A/N: So, 3 out here for all, erm, 32 of you who glanced at my last story. I hope you peeps in Korea got a kick out of it.
Here's a little one-shot I cooked up about a year ago, and since I posted one of my other simmering story's, I figured I might as well dust this one off and re-gift it to yall.
I hope You like it.
He walked slowly onto the pitch, holding his broom. There wasn't any hurry, he had no classes. Slowly, he got to the center of the pitch, looked around and inhaled, smelling the magically cut and grown grass. This is where it happens, he thought. This is sanctuary. The Dementors might have shattered any realistic thoughts of safety, but when he was on his broom, he didn't care. His thoughts were always pleasant, free.
Not once up there did he ever think of Voldemort, and only once had they ever strayed to distress. Up there was freedom, competition, rivalry.
Fun, even.
He ran a hand through his hair, not really caring that it stuck up at ridiculous angles. Did they have hats strong enough for the headwind? It wouldn't matter. His hair never obeyed anyway. No amount of Sleakeasy's could ever fix it. It would probably be straight up on his scalp from the wind anyway. He smiled, imagining the looks on their faces. They always managed to make a hair joke…
'Them'
Merlin, they wouldn't un-stick their faces. They probably deserved it after the years of pressure of death, but nowadays You need a ruddy crowbar to pry them off each other. Sometimes there's drool all over their-
He slapped himself. NO! He thought. Bad thoughts, bad thoughts, bad thoughts, bad thoughts...
SMACK! His broom collided with his face.
Ahhhh, peace. He jumped on his broom before thinking of anything else barf-worthy. The pitch was quiet today. Such an occurrence was usual, and welcome. The season was off, no need for people to be hanging around. Gaining altitude, he rolled lazily, not really caring about his form, just circling. He started to rise higher, accelerating upwards.
The Firebolt could do more, a lot more, but he didn't want to push it. Not yet.
This was meditation, after all. He smiled, better than occlumency, even. Higher, higher still, he could see his breath. The air bit at his face, daring him to travel farther, faster. He rose even higher, pushing it, stopping only when his glasses started to frost. The poles looked like match sticks, they were so small. He didn't want to have his lungs crumple, the pressure was high enough.
He sloth-rolled, leaving him hanging by his hands and feet. He let go with his hands, his feet keeping him from falling.
He smiled, and with the largest burst of adrenaline he'd had in a while, let go.
Time slowed, for the first millisecond of free fall there was silence, utter silence, then the wind started whistling past him, which, when he thought about it, was rather loud.
He started counting.
60, 59...
He remembered the equations she taught him, looking smug as she explained the ratios between falling and wind resistance, and told him how many seconds somebody who was spread eagled would take to reach the ground, factoring in terminal velocity and wind resistance. Then she realized. She thought he was going to kill himself.
Not ruddy likely, he thought, he'd already died once.
37...
He spread his arms and legs, watching the ground race up to meet him.
29... 25.…
On twelve he was supposed to accio.
Okay,
Now how to accio without a wand…
Simple enough right?
20,19..
What if it didn't work? What if he just kept falling, withought anyone to see, here the crunch noise he'd make, the irony of coming back from the dead only to comit a suicide of stupidity.
That would suck.
Ah well, he thought, I should've thought things through.
14,13,12.
With all his willpower, he called out in his mind
'Accio firebolt!'
11.
No fire bolt, but that was to be expected, she'd told him that, even though she didn't want him to do it. He'd needed this; he needed the rush, the buzz, needed it so very badly.
If Snape could see him now…
9.8.7...
He moved in the air quickly, orienting himself, glancing at the ground one last time as he got into position. The firebolt swooped from behind him, the seat roughly breaking the descent, not completely. Like a bad elevator, the firebolt bumped and jolted underneath but didn't throw him, kept him safe, like a good broom should. Still falling, not as roughly, but not as soft as he liked. This wasn't freedom, it was a dependency, pure and simple.
Falling…
Falling...
Falling...
Stop.
His feet grazed the ground, boots kissing the green grass gently, then he soared off, around the pitch, down to the locker room, and off the broom.
He grasped the wood of the broom and carried it through to the changing stalls. Perhaps dependency was okay, if that was the cost for freedom. Perhaps things needed to be sacrificed for a larger purpose…
He changed back into his robes, back into the same thing every day, back into the easy, boring life of not being killed over ridiculous prophecy's and social segregation…
He smiled a broad, happy smile.
Life was good.
Harry, fully rejuvenated, marched up to Hogwarts, ready to tackle another day of wonderful monotony.
AA/N: So, there it was. A little one shot I wanted to get off my hardrive. I hope you liked it, and hope you think I cheated you out of five minutes of your life.
Review, please, or else I don't get a saltine box for Christmas.