No regrets, just rebirth
move forward, and ignite

-

Harry really wished he had never seen Malfoy naked after Quidditch practice that day.

It was only a brief glimpse, from behind, but the image was seared into his mind, appearing behind his eyelids whenever he closed his eyes. The long, lean curve of his back. The sensual dimples just above his ass. The smooth, flawless white skin. The slightly girlish curve of his hips. But mostly, the high-set, heart-shaped bubbled ass cheeks that made him want to shove Malfoy over the nearest available surface and start fucking.

Harry looked away from the pale, pointed face across the Great Hall (which was really more delicately pretty than simply pointed, he'd begun to think), only to find Hermione staring at him with that intense look she'd been wearing recently, as if he was one of the Daily Prophet's more perplexing Hex Hasher puzzles. He turned awkwardly back to his kippers, rather wishing the blood that had rushed to his cock at the memory of Malfoy naked had not changed course directly for his face.

"You know, Harry," came Hermione's thoughtful tone from beside him, "if you ever want to tell me anything, I'm here for you, right?"

"'Course, 'Mione," he mumbled around a mouthful, not looking her in the face.

He felt more than saw her leaning closer to him, but when she whispered the next part in his ear, he could practically feel the heat from her lips. "Although I do wish you had better taste in men."

Harry stiffened with shock, whipping his head around. Hermione, from all outward appearances, seemed nonchalantly focused on her food, except for the tiny smile that played around her lips.

He should have known. Bloody smartest witch of their generation. If there was ever a mystery Hermione couldn't solve, they had yet to find it. Harry was not looking forward to their inevitable conversation later.

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With the Dark Lord crushed, dead, and gone, and all his Death Eaters imprisoned or scattered in hidden pockets throughout Europe, this had been the quietest year at Hogwarts anyone could remember. And with the exception of his sudden interest in all things Malfoy, the only thing bothering Harry these days was the strange tingling that had begun two weeks ago. It was not constant, but raced along his skin in small jolts whenever he performed a spell. After Madam Pomfrey had pronounced him in perfect health, he had decided to ignore the tingling in favor of concentrating on making the spells do what he wanted. They had begun to go slightly awry otherwise, like in last Wednesday's double Transfiguration with the Slytherins. Instead of turning Neville's shoe into a waterproof rain boot, he had transformed his entire foot into a huge, shrieking half-dove, half-lizard thing, that had soared around the room with Neville still attached and flopping up and down behind it. He still remembered the way Malfoy's face had lit up with laughter as a severely flustered McGonagall jogged around trying to trap the thing for long enough to Transfigure it back to normal.

Between that and other small disturbances, he'd lost almost one hundred points for Gryffindor this week, and he thought Hermione was on the verge of going to the library to research his strange lack of control over his magic. Quidditch, at least, was going smoothly, with the eighth years forming an almost unstoppable team, Malfoy having elected to play Chaser instead of competing with Harry for the Seeker position. Quite gentlemanly, actually, if you discounted his acerbic comments about how favoritism would never let a Malfoy be chosen over "Perfect bloody Potter." Hence the first practice last night, that had left Harry exhausted for all of five minutes, until the sight of Malfoy's naked backside sent all feelings other than overpowering lust straight out of his head.

His mind was still on Malfoy, not on the problems with his magic, when he returned to the Gryffindor common room after Advanced Defense. That was why at first he was flabbergasted that Hermione would be talking about THAT with him.

"Errr... come again?"

Hermione huffed irritably. "I said, 'When you're doing your spellwork, does it feel like you're pushing your magic through a really tight hole?'"

He had to pause and think again, as his mind was still on the tight hole bit. Damn, his hormones were really going crazy these days, too. "A bit, I guess."

"Well, what does it feel like?" She had her quill poised above a long scroll that looked half-full with notes already, probably on whatever his "condition" might be. Besides the fact that I've got a crush on Malfoy and am going entirely bloody mental? The books around her had titles like Wild Magic: Fact and Fiction, Channeling the Flow: A Wizard's Guide to his Inner Merlin, and Why Won't my Bloody Wand Work?

Harry thought for a moment, scratching absently at his wrist, where the worst of the tingles still lingered. "I guess it feels like... I dunno. Like... like I'm trying to fire a cannon to blow out a candle. If I don't hit the flame just right, the whole candle just explodes. Like in Charms yesterday." He grimaced, and noticed Hermione doing the same. Flitwick still hadn't managed to fully reconstruct his classroom wall.

Hermione chewed her lip, looking pensive. "Harry, remember when I turned seventeen?"

Harry nodded. He could remember it well. Hermione had gone to sleep feeling achy and chilled, had slept for fifteen hours, and had woken up as one of the strongest witches in the school. But her magic had been erratic for all of a few hours until she adjusted to her new power levels. Every wizard's seventeenth birthday brought some type of change, a boost in power or a shift in magic to an adult state, but it always took a different form. Harry still remembered the tiny flash of jealousy that he had felt after her power surge, when his own magic remained entirely unchanged after his own seventeenth birthday.

"Well, I've been reading," she started, choosing her words carefully, "and it seems like sometimes, if a wizard is under a large amount of stress, that his or her magical development can sometimes be... delayed. Especially if the wizard has low self-esteem, is in denial about a part of him- or herself, or if he or she is kept repressed by parents or society." She sounded like she was quoting from one of her books, which she probably was. Harry's mind raced.

"So... what? You think I am going through my magical development now? But I've had tingles for weeks!"

"I know," she sighed and looked down at one of the tomes on her lap. "But that's the only part I can't figure out! It makes so much sense, otherwise! You turned seventeen in the middle of the war, as we were being attacked by Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and you've only just seemed to realize that -" she lowered her voice dramatically, "- you like boys." She gave him a stern look as he hurriedly glanced around to see who was listening.

"Now," she continued, "it's no difference to me if you like broomsticks better than breasts -"

"Hermione!" he gasped, scandalized. She paid him no attention.

"But Malfoy, Harry? You can do so much better. What about Justin or maybe Seamus?"

He made a face. "Justin? Hermione, he already looks at me with cow eyes in every class we have together!" Harry might be dense sometimes, but he could see that much. "I don't want someone who worships the ground I walk on! And Seamus is like a brother!" A hot brother, maybe, but still a brother. "And I think he likes bints more than blokes, anyway."

"Fine. Regardless, I think these tingles might be related to you finally accepting that you have an attraction to the same sex, in combination with the lack of stress from battling an evil dark lord."

"So you're saying I'm in wizard puberty right now?"

"Who's in puberty?" asked Ron, plopping himself down next to Hermione and laying an arm around her shoulders. She hissed as she had to juggle her inkwell to keep it from spilling over her notes. "Sorry, 'Mione," he said, pecking her on the cheek. She softened immediately.

Harry didn't know whether he wanted to vomit or make cooing noises at their mushiness.

"Harry might be."

Ron's brow furrowed. "'Cause of the tingling, mate?"

Harry nodded. "Hermione thinks my magic might be finally... stretching out, or something."

"That, and the fact that he -" she swallowed, cutting herself off at Harry's murderous look. "That he's having trouble focusing his spells with his wand," she amended quickly.

Ron nodded sagely, seeming to miss the hesitation. "Could be, mate. All that business with You Know Who could set anyone back a bit. Maybe you'll be as powerful as our 'Mione when it's all over." He grinned at her, eyes shining, and she flushed and leaned further into his embrace. Harry was leaning more towards vomiting territory by the second. He stood abruptly.

"Well, thanks for looking it up, anyway. I think I'll go out for a kip and clear my head."

His two friends gave half-hearted goodbyes, with Hermione giving only a weak admonishment for how close it was to curfew, before becoming absorbed in each other again. Harry imagined her inkwell tipping over and staining both their trousers, and felt a little better.

The castle was quiet this close to curfew, with only a few students rushing back to their dorms. Harry headed towards the astronomy tower, the invisibility cloak sliding airily against his skin. He stepped softly, not wanting to risk casting Muffliato on his feet. With his luck, he'd Vanish his own feet off instead. He snorted softly at the thought of the headlines that would follow: "Boy Who Lived Dies of Blood Loss. Feet Remain Missing."

Ten minutes later he was shuffling slowly up the last of the stairs to the landing on the astronomy tower, trying valiantly to control his huffing and puffing so that if anyone else was up here, they would not discover his presence. He may have been in shape from Quidditch, but that didn't mean climbing 500 stairs was easy. He paused 2 steps before the top, breathing deeply and silently through his mouth, listening carefully for any signs of activity; the astronomy tower still held its reputation as the de facto place for couples to meet surreptitiously after hours. Tonight, though, it seemed he was alone.

He stepped onto the landing, glancing around at the 6 telescopes arranged at roughly hexagonal points among the crenellations, and sighed. The wind caught his cloak in a chilly dance around his feet, but he dared not try a Warming Charm. He took out his wand and stared at the holly shaft, a dark slash against his lighter palm. Moonlight cast a slightly silver glow over everything, making the wood gleam like the polished handle of his Firebolt. He remembered first picking up the wand in Ollivanders, seven long years ago, and the friendly heat that spread from the wood into his palm, making him feel immediately connected to it in a way he would never have expected to feel about an inanimate object. This was the wand that had seen him through countless battles, had never failed him. It was the twin to Voldemort's, and the wand that had finally cast the Dark Lord from this world.

He wrapped his fingers slowly around the wood shaft, feeling the smooth, worn grip – and nothing else. He strained to feel the warmth, the connection with the wood which he had always taken for granted.

Nothing. It lay in his palm like any stranger's wand.

Harry sighed again, shoving the length of holly back into his pocket and scratching the back of his neck absently. He turned to look out over the battlements, surveying the moonwashed landscape that had been his home for so many years. He wondered what he would do without the place, when he was finally beyond these walls and living what everyone supposed would be a calm, peaceful life. The thing was, Harry didn't know if he could handle a life of continuous peace and calm. Becoming an Auror might be the best of the career options available to him, but after witnessing the Ministry's hypocrisy over the years and its utter impotence in the face of Voldemort, not to mention the wizarding world's tendency to elect vapid, ridiculous ministers, Harry had no desire to work for the institution.

We wandered closer to the short stone walls that were the only barrier between him and a an assured drop to his death on the ramparts far below. He wondered how it would feel, to fall against the wind, knowing what the end of his fall would bring. No, he could not really contemplate suicide with any seriousness. He wanted to figure himself out: both his magic, and this attraction to Draco Malfoy. Especially this attraction to Draco Malfoy. At least a mystery could keep him occupied for a time.

But he could take a look over the edge, right? See what that fantastic drop would look like?

He slowly leaned over, palms moving to rest his weight against the stones, upper body leaning out over the safety of the wall.

And that's when several things happened at once.

A scuffing sound came from the stairs behind him, causing him to try and whirl around midway through leaning over, putting all his weight onto his left hand for support. The stone shifted precariously, and then gave way altogether, just as he saw the pale face of none other than Draco Malfoy emerging from the stairwell. And the wind shifted, tossing his cloak as he spun, knocking his hood off and tangling the mass of the cloak around his arms and torso. He flailed wildly as he lost his balance, both mental and physical, and felt himself start to fall. His knees impacted with the corner of the stone, his feet were lifting off the ground, and he was tipping, oh so slowly, over the wall. He felt as if he were observing himself in slow motion from beyond his body, seeing himself flail cloak-covered arms as he finally toppled. It all happened in the space of a moment, but in that second he could see the shock registering on Malfoy's face, see him start to raise his arm in slow motion, as if to arrest Harry's fall.

Then he was over the wall.

Consciousness of his plight slammed back into him as his mind caught up with the movement of his body, beginning to plummet down from the ramparts of the tower. Cold wind hurtled by his face, whipping his cloak around him as he struggled to reach his wand. He NEEDED to reach his wand. Desperation gave him strength, but he couldn't get through the wrapped material of his cloak, clawing in vain at the shimmery fabric. With each second, the stone below loomed closer, and his body hurtled ever faster.

As his fingers fumbled and slipped against his tangled cloak, he thought of Ron and Hermione, of Draco Malfoy standing on the tower, and absurdly of Severus Snape, laughing in the afterlife at the pathetic way Harry had died. One thought surfaced in his mind above the others, one single goal that eclipsed everything else.

I can't die like this.

I WON'T BLOODY DIE LIKE THIS.

A white light shattered the night sky, and it felt like his eardrums burst as a tremendous BOOM shook the air. Heat slammed into his body like a sledge hammer, and his vision filled with a shimmering haze as his body seemed to fill with fire and strength. His limbs jerked viciously as his flight was arrested, and he shouted in pain. He could vaguely see the castle walls around him through a veil of light, and below him, the castle's lower battlements. Battlements that were not looming closer with every second.

He had stopped.

He caught his breath, wondering what in the hell had just happened, and that's when he realized he was floating in the air. He looked up through the haze of light, squinting, and saw shimmering wings stretching up and away from his body.

Fear kept him from marveling about that too much at the moment. With death seeming slightly less imminent, his goal changed, and he willed the flame that filled his body to carry him up, back to the tower above. The light shifted, glimmering and swirling around him, and his body rocketed like a slingshot back up towards the sky. The breath left Harry's lungs for the second time, and he barely had time to think SLOWER before he was tumbling painfully over the wall onto the landing that he had fallen from only seconds before.

He lay on his back as the light slowly faded around him, gasping for air, his head pounding like a drum. He felt half-blinded from the light, and his body ached like he'd been Crucioed, but the feel of the stone, so cool and solid under his body, was about the best thing he had ever felt.

Consciousness slowly began slipping away from him with as the light around him began to fade. A pale face emerged above him, becoming clearer against the reemerging darkness of the sky. Malfoy, he vaguely remembered. His mouth was moving, but Harry couldn't hear anything beyond a tinny ringing in his ears. His last waking thought was, I hope he doesn't toss me back over the edge.

The world faded to black.

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TBC