~Chapter One~

Harry ran his fingers over the soft feathers of the owl perched on the window ledge before him. "Fly, Hedwig." And with a light squeak, Hedwig leapt from the wooden frame and ascended into the night sky. Harry, having just showered and with still damp hair, tugged on the ends of his over-sized cotton jumper before he reached forward to pull the window too. The brass handle felt cold in his already numb fingers – he'd had the window open for a good hour or so and although he was freezing, he had allowed it so Hedwig could soar above and beyond the tower that was the boy's dormitories- well -the sixth-year Gryffindor boy's dormitories at least.

He stared out that window and watched as Hedwig – whose pearly white feathers seemed to shine somewhat like a Patronus – flew on and on until she became nothing but another star in the distance, on her way to deliver yet another letter he'd spent the morning writing to The Order. He was positive that Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy throne, line, and name, had initiated into an utterly devoted Death Eater. The others had to know of his worries. He was the Chosen one, right? His gut feeling had to be important in some way.

Harry hopped off his bed, the wooden floorboards beneath him freezing to the touch, and made his way for the stove in the centre of their room. As of that moment he was alone but it wouldn't be too long before lights out and the other boys were sent back to their room. He didn't feel particularly in the mood to have them nag at him at how cold it was. After lighting the flames within, he crawled back onto his four-poster bed and crossed his legs.

Harry shared his room, the tallest in the tower, with four other boys his age: Seamus, an Irish boy always covered in dirt and flames, whose voice often caused Harry to cringe after a time (especially at three in the morning when he'd be rambling on and on and on about God knows what) and who had a knack for blowing himself up. Then there was Dean, Seamus's best friend, somehow. Dean was very different to Seamus, being quieter and less eager to cause explosions. Of course there was Neville, an even quieter boy but not out of politeness, out of nervousness and fear of those that would taunt or make fun of him. These days – like most days, Harry then thought – Neville spent most of his time in the Library or the herbology classroom, although since the creation of Dumbledore's Army the previous year, Neville had started to train and practice in the room of requirement a lot more, especially when Luna offered to join him.

Peering at the bed to his right, he smiled. Ron. Was there really any explanation needed? Ron was…Ron. Harry's best friend. He had been since they first met on the Hogwarts's express five years ago. Of course, the two had their tiffs and squabbles, as most teenage boys do going through puberty and…essentially, High School. Or their twisted – yet amazing – version of it. He was thankful for Ron, thankful to have his best friend by his side, in more ways than one.

Of course, the famous/infamous (Depending on how you would view it) Wizard, Harry Potter, had lots of people wanting to call him friend, and he considered quite a few of them as just that. The Order, Dumbledore's Army, even the odd pupil in the corridor he spoke to every now and again, when he wasn't worrying about escaping a certain dark Lord. At that moment, Seamus and Dean were who knows where but Harry was sure Seamus was on fire; Neville, he was sure was in the greenhouse, but he knew Ron had a detention with Snape for calling him a 'Long-nosed Git' when Snape had failed one of Ron's homework assignments. Harry had tried to warn Ron Snape was behind him but he was too late. Harry was just thankful Snape did not punish him simply for standing too close.

There was a knock at the door, a knock that stunned him from his dreamily haze, and he bounced off the bed and slouched across the room. He was tired, he was so tired and had to fight to urge to yell at whoever it was to go away. Still, he opened the door and Hermione barged past him into his room.

"There you are! I've been knocking for ages!" She exclaimed as she threw her arms up in the air, yet her eyes were on the book in her hands.

"No you haven't, you literally just knocked." He argued as he closed the door behind him.

"Shush, I need to see the book."

The dormitories had been spelled to prevent boys and girls from entering one another's rooms but Hermione had broken through those enchantments years ago. The professors had enhanced them in their fifth year when the students were beginning to…develop less hateful feelings to one another – Hermione had slipped past them unnoticed just as easily as the first time. Harry was positive that if she weren't breaking the rules herself, she would have gone to Professor McGonagall and complained about the quality of her charms.

"So do you have it?" He realized he'd been drifting. He did that a lot recently, although often his day dreams were about another sneaking into his room at night.

"Have what?"

"The book, of course."

"Oh, right, yeah."

Harry nodded and reached into his bedside cabinet and handed her his copy of advanced potion-making. He had discovered a few weeks before that the book had been personally-annotated by a mysterious stranger who had called themselves' The Half-Blood Prince' Of course, there was no reference to a Half-Blood Prince anywhere, much to Hermione's annoyance. Harry had not been bothered, if anything the book was a miracle. A life saver. He had always been talented at potions but with everything that had been going on in his life the past few years, his mind had been elsewhere and he was sure he'd be failing potions without it.

Hermione took the book from him then scowled at the cover, and shook her head of mousey brown curls.

"Not that one, the other one you found in the library."

Oh.

That book.

Harry had found a book – or been left it, as Hermione argued. It had been three weeks ago to the day and Harry had been in the great hall, secretly watching Draco Malfoy out of the corner of his eye – with his white-blonde windswept hair, his dishwater eyes and pressed black robes – as he did a lot these days, when Draco's personal eagle-owl soared in through one of the tall, arched open windows and dropped a black envelope on the table top before her master. Harry had watched as Draco opened the letter with an indifferent, bored expression across his face but upon reading the words (which were written in gold, Harry could see, even from afar) his eyes widened and mouth dropped open into a little 'O' of shock. He glanced around and pulled the letter closely to his chest. Harry had frowned, wondering what had caused Draco to panic. With a gulp, Draco had risen from his seat and fled the great Hall.

Harry, only now realizing what a total tool he had been, had charged after Draco and demanded to know the details of the letter, having believed it had to be something tied in with the information Harry now had, that Draco had evolved from high-school bully and ascended into an enemy. Draco, understandably, had refused and when Harry went to snatch the letter from him, Draco had shoved him back and the two sixteen year olds had drawn their wands.

"What on Earth is going on here?" Professor McGonagall had shrilled as she spotted them in passing. "Lower your wands, immediately!" The two boys had done so. Death Eater or not, Chosen One or not, you did not argue with Professor McGonagall. She had told them she did not care as to why the two boys were fighting (again) but that ten points had been taken from each house and they were to both attend detention. Draco would serve his in the Greenhouse with Professor Sprout, Harry in the library with Madam Pince.

That same night Harry spent hours in the library, cursing Draco beneath his breath, as he returned taken books to their allotted spaces, and in a library of tens of thousands of books, it took him a while. Eventually, the sky darkened and the lanterns lit of their own accord, student after student left and it was almost eight PM, when the library closed officially. Harry had finished returning the last of the books when all of a suddenly a small thump made him jump and he turned to see a thick, navy blue book laid out across one of the far tables.

"Who's there?" he had called. The library had been silent a long while, and he was absolutely certain that the book had not been there moments ago. "Homenum Revelio." He cast. Nothing happened. Where ever the book had come from, it had not been a person who had placed it before him. As Harry approached, he had somehow known that the book was meant for him, for him to find at least. Whether to keep personally, or not, he was unsure, but that was what he did anyway. He had taken it back to the room when his detention came to an end and opened it. Hardback, full of a couple hundred blank yellowing pages. Nothing out of the ordinary until a word, scrawled in black ink, appeared on the page.

Hello

Understandably, Harry had panicked and thrown the book the length of the room. He'd drawn his wand and cast as many shielding enchantments as he could. The last time he had opened a book such as this, he had been swollen by the memory of Tom Riddle. It had been Voldemort's diary he had been speaking too in his second year at Hogwarts. He was not going to take any chances this time, not after what it had done to Ginny.

The next day, Harry had taken the book straight to Hermione and Ron – he would have taken it to Dumbledore but he had been out of the castle and away from school grounds, again – and Hermione, being the smartest witch of her age, spent hours casting spell after spell, charm after charm, on the book and it revealed nothing. No other words came. In the end, she been left lost and confused.

Harry had taken the book to Dumbledore upon his return, then the next day Dumbledore handed it back to him and said it was nothing more than a finely made diary and Harry ought to keep it. Hermione, bewildered by their Headmasters response, had refused to accept that the book was just a book. It had greeted him, after all.

Without any answers, he had simply just kept the book and it had on his bedside table until out of boredom he had begun doodling on the very same page the welcome had appeared on. When he paused a moment to sharpen his pencil, his drawing of Hedwig sunk into the page and vanished. A moment later the charcoal surfaced like water and read the words.

I didn't know you could draw, you're good.

The days that followed had been stressful. He had argued with Hermione and Ron non-stop on what the book could be. Ron had wondered if maybe the book was possessed by a ghoul who just liked Harry's drawing and wanted someone to talk to. Hermione bit her usually long nails, terrified that it could have been planted there by someone who wanted to hurt Harry. It could be dangerous, yet if Dumbledore himself had ensured the safety of the book, Harry did not believe it could do him harm. Hermione had insisted that Harry speak with the source of the words, to try and gather any information he could on whom it could be and Harry, when he could be bothered, had done so.

As time passed, Hermione had forgotten about the book, or at least cared less than she had at the beginning, but it appeared that her obsession had resurfaced.

"Ah, that book." Harry turned away and begun making his bed, but only to hide his face from her.

"Yes, I need it." She urged, "I think I've figured it what this is!" She cried and flopped onto the end of Ron's bed. Always' Ron's. "In our third year, I was in the library with Parvati doing studying for Lupin's class, and she pulled out a pink diary and begun writing in it. I remember now how the words kept disappearing and she told me that her great auntie had brought she and her sister a special gift from her visit home to India. A set of diaries, nick-named Doppel-diaries."

Harry frowned at the name and she rolled her eyes, "Yes – it's a silly name but it's just a nick-name. Anyway, they are said to be the same book spelled into two and act as a communication method between whoever owns one diary and whoever owns the other. Don't you see? You've found a doppel-diary and you were talking with whoever has the other half!"

"Hermione, I don't know how you'll take this but…I threw that diary away last week."

Hermione's rage was abundantly clear. Harry wondered if the heat he felt was coming from her, or the stove behind him. "You threw it away?" She sounded like she was waiting for him to tell her it was a joke, but it was not. "Harry!" She huffed loudly and gently pressed her head to his wooden bed-frame. "I've spent weeks researching ways to find out who is on the other end and you go and throw it away just when figure it out."

Harry shrugged again and reached into his wardrobe to pull out some fluffy socks. He hated being cold in bed. "Dumbledore said there was no dark magic bound to it, it was just a book. Why keep it?"

All these words, he knew, were angering Hermione. When he finally faced her, he gave her a look to say. What's done is done. He knew he was lucky she hadn't slapped him on the arm. She enjoyed to do that, he thought.

"You complete arse." And with that, she headed towards the door. He followed her to the door and watched as she stormed across towards her own room. "Goodnight." The moment she stepped out onto the stairwell, he closed the door and slumped against it. Bloody hell, Hermione, He thought. Hermione was one of his best friends. She – along with Ron – knew Harry more than anyone did and Harry found it incredibly difficult to lie to her. He crossed the space of the room and reached beneath his pillow, only to pull out the very same navy blue diary he had told her he'd thrown away. He ran his fingers over the smooth cover and toyed with the blue piece of ribbon that acted as a place holder.

As it turned out…Hermione had been telling him everything he already knew. He'd figured out, in his own, less complicated way, that the book acted as a communicative device. That he was talking to another living, breathing person. He hadn't known that these days they were simply called Doppel-diaries, but he'd known what he wrote in for hours on end each day. Harry had done what Hermione had told him and wrote to the unknown stranger receiving and replying to his scribbles. He had asked questions and answered the one's in return and Harry had discovered the owner of the other book in the pair belonged to a student attending Hogwarts's at that very moment.

At first that realization terrified him as this person could have very well been somehow he knew, someone who could spread the secrets he'd told should anything go awry between the two of them but as the days went on and the more they spoke, Harry began to trust in them.

Harry and this stranger – whom he had come to know as 'Ghost' Due to him originally wondering if the person on the other end was dead – spoke hours a day, for three whole weeks. In this time, they had come to discover a lot about one another, Ghost knew Harry was Harry as when he had asked who had been the one to find this copy, Harry had absent-mindedly told them. Ghost, on the other hand, was less interested in confessing his true identity. There were hundreds and hundreds of students at Hogwarts from each house, each year, and Harry had no idea who Ghost was. They talked from dawn till past midnight each day. They talked when they woke in the morning, as they dressed, at breakfast and in classes (when no one was looking) in-between classes, at Lunch and Dinner, getting ready for bed and finally, once in bed, they'd share stories until the moon was at its highest and sleep pulled them under.

He hated lying to Hermione and Ron, but Ghost had become something more than just a stranger beyond the pages. He'd become a friend. He'd become someone – something – more.

That was the thing. Harry Potter had more secrets than anyone could have ever guessed. Secrets no one would have guessed, yet the one that kept him awake at night, the one that made him tremble with a different kind of fear at wondering what his friends – Ron – might think if they found out. Harry was Gay. He'd figured it out last year, when he'd first kissed Cho Chang in the room of requirement. It had been wet and sloppy and – and nice. But there had been very little emotion to it at all. He'd enjoyed the kiss, but felt no…urges, for lack of better term, to kiss her again.

Then one day Harry ran into Oliver Wood, whom had returned to the grounds on Professor McGonagall's request to speak to members of the Gryffindor Team who had been slacking. Harry had demanded to know why he hadn't been told, being the team Captain, and Oliver confessed McGonagall didn't want Harry to have to worry about his players when he had so much on his plate to begin with. He was grateful for her thinking of him but it was his team. He promised to be a little harsher on them next time. He spoke to Oliver though, and thought at the time how happily surprised he had been to see an old, friendly and familiar face.

Well, familiar in a way. Oliver had gone on to join a professional Quidditch team and in doing so, had changed physically. He had been fit before but now, a grown man, his chest puffed out with muscle and his hair was shorter, curlier than Harry remembered. His eyes were wide and bright with excitement of his new career outside of Hogwarts, and when Oliver gave Harry that same old wink and half-smile, Harry found a strange feeling growing in his chest.

And, more embarrassingly, something growing elsewhere.

It was then that he first realized he was attracted to men, and not women. It hadn't been like in the movies he'd seen in the past, or even in books he'd read as the library, surprisingly, had a diverse LGBTQ collection. He just did not see it as that big a deal at first. He'd find himself looking at the other boys while getting dressed in the changing rooms in his peripheral vision. Risking glances their way in the showers, especially the older boys. Even Cormac McLaggen, who had been asking Harry about Hermione. Harry found himself focusing solely on Cormac's lips and how plump they were and he wondered how they tasted. When he was younger, he had thought McLaggen had been annoying and unattractive in general, but these days as a hard-working member of the Quidditch Team, his shoulders had broadened, his jaw had squared and he had a somewhat nice smile. Harry was attracted to him physically but he could never be with someone as self-centred as Cormac.

God, he hoped Ghost wasn't Cormac.

Yes, Harry was Gay and he knew – somehow he knew – Ghost was too. He opened the book to the saved, blank page and wrote. Hello, Ghost. You there?

He waited until the reply surfaced. I'm here. Over your tantrum, are you?

Yes, sorry, I was a prick this morning.

You were.

Harry rolled his eyes but found the corner of his mouth twitching up. That was another great thing about Ghost, he wasn't afraid to say the things that needed to be said. He wasn't afraid to telling Harry when he was being a prick and that morning, he had a nightmare and woke up in a foul mood and wrote some snappy things to Ghost. He didn't just tell Harry when he was out of check, he also spoke to Harry in a way others didn't. He asked the questions everyone else deemed too sensitive and risky to ask him. Questions like "Do you think Voldemort will win?" He wasn't afraid to say his name, or write it, in fact. "Do you ever feel bad for dragging your friends into all of this, how does it make you feel knowing their live are in danger all the time because of you? Do you dream? Or do you only have nightmares." These questions were questions that to an outsider, may come across as offensive, intrusive and personal, and in a way, they were but Harry answered them anyway. He enjoyed the fact that Ghost did not see Harry as fragile, as someone to be careful with.

Are you okay now?

Yeah Harry tugged on the cotton of his socks.

Good, you're ugly when you're miserable. You're cute when you smile.

Harry felt his cheeks flaming. His heart beat a little faster and he even looked around just to make sure no one could see him this way.

Nightmare? Ghost wrote.

Nightmare. Harry wrote back, thankfully he did not need to respond to that compliment.

I understand how you feel. How anyone can sleep around here, with everything that's going on, is beyond me.

Harry wondered if this was what texting was like. He had a phone back home – Dudley's old one – but he could not text anyone on it even if he wanted to. I think they jus-

The pencil in Harry's hand broke on the page, smudging the charcoal. Harry cursed under his breath and watched as the half-finished sentence vanished. Ghost replied only with a question mark. Harry leaned over to get a pencil sharpener. He could have used ink and quill but there would be no ink left in the castle.

Sorry, the pencil broke, He explained, I meant to say that I think most people just ignore what's going on.

The words disappeared, but before Ghost could reply he wrote some more. It would be a lot easier to speak with you in person, if I knew who you are?

It was a full minute before Ghost replied.

No. We can't. I've told you before, I'm not ready to talk to you in person, Harry. I don't want you to know who I am yet; I know it's unfair and cruel but I can't. I'm not ready to come out.

"I'm not ready to come out either" Harry realized he'd spoken aloud as if Ghost could hear him, then his stomach plummeted until he remembered he was alone in the room. He wrote what he'd just spoken.

Maybe someday soon, but for now you just need to know me as Ghost.

Harry and Ghost spoke for another hour and a half until he heard Seamus and Dean climbing the stairs, and from the sound of it, Ron was with them too. He must have joined them on the way up to their dorm. Harry panicked and then quickly drew a small lightning bolt. A symbol the two had decided to use whenever something came up and they couldn't talk anymore and didn't have time for a proper goodbye. The lightning bolt had been Ghost's idea, he enjoyed to joke about Harry's legendary scar.

"Alright Harry?" Dean asked as he burst through the door with the other two boys behind him. Harry had barely managed to hide the book in time. Harry took off his glasses and leaned back, acting as if he were about to fall asleep. Hoping the others would just follow on.

"Alright." He nodded back. Seamus did not acknowledge Harry, instead he was laughing about something with Dean. Ron walked over then and nodded a hello to Harry.

"You alright, mate?" Ron asked.

Harry shrugged, "Yeah, how was it?"

Ron went on to explain what Snape had him do, he had been on his hands and knees for hours cleaning potion stains off the potions room floor. Ron was outraged. "He's not even the bloody potions master anymore, he shouldn't be able to make me do that." Harry nodded in agreement, huffing and shaking his head when he needed to but he was trying not to imagine Ron on his hands and knees…

He didn't like Ron that way. He had to admit Ron was kind of hot in a strange, manly kind of way. Ron didn't have abs, he didn't even have a flat stomach, and he sweated more than usual and he farted in his sleep too. But Harry still found himself turned on by Ron's laughter, his eyes, his comforting nature and his smell. He smelt nice, Harry thought. He didn't like Ron in that way, and knew for a fact Ron was straight. (He could not stop going on about the things he did with Lavender Brown) but that didn't mean he couldn't think he was attractive.

When Neville returned, and the others were all in bed, Harry lay back in the darkness and thought about what Ghost looked like. He wondered if he was short or tall, dark or light haired, what did ghost smell like? Harry hoped he smelt nice, hoped he had a nice voice and pretty eyes too. He didn't care what the body was like, as long as he was healthy. The more Harry thought about it, he didn't care what Ghost looked like at all. He just wished he knew.

Before bed every night, Harry liked to list what he knew about Ghost's identity in hopes a face would suddenly come to mind.

He was a boy.

He was sixteen, like Harry.

He was a Hogwarts Student,

He was not a Gryffindor and Harry guessed not a Hufflepuff, he was too outspoken, and not a Slytherin either: Ghost liked him. Maybe a Ravenclaw.

He and Harry had seen each other in person before, and spoken, apparently.

But the newest fact, and most important, was he thought Harry was cute when he smiled.

Asher's Note:

Hello Everyone! Thank you for reading the first chapter of my new story! I thought this up an hour ago and decided to give it a go. Honestly, I don't know how this story will play out or how long it will go on for. This story is set sometime during Harry's sixth year at Hogwarts, and the story will focus on Harry coming to terms with his sexuality, coming out of the closet maybe, and his ongoing strange relationship with a mysterious person known only to him as 'Ghost' From the story's cover and description, I've already explained that Draco Malfoy is Ghost. But this was not meant to be a surprise anyway. I wonder where this story will go. Also, warning now, this story will most likely become very sexually graphic in later chapters and I advise you don't read unless you are at least sixteen years of age.

Thanks for reading, please review, bye!

~Asher~