DISCLAIMER: The following is a work of fan-fiction based upon the world and characters of Harry Potter which are owned exclusively by J. K. Rowling. The following stories contains reference content to places, people, animals and situations which are located with the books of Harry Potter, a published source owned by J. K. Rowling and publishers. The following is not an attempt to claim the world of Harry Potter, though original characters have been created. This is primarily a work of fan-fiction written for the enjoyment of other writers and fans who come across it.
The night of the thirtieth of July saw a tense Harry Potter watch the exhausted hands of the clock tick slowly onto midnight. It seemed as though he watched the official arrival of his eighteenth birthday with a rather composed madness. His white fingers clutched the mattress of his bed and his gaze flickered on occasion; swivelling to survey his bedroom at number 12 Grimauld Place before returning once more to the clock. Despite his guard, however, the arrival of his birthday came and went, unnoticed both by him and the other sleeping members of the house. And why should it be any other way? He thought, his brow furrowing in confusion. Of course they would be sleeping, it was midnight.
The Weasley family had been through enough, their home destroyed and the loss of a loved one was a harsh and breathtaking blow for any family. They had rested little since their arrival in Grimauld Place. With Voldemort well and truly gone, Harry could not begrudge anyone some much needed rest. Yet as much as he told himself that, logically, it was he who should rest, he could not. For two solid weeks now the saviour of the wizarding world had found himself awake and alert in the early hours of the morning, tense, anxious and silently keening for something. Naturally, he had no idea what that something was. He had searched the house top to bottom, enlisted the help of Kreacher to strengthen the house wards, as though that would make a difference. He found nothing. His scar remained pain free and faint and he, himself, had felt no tampering with his magic. Yet this undeniable need to find something was driving him slowly mad. He had wondered whether it had merely been his hormones attacking his weary mindset but he had felt no pull towards anyone in particular.
Ginny, sweet Ginny, how he had wanted her to be that pull, but he could not lie to her, or himself. After a month of attempts it had been almost to easy to admit to themselves that it was only friendship they desired. The few trips he had made with Ron to Diagon Alley had done little to calm his nerves over the past summer. The wizarding world had been crawling with girls eager to prove themselves worthy of the Boy-Who-Lived. Each one had made his insides clench in instinctual refusal, to the point where he had thought to proclaim himself gay, had he not known that the Prophet would have a field day. No, since this damnable restlessness had begun, Harry could not be rid of it and nor could he bring himself to put his heart into anything else. His life had become a brutal game of hide and seek; only Harry was growing sick of hiding and he wasn't sure what exactly was seeking him.
A sharp twinge near his shoulder blade brought his musings up short and he rubbed the area absently. It had become a familiar pain lately. The young man sighed and ran a shaking hand through his ruffled black hair. He needed a haircut. With another mourning sigh, he curled up and drifted into a fitful sleep filled with hissing mouths and spiteful grins.