness, frustration, and possibly, even love, powered her hand and mind as she wrote. 

She wrote with everything she had to give, and at some point, Ginny felt that it was not just her emotions that were written down in words, but also her soul. It was a bit disturbing to think that she had vulnerably exposed her innermost self in something as common as pieces of parchment, but this was the best way she knew to express herself and all the pent-up emotions she felt about Harry inside of her.

Hours passed, but Ginny did not notice the time. She had never been as prolific a writer as she was now, and it seemed that she filled out parchment after parchment with her poems. Soon, however, sleep started beckoning her. She did not want to fall asleep in the couch so she drowsily picked up her envelope, her quill, and the pieces of parchment off the table.

She was too sleepy to even manage to stuff the pieces of parchment back in the envelope without wrinkling them, so she decided to carry them separately in her other hand, never knowing that not just a few pieces got loose and fell on the floor.


Harry was the first one to wake up in the Burrow. He was not really and early riser, but he had nightmares of Voldemort again. He realized that he could not find rest in sleep, so he might as well wake up and get some fresh air.

It was just a little after dawn, so a pale light started illuminating the house. Harry went down all five flights of stairs in a quiet and careful manner. He was afraid that a little creak in the stairs would rouse anyone up. He knew what Weasley temper was, and he knew that it was at its worst whenever anyone of them was accidentally wakened up from deep sleep.

At last he reached the first floor, which was less brightly illuminated by the morning sunshine than Ron's room. Harry smiled. It was the orange that magnified the sun's rays in Ron's room.

Still, the light was enough to see things by. Harry sat on the couch, dead tired because of the harrowing nightmares he had. He sighed. At least he was in the Burrow. It was much worse to wake up from a nightmare in the Dursleys' house.

He perched his elbow on one arm on the couch, and rested his head on his hand. As he did so, he noticed a whole lot of pieces of parchment scattered on the floor. Instinctively, he picked them up, thinking that it was one of Percy's paperwork for the Ministry.

However, as he turned one over to look at it, he realized that it was not Percy's, but someone else's. He recognized the beautiful script as feminine, and at the bottom of the page 'by Ginny Weasley' written in the same feminine script. And as Harry scanned through every page, he saw that every piece of parchment was signed 'by Ginny Weasley' at the bottom.

Harry knew by then that it was Ginny's.  And by this time, Harry's brain registered that what was written was some sort of poems. He was not sure, because he turned his eyes away. He did not want to pry on anyone's privacy.

But Harry was curious. He really did not know Ginny really well, but from what he knew of her, he found her pleasant, funny, and altogether nice. And he also had noticed that she had grown into quite a pretty girl. He was thankful that she was over him. At least they could talk like normal people, and at most he discovered that she was an alright person to talk to. He felt that he had a sister in her, and he was glad of that. He could never understand what she had found so interesting in him, anyway. He did not find himself interesting.

What he found interesting, though, was the pieces of parchment in his hand. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to read them and see what the poems were about, if they were really poems. Maybe he would get to know Ginny more. After all, poems were meant to be read, weren't they? It was not as if he were going to read her diary, anyway.

He looked down and allowed his eyes to read. It was indeed a poem, and his eyes read:

It escapes me

I am void

I am a frigid block

Denying purpose

For you would not come

Long have I waited

The empty years

Seek solace in my soul

Until my insides

Become a vacuum

For you would not touch my skin

Though it does not reek

Of foul things

(Or does it?)

I do not understand

Why you stray

Why you seem to feel uninvited.

Unwilling to sweat,

I stubbornly assume

An invulnerable sate of mind

Though my heart denies apathy.

Harry did not know much about poetry, but he knew that this poem was good…and that it was saying so much. Was this just a poem that Ginny wrote—a result of a creative mind, or was this a reflection of what she felt inside?

He moved on to the next piece of parchment, and saw a much shorter poem, and with a title. He read this one, too:


Sitting at my bed again

Waiting to be everything, anything for you

Oblivious, insensible

I'm still in bed, waiting

Wanting to be everything, anything for you.

Harry stared. Such few words, yet somehow so powerful and conveying everything. He started marveling at Ginny's talented way with vocabulary. He could never dream up of saying so many things in such a few words. He could really never express himself that well.

By this time, Harry was hooked. He moved on to the next piece of parchment, and read:



yet spanning

a space

so deep

so wide


and echoing

all the screams

the shouts inside


no one can hear

silenced by walls

that is my skin

In my eyes

can't be seen

the lost battle

fought within.

Harry felt as if the poem was the concrete version of what he was feeling inside. No one knew the internal battles that he always had to fight. No one really knew the guilt, the fear, and the pain that washed his entire being whenever he remembered his parents, Cedric, Hagrid, and everybody whose lives were lost because of Voldemort. Harry could not help but sometimes feel that he was stronger so he could have defeated Voldemort long ago, so that there should have been no lives lost after his parents.  He knew that it was not his fault, but it was very hard to believe it. There was lot of pain inside of him, and he did not know what to do except to fly it out. Flying was the only means of escape he knew. He really did not know how to talk about his feelings. He thought no one could understand him. But at this moment, Harry had a feeling that somebody might. It was a somebody who was smart enough to understand what people felt because she as good enough to express in a few words what he thought was inexpressible.

He moved on to the next piece, this one untitled, and read:

I revel in the bliss of you

Adrift upon the ocean blue

To gaze upon the sea an sky

I think of you, and wonder why

I see you in the daybreak dale

So far beyond this maiden's sail

At day's end you would still be there

The light of dusk in your black hair

Or traipsing on a starlight slight

A wish I may (or wish I might?)

Tonight the moon wafts through the sea

Could you be here adrift with me?

Alone upon the ocean blue

I revel in the bliss of you.

He smiled at this one. Harry remembered what he had used to feel for Cho Chang. He had been wistful, as the person in the poem was. Then he frowned. Did Ginny write this with anyone in mind? Who could that be? Colin Creevey? Colin surprisingly grew into what the Hogwarts girls (including the Slytherin girls) called "gorgeous hunk." As far Harry was concerned, there was nothing special about Colin, but he realized he would really know, because he was a boy who preferred girls. Whether Colin was special or not was something the girls would decide on, and it seemed that it was a unanimous vote among the females that Colin was something special. And Ginny was a girl and a close friend of Colin's. Harry suddenly found himself uncomfortable thinking about it, so he chased his head away. Nevertheless, he was eaten up by the curiosity as to who might be the object of such a beautiful poem, and Harry realized that he did not want it to be anybody else except…well, he did not want it to be anybody.  Period.

Besides, the poem said 'black hair'. Colin did not have black hair. Somehow he felt relieved. And the fact that he himself had black hair made Harry feel warm all over despite of the cool morning breezes wafting through the windows. No, he was not assuming anything. Ginny had been over him for so long. The poem must be over some other boy.  Harry felt vaguely disappointed at the realization. No, he was not going to think about this.

To remove such thoughts from his head, Harry moved on to the next poem. He read:


Upon pristine white sheets

Lies supine

The vestal delicacy.

But not for long.

Soon wanton hunger

Of a virile wanderer

Ravages and devours

The fragile offering

In an ephemeral encounter.

The only remembrance

Is a crimson stain

On the once pristine sheets.

Harry felt himself blush in spite of himself. Was that what he thought it was? He was pretty sure that it was something…sexual. He blushed even harder. He looked at the bottom of the page and indeed he saw that it was signed 'by Ginny Weasley'. Ginny wrote this poem? He was shocked—but not in an unpleasant way. Somehow, he always thought of Ginny as nice and all, but he never really considered what kind of depth she had until now. And Harry was starting to think that she might be really interesting. The reason was not entirely because the poem was implying sexuality—but Harry admitted, it was still a part of it, but hey, he was seventeen years old. Part of the reason was now his open admiration and amazement at how Ginny was able to come up with things that spark vivid images and strong emotions from her own mind.

He moved on to the next, and it was simply entitled 'He'. Harry read:


A child of night

It is he

Alive only in nocturnal dreams

Given breath

In fantasies

When daylight comes

He ceases to be

Fades away into memory

Overshadowed by reality

It was another beautiful poem—poignant and simple. Yet he did not want to dwell on it, because he did not want to think who that 'He' might be. He should not torture himself into trying to figure out who the 'he' the poem was referring to. Wait, who said about being tortured? It was just that he did not want it to be any boy, but he really would not mind whoever it would be, even though he really did not want it to be anybody---

Harry resolutely shook his head. His thoughts were confusing him and he was afraid where they might lead to so he had to move on to the last poem, which was untitled.

Look at me

I am the totality of years of pent-up bitterness

Of what might have been if you had looked at me sooner

Before I had accumulated the strength of the most

Rigid conservative.

For you can only look at me now

The barbed covering is too much for your thin skin.

And it claws at you.

I just sit here

And it claws at you.

You could only watch from the sidelines

When you could have been given

Ringside seats.

Harry stared at the poem for a long time. What—what was he feeling? He felt as if the poem—the poet—was asking him, and talking to him. 'You could only watch from the sidelines when you could have been given ringside seats.' At the back of his mind, struggling to surface yet was not allowed to surface, was the thought that he might have been reduced to the sidelines now. And he did not want that. 'Of what might have been if you had looked at me sooner.' What might have been? Was it really all might have been? No, he did not want that. And the thought that was struggling to the surface was gaining, and it was making itself known, it was making him aware of her and—

And she was standing right in front of him, her face covered in an expression of sickly shock.

"Ha-Harry? You've been reading those? My poems?" Ginny asked weakly, her face pale as death. She was in her nightgown, with a short coat covering her up. Her hair was a bit messy, but Harry realized that it suited her, giving here the out-of-bed look that most girls took dozens of spells to style their hairs into.

Then Harry remembered what he had been doing, and he stood up and shuffled the pieces of parchment together clumsily.  He was sure Ginny would get mad now. Mad? No make it furious. Irate.

"I-I'm sorry. I saw these lying around and I thought I'd glance at them," he stammered. He now felt that he had broken into her privacy, and he felt sick.

Ginny hastily snatched the pieces of parchment from Harry's hand and clutched them protectively to her chest.

"You read them all?" she asked, and she looked like she was about to cry.

"Yeah. I mean, I did not mean to. I just glanced at them, and I got curious and, and…" Harry stammered.

Ginny's face slowly took on an unreadable expression, and she said, "It's okay. I shouldn't have left them lying around. I must have left them last night," she said quietly. There was a pause, and then she suddenly blurted out, "Just—just don't mention it to me or tease me or laugh at me about it. It's—it's…it's very personal," she finished weakly.

Why would anybody laugh at her poems? Was she embarrassed of her writing?

"I think your poems are very good," he said reassuringly.

Ginny went scarlet, and after a moment she said, "You don't have to say that to apologize," she said.

"Oh no, I'm saying that because it is true. I swear," Harry said sincerely, hoping against hope that she would believe him. He had known to some degree that Ginny could be insecure, as Ron had fleetingly mentioned sometimes. Harry did not want to add to Ginny's insecurity especially over something which she needed no insecurity of.

Ginny sat down on the couch, and a shy smile played on her lips. It was then that Harry realized how pretty Ginny was, with her small face, delicate features, and her light smattering of freckles on her nose. Not to mention her long, full, wavy red hair that was a unique and interesting shade altogether. And what made her more beautiful to Harry was the realization that she had an intellect, sensitivity, passion, and empathy inside of her.

"Thank you," she said simply, with a light blush on her cheeks.

Harry sat down beside here on the couch. "You know, I kind of envy you. You can say what you feel. You can express it. I—I can't do the same thing. Flying is my only outlet. I really can't express anything with that," Harry said. Somehow, he felt comfortable telling her about it. He knew that she would understand.

Ginny looked thoughtful for a minute then said, "Hey, you know about synchronized swimming and interpretative dancing?" she asked candidly.

Harry nodded. "Yes, why?" he asked.

"Well, swimmers and dancers interpret emotion through movement. You can do that with flying. You know, like an interpretative, synchronized flying," she said with a small giggle.

Harry could not help but laugh a little, too. It might be funny, but it made sense. Not that he could ever do it, anyway.

"You got a point there, but I guess I'll just stick to random flying," he said with a laugh.

Ginny's eyes twinkled. Harry looked at her, sitting beside him, as if for the first time. He looked at her pretty face, her bright eyes, her radiant smile, and her wild hair. And as he looked into her eyes, he knew that there was something more in there that he wanted to know of, and that there were lots of things in him that he wanted her to know of, too.

And Harry realized that he liked to have ringside seats, and not the sidelines, and that in his own way, he would do something about it to get them.

The End

A/N: It is rather poetic and figurative, but I hope you liked it. :D