Disclaimer
The characters depicted herein are the sole property of J.K. Rowling. I am merely weaving my way through the magic that is Hogwarts, and make no money from this venture.
Author's Note:
This is part of a personal challenge I gave myself for the 20th anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. I hope you enjoy it!
The smell of dragon hide leather and wood polish never failed to make him relax. This was his element. His home.
He knew he wouldn't be playing much this year, too much was at stake. But he needed to relax, just for the night.
He needed to fly.
His broomstick gleamed, the words Nimbus 2001 glistening in golden script on the handle. Black gloves were on his hands, their leather soft and pliant, and he wore his green and silver Quidditch robes, because they were more comfortable to fly in than his school uniform.
Streaks of gold still colored the darkening sky when he made his way out of the dressing room. The grass was fragrant as he walked on it, and he breathed in its fresh smell, closing his eyes. Despite what he had told his friends, he was glad to be back at Hogwarts. Things were simpler here. Easier.
He walked to the middle of the field before mounting his broom. Taking a deep breath, he kicked off from the ground, feeling an immediate sense of exhilaration as he whipped through the cool air. His shoulders relaxed, as though he were leaving the weight behind him, on the ground.
The stars were coming out, and he flew higher, his blond hair tickling his face, the wind getting colder. He had been made for this, to fly. To play Quidditch.
If only Potter hadn't…
What? If only Potter – Harry – hadn't come into his life?
He looked down, just barely seeing an outline silhouetted against the light still coming from the dressing room.
It was Harry. He knew that without getting any closer to him.
Watching him.
Studying him?
He had spent his first five years at Hogwarts hating him. It had been jealousy, of course: Harry was universally perfect, even when he broke the rules. Even the cut across his forehead fascinated people.
All right, so it was a cool shape. And he wondered what it would feel like if he kissed it.
He nearly fell off his broom as that thought occurred to him. Doing an abrupt about-face, his heart hammering in his chest, he steadied himself.
And where exactly did that thought come from?
He licked his lips, deciding to fly lower and weaving his way through the golden hoops.
Harry's eyes were still on him. He saw the moonlight reflected on his glasses. It was faint, but there. Reminding him that he wasn't alone.
Reminding him about the scar that begged for a kiss.
Heat pooled in his stomach, his throat going dry. He looked up at the stars, something he normally loved doing when he was on his broom at night, but he could barely see them through the images in his mind.
An image of Harry refusing his friendship on their first night at Hogwarts. One of Harry as he dueled him in their second year.
Harry falling through the air as Dementors glided onto the Quidditch pitch.
Coming out of the Black Lake during the Triwizard Tournament, soaked to the skin as he paddled to the shore, his robes plastered to every inch of him.
He closed his eyes briefly, wanting to put the previous year out of his mind. None of it made any sense to him anymore.
He remembered seeing Harry's hand one evening, cut open and bleeding after a session with Umbridge.
Slowly, he circled the pitch again, keeping track of Harry from the corner of his eye until, suddenly, he landed in front of him.
To say that Harry was startled would have been an understatement. He hadn't expected him to see him well enough in the gloom.
"You need to stop watching me, Potter," he said in a husky voice.
Harry opened his mouth to say something – but was cut off by lips.
Soft. Warm. A hand cupping the back of his head.
A tongue slowly parting his lips, sending shocks up and down his spine.
He stepped away, blinking repeatedly, trying to clear his vision. "Draco," he whispered.
Draco looked at him for a second, taking a step forward, "Isn't that why you came here?"
No answer. Harry's eyes searched his, the light barely bright enough to allow him to do such a thing. Draco moved closer to him again, and Harry stepped back, his back hitting the dressing room wall.
For a moment, Draco seriously considered kissing him again. Why not? He had known for a while that he was attracted to boys as much as he was to girls. Getting involved with Harry, while more than a little unwise, would be perfect for…
Oh.
Right.
The expression on his face must have changed, because Harry gave a small gasp and raised his hand to touch his cheek. "Are you all right?" he asked.
Draco nodded. He swung the broom between his legs with one hand, taking Harry's fingers in the others, "Come fly with me tonight, Harry," he said softly. "Just tonight."
Just tonight. They could have just one night away from whatever responsibilities awaited them.
Harry came to sit behind him, wrapping both his arms around his waist and pressing his forehead to his shoulder. Draco briefly rubbed his knee, stunned at his own friendliness.
They took off into the night. Up there, it was just the two of them. No Gryffindors, no Slytherins, no wars to be fought. Just the two of them. Together.
Would they go back to being indifferent towards each other once they landed? Would they tell their friends about this little escapade into the sky? Would they hold hands under the tables in class?
No, his mind snapped automatically. I don't hold hands.
But maybe this time, he would.
The End