Disclaimer: All characters and places belong to JK Rowling.
A/N: Written for Lady's Random Pairing (Two) Hour Challenge. :) 2500 words in 2 hours!
The Start of Something Wonderful
Harry sighs to himself, twirling a quill between his fingers. He's trying hard to ignore the excited whispers and anxious glances being thrown at him across the common room by the gaggle of first years that always seem to show up in a cluster whenever he spends too long in one place. He's learnt by this point that it's best to not indulge them; avoidance is futile, and paying them any attention at all just results in an increase in their delight at seeing him eat his breakfast, do his homework, or polish his broom.
He'd decided a few months ago to return to Hogwarts for the current term in order to properly finish his NEWTs. He'd thought it would be a good way to get out of the spotlight for a bit, to lie low while all the post-war excitement died down, but…nothing really seems the same anymore. The corridors seem emptier, haunted with memories and the ghost of a life that Harry honestly feels as though he left behind years ago. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea.
It just feels so odd to be sitting here, bathed in the early autumn sunlight that's streaming in through the window, studying Potions. He's reminded of where he was this time last year, where he was just a few short months ago, and it's hard to reconcile that with…this. Well-fed, freshly bathed, safe and secure. Nothing like it had been. Everything's so much better now, but he still feels as though he's missing something.
He gives up on his notes and pulls his glasses off his face, dragging a hand through his hair as he slumps back in his armchair, feet stretched in front of him. He glances around the common room, consciously avoiding the eyes of the younger students. The older ones are huddled in smaller groups, somehow looking as though they've aged far too much since Harry was last at school. He knows most of them by name; a few, though, like the second years that had started up last year, he's hardly ever spoken to. They all know him, of course, he thinks. The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, and these days, they're calling him the Saviour, which is even worse.
Harry's eyes trail toward the window, looking outside. He's gazing absently down at the Quidditch pitch, his mind filled with the echoes of screaming, happy supporters, all waving flags and banners as he caught Snitch after Snitch. Maybe it's because he's so caught up in his own head, getting lost in his memories, but it takes him a moment to realise that there's someone flying around the goalposts. The person, whoever it is, is looping in and out of the hoops at an impressive speed, and Harry watches as he executes a rather spectacular dive.
Curiosity piqued, he sits up a bit straighter in his chair, watching. Who at Hogwarts can even fly that well, he wonders. He wracks his brain, going over each house's roster. He knows it's not any of the Gryffindors; the entire team is currently scattered around the common room. Malfoy could probably do most of those moves, he thinks, but then stops himself. Malfoy isn't even in the country right now, last he'd heard. Much less flying around the pitch at school. So who could it be?
Almost without thinking, he rises from his seat and climbs the steps to his dormitory. He pushes open the door and picks over the mess left by one of his roommates. He quickly grabs the new Firebolt that he'd bought before starting school and dashes back down the steps.
"I'm going to go fly for a bit," he tells Ron and Hermione distractedly when he comes back into the common room.
Hermione nods, waving a hand at him without even glancing up from the heavy book that's perched in her lap, and Ron rolls his eyes at her before looking to Harry.
"Want me to come with?" he asks. "It's been a while since I was out there."
Harry, eyes still on the mysterious flyer in the distance, shakes his head. "No, that's fine," he says absently, shouldering his broom. "I think I just need a bit of time to myself."
Ron has barely nodded and started back to his work before Harry's climbing out of the portrait hole, an excited smile spreading across his face. He hasn't flown his new broom much since he got it; part of him, he supposes, has still been holding on to the old one, desperately clinging to the last piece of Sirius. Harry shakes himself, pushing that thought to the back of his mind. He doesn't want to worry about any of that right now. He just wants to fly his broom and forget for a little while, wants to feel like a normal boy for once.
He doesn't even bother walking to the pitch; instead, he mounts his broom and kicks off almost as soon as he's left the castle doors. The feeling is incredible, almost as good as the first time he ever rode a broom. He's been plagued with so much for so long that lately, he's begun to feel as though he wouldn't ever get this back. But now, as he soars low over the greenhouses, it's as though he's left all his worries on the ground behind him, all that pain and loss and the crushing sense of guilt…it's just gone. His hair whips about his head as the broom flies at top speed toward the pitch, and he pulls himself to a halt when he reaches the stands.
He's so surprised at who he finds there that he just sort of hangs in midair, watching disbelievingly. Theodore Nott is flying round the goalposts at a leisurely pace, though there's no mistaking the skill in his flying. He twists and turns, rolling over a few times, thin body leaning to counteract the motion of his broom. It takes a moment for him to catch sight of Harry, and when he does, he nearly falls out of the air.
"Potter," he says stiffly once he's regained his composure, and Harry can hear a rather resigned tone in his voice, as though he thinks he's about to be kicked off the pitch. "What are you doing here?"
Harry opens his mouth to speak, but then closes it again, doing some rather quick thinking. He's never really spoken to the boy, doesn't actually know that much about him. Only that his father…but Harry has learnt the hard way over the past year that people are not exact copies of their parents. They have their own personalities, make their own decisions.
He knows Nott's a Slytherin, but for some reason…Harry's not sure, but he feels as though that shouldn't be as big of a distinction anymore. It's something that's actually rather gotten on his nerves since he's been back at Hogwarts. The complete shutting-out of the members of Slytherin house is more than just a bit unfair. Not all of them had done horrible things during the war; most of them hadn't even taken sides, and, honestly, a few of them had even fought to defend the castle. No, maybe it's time to finally lay aside all his old prejudices. Maybe this is a chance for him to try to be a better person.
"I saw you from the window," Harry says, motioning toward the castle behind him. "You looked like an incredible flier, even from there." There's a rather uncomfortable pause, and Harry urges his broom forward a bit, pulling up close enough to Nott that they can actually make eye contact. "Erm…I didn't know you could fly."
Nott bites at his lip a bit, nodding his head awkwardly. "Yeah, I've always loved it," he says, and Harry notices that his voice is rather soft now that the initial shock of their meeting has passed. He's always thought of the other boy as a bit shy, but now that Harry's willing to pay closer attention, he notes something…a different tone to his voice. Kindness? Nott glances around the empty stadium. "Never really was one for sport, though. Or crowds. I like to keep to myself mostly."
Harry smiles at him, one corner of his mouth quirking up without him telling it to. "Have you ever played?" he asks, his voice friendly. He's suddenly feeling curious about the other boy. Now that he's realised he never really knew him at all, it seems as though they may have a chance at getting on after all.
Nott shrugs and pulls his broom a bit higher in the air. "I'm a fair chaser, I suppose," he says in that quiet, steady voice of his. He glances down at Harry, almost self consciously. "Nothing like you, though."
Harry raises an eyebrow at him, fighting the urge to fly up to meet Nott where the other boy is hovering just above him. "Why don't we play? I've never played chaser before," he asks, desperately hoping without really knowing why that Nott will say yes. "Chaser against chaser, one on one. Just for fun."
Nott's face pulls into a frown. "Fun?" he asks sceptically. "Us?"
Harry rolls his eyes and gives in to the urge. He flies up to meet Nott, hovering close enough that their knees knock together in the air. "Yeah, us," he says, still smiling. "Why not? No titles, no history between us. Just two blokes playing a bit of Quidditch."
He watches as Nott stares at him, calculating. The other boy seems to be working something out in his head, and Harry can practically see the wheels turning behind his eyes. Nott apparently finds what he's looking for, though, because he sticks a hand out toward Harry suddenly, offering a shake.
"Fine," he says. "In that case, let's do this properly, shall we? My name is Theo. And you are?"
Harry fights back a smile, trying hard to school his face into something that passes for serious. "Harry. It's nice to meet you," he says, his lips twitching as he grasps Theo's hand in his.
They shake for a rather long moment, and Harry notices that the hand under his is calloused and strong. Long fingers brush across his wrist for a brief second before they pull away from each other. Harry isn't sure why exactly he goes red as Theo flies toward the changing rooms to get a Quaffle. He pulls his broom around to face in the opposite direction, squinting in the afternoon sunlight that's just beginning to set over the mountains in the distance.
They've probably got a good hour until darkness really sets in, and Harry feels a sudden, inexplicable excitement curling in the pit of his stomach. He feels like this might actually be the start of something. Maybe they'll actually be able to lay aside their differences and start to mend the bridge between their two houses at last. He's glad that he chanced a glance out the window up in the common room, glad that he decided to make the trip out here. He's not quite sure why, but he feels like this could be a good thing. Maybe they were never all that different, after all.
"Potter!" Theo calls from the other end of the pitch as he comes back with the red ball clutched tight under his arm. "Let's tip off." Harry flies up to meet him, hovering high above the centre of the pitch. "Three, two, one," he counts down, then heaves his arm back and throws the ball as high as he can.
They both race up to meet it, Harry's fingers grasping at thin air as it's snatched out of his reach. The ball is much larger than what he's used to, and Nott had snagged it right from in front of him, tucking it under his arm neatly.
"This isn't seeking, Potter," Theo calls over his shoulder, smiling as he races toward the goal posts at the opposite end of the field. "Can you keep up?"
Harry flattens himself to the handle of his broom, urging it forward. He catches up to the other boy just before he reaches the hoops and dodges in front of him. Theo had already thrown the Quaffle, though, and it catches Harry in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him temporarily as he shoots back, one hand grasping at the ball, the other gripping his broom handle. He angles upward and shoots over Theo, back toward the other end, putting on an impressive bit of speed. He throws the Quaffle and scores before dipping back down to catch it again. He flies a loop around the hoops, waiting for Theo to catch up, and they tip off again.
It continues on for quite a while, the two of them playing well into dusk. Finally, once the dark has settled in enough that they can't see the Quaffle or the hoops well enough to keep playing, they fly back toward the ground and tumble off their brooms. Harry flops back onto the grass, feeling very windswept and a bit stiff from so much time in the air. His heart is pounding, a light sheen of sweat across his skin. The ghost of sunlight has left the grass underneath him warm, and Harry sighs happily. He stares up at the emerging stars in the sky above him as Nott drops down to sit in the grass next to him.
Harry catches his breath slowly and begins to laugh without really knowing why, one hand pressed against his stomach. Theo glances down at him, smiling as he picks at the grass a bit, elbows resting on his knees. As his laughter dies down, Harry lets his head roll over so that he's staring up at the other boy. He can just barely make out his features in the quickly fading light.
"You're not so bad, you know that?" he asks, a grin still playing across his face.
Theo tosses the blades of grass back to the ground and rolls his eyes. "Oh, that's nice," he says sarcastically, laughing a bit.
They're silent for a long while after that, just comfortable. The hand that Harry had clutched at his stomach with is now tracing idle patterns into the skin there, his thoughts drifting. His heart beats a slow, steady rhythm in his chest, and he feels lazy and content right now, like there's absolutely nothing that could make him want to get up. Theo lies back into the grass next to him, their heads knocking together lightly.
"You're not too bad yourself, I suppose," he says finally, voice very quiet as he nudges his elbow into Harry's arm.
Harry feels a sudden, inexplicable warming in his heart, and he grins stupidly wide. His head is still turned to stare at Theo, their heads just inches apart on the grass. Neither makes a move to get any closer, and they stay there until the dark has properly set in, Harry think all the while that this could be the start of something wonderful.