Harry sat down on his Firebolt and kicked his heel against the ground. Stomach sommer-saulting with the sudden jolt, he was speeding at 70 in less than three seconds' ticks, wrapping around East Wing's spires as he climbed.
He loved to ride.
Days like these, he needed to ride. It was the only thing that cleared his mind. Well, not the only thing; but Dumbledore was cracking down on herb-burning and besides, he wanted all his wits for tonight. Finally, just him and Hermione, alone, without that red-headed third-wheel whining along.
He rolled over in the air, exhilarated, dipping back down as the cavern yawned below him. The green and granite rush of Hogwarts' high-valley hills vanished abruptly, a slender line of river far below glowing white in the sun's reflection.
He pulled up the front of his Firebolt, rocketing once more in the sky, eventually slowing to a halt as he reached his final altitude. Any higher and the air was too thin to breath.
This was where he was home.
Hah! Harry scowled. Like I've ever had a home. There was those pricks the Dursleys-they stuck me in that closet for hell's sake. He had started naming the spiders then, locked up in the stairwell on 4 Privet Drive, his only friends in that dimness a couple of daddy long-legs he came to know as Ted and James.
And now this shit with Mrs. Honeysuckle.
But that didn't matter now. He hung there in the sky, poised, no longer soaring and not yet falling; just there, up high, balanced somewhere between heaven and earth. For that extended moment before the fall, he felt...peace. He felt like he belonged.
Of course the fall was fun, too.
It'd become sort of a game, before Ron had gotten too queasy on him, too scared and worried about getting hurt, before Ron quit riding with him and started threatening to tell. But it was fun enough alone: how long could you free fall before pulling up on your broom?
The ground was yet far away, the river that cut through the canyon like a small crack in a wall, and Harry could even see the gray water of the English Channel on the horizon. He loved the rush of air and adrenaline, his hair whipping against his cheeks as he tumbled up and around and around and down, tumbling, falling, tumbling towards the ground.
There came a point where the ground started rushing towards you. It was a dangerous point, because up high, it seemed so slow before—whoosh-the earth rushed from below to swallow you.
This was the point Harry played with; the difference between winning and losing. Which, Ron whined, was fast becoming the difference between life and death.
Not even when he was alone with Hermione did he feel more alive. His heart pushed against his chest, threatened to explode, his knuckles white as they held the stick through the jolting of gravity. And still he held.
Just a moment longer.
It was too long, Harry realized in terror, throwing his arms almost over his head as he pulled up on the Firebolt in a desperate attempt to avoid crashing into the river. It was too late. The river jumped up to swallow him. Still he pulled up, up, closing his eyes now as the water reached for him...
He felt a sting on his shins, first hot and then cool, and then a rush of wind against his face. Water dripped from the end of broom as he realized, triumphantly, he had done it!
"WHOOOOHEEEEE!"
A cluster of black-robed apprentices cheered from a clearing in a nearby cliff, hooping and hollering and jumping.
After a few victory roll-overs, Harry curved back around, grazing the heads of his audience before zooming between the trees of the forest. He flung his broom rapidly to the side as if he were sweeping the floor (the Clean Break, he'd named the move), his sudden brake sending bark, dirt, and pine needles scattering in the air. Swinging around with the momentum, Harry rolled off his broom and bowed to his approaching audience.
"Impressive, Potter." Draco Malfoy came striding in front of the group, a pursed smirk on his lips as he clapped his hands. "Quite impressive. There's no possible way to beat your mark, so I guess your free to take from our little circle." Malfoy signaled at his friends Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe with the bob of his head.
Harry laughed inside. That prick Malfoy could barely conceal his relief. It was he who had challenged Harry to the game today, after the Punched Cider had let slip what Harry did alone in his free time.
Vincent Crabbe, the fat one, crossed his arms over his wide girth, and frowned, refusing to move. "I don't want to share with him. I mean, come on Draco, it's Potter."
"Oh, that's not very nice Vincent. Potter here's turned over a new leaf." Draco smiled wickedly at Harry. "Isn't that right, Harry?"
"I just want to burn this new leaf." Gregory Goyle chuckled, his eyes already bloodshot. "Whoosh. Whoosh. That was so...cool, man. Real cool, Potter. That looks like fuuuunnn."
The rest of the group circled behind Draco; most of them Harry didn't recognize, aside from the fact that they were all Slytherin. A tall one with a red-goatee, must have been like a sixth or seven year, reached into his long-cuffed sleeve and pulled out a wrapped bundle of some sort.
Draco sat down on a fallen log, the others circling around him in the shade. The tall Slytherin unwrapped the cloth on the ground in front of Draco, the others stretching for a look. Vincent Crabbe rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
It was a pile of exquisite Green-Leaf. Little white flakes like sugar twinkled inside; Harry had never seen a finer crop.
"Woah." Harry joined the others in silent appreciation of what lay glistening on the unrolled cloth. "That's bloody well beautiful. But...man, I can't burn right now. I mean, Dumbledore's on the bloody prowl. You heard his announcement on Monday-"
"It was your idea, Potter," It was the red-goateed one. He looked puzzled. "Just cast that little spell of yours again-poof-there goes the smell, no one can tell you just burned-"
"I can't cast any spells right now-"
"And I've got something I came up with in Potions and Ointments," said a short, probably third-year with green eyes, pulling a small, plastic vial out of his robe's inner-pocket. "Dumbledore and GroundsKeep will never suspect: It makes your eyes as white as fresh-fallen snow. Ha, ha! Gregory could really use some right-"
"-You can't cast any spells right now?" Draco narrowed his eyes at Harry, "And why not, Potter?"
Harry didn't want Malfoy to know about his little discussions with Mrs. Honeysuckle. Bloody hell, he didn't want anyone to find out; only losers and white-trash went to the "muggle building behind the tower". But if Draco Malfoy, of all the name-smearers at Hogwarts, got a hold of that information... "I just can't, OK, Malfoy? I won the bet, didn't I? Maybe I just don't want to burn Green-Leaf in the middle of the day-"
The red-goateed sixth-year blew his lips. "Yeah right, Potter. You don't want to burn. And I was born to a pack of magical muggles in the Alaskan wilderness-"
"I'm sorry, you are?" Harry was ready to slug that bastard, if only because his red-goatee reminded Harry of what Ron would look like in a few years. It was the problem of being a star around campus: everyone acted so familiar with you, acting like since they knew your reputation so well, they knew you.
"Freddy. Freddy Foxwell." He furrowed his red-eyebrows. "Surely you've heard of the Foxwells? Foxwell financial? Every stone in Hogwarts was practically mortared in place from our loans."
"Of course he knows the Foxwells, Freddy." Malfoy smiled at Harry wickedly, showing that he suspected Harry knew nothing at all about the Foxwells.
"I heard Potter here's got a date with Hermione tonight." It was that fat bastard Vincent who said it. His eyes wrinkled when he smiled, swallowed by his swollen cheeks. "Maybe that's why he don't want to burn no leaf right now."
"Yeah," If they already knew about it, so be it. It kept them from asking more questions that might uncover Mrs. Honeysuckle, "yeah, that's right. And?"
Another of the group, another older year by the looks of him, whistled. "Damn, Potter. I was wondering when you were gonna try and tap that-"
"Bugger off, you slime-"
"-You're not gonna go out like that, are you?" Malfoy laughed. "You've taken a look in the mirror lately, Potter? You've got a zit the size of Denmark and the color of an Indian smack-dab in the middle of your head."
"Expecto Fungoto," Freddy Foxwell dabbed his wand on Harry's forehead. He leaned in and squinted his eyes, looking like an idiot squirrel. "I don't get it, it's still there."
Harry batted the wand off his face as if it were an annoying fly. "It's an enchanted blemish, you idiot. You think I didn't try that first?" Harry suddenly had an idea. "Look: I won our bet from last night, Malfoy. If you want to honor it, how about you find me a potion or something for this bastard on my forehead?"
"Sure, Potter. Let me just reach in my sleeve and pull it out." Draco shook his head petulantly. "I carry anti-blemish cream on me all the time-"
"I mean later. Sooner, I mean," Harry batted his head. "Before tonight, I mean. We can meet in a couple hours? Come on, Malfoy, I know you got connections."
"Just go to the library!" It was the same third-year with the eye-cleaner. Bloody third-years, always trying to impress their superiors! "You can find a spell in a book, I'm sure-"
"No spells!" Harry sighed. "No spells, Ok? Just...Can you do it or not Malfoy? You got something to help or what?"
"Sure, Potter." Draco narrowed his eyes once more. "I can help. Just meet me in front of Slytherin hall after your last class."
Harry nodded his head. He had disliked Draco since their first meeting, and had hated him until recently, finding the entire House Slytherin a bunch of weak, elitist pricks with a silver spoon plugging their butts. But now...Slytherin House knew how to party, brewed a wicked batch of Punched Cider, and apparently had perfected the art of harvesting Green-Leaf. Draco was turning out to be an all right bloke, after all, once one realized you just couldn't trust him.
Harry shook his head as he went back to his broom. Crazy how much things can change. Crazy how much people can change. As he straddled his Firebolt, he thought about Ron again. He thought about how he was gonna get back at him. Without magic.
"Wait! You seriously not gonna burn?," Gregory shouted at Harry, "Freddy can cast the OdorDestroyer, if that's what you're worried about. The evening is hours away yet. You're not just gonna go are you? Did you see this stuff?"
Yeah, Harry placed his broom back on the bed of needles, Why not?
