The Second Night:

"Oh, hey, there you are," Potter smiled. He lofted a brown paper sack, which obviously contained a bottle. "I was beginning to wonder—"

"What, Potter? If I'd chicken out?" Draco demanded. "What's that, then?" he added, pointing to the crinkled brown paper packet, bottle-shaped. "In the sack? Some ill-gotten butterbeer?"

Potter's smile transfigured into an unusually matey grin. He waved the sack under Draco's nose, budging up close to him in an oddly diverting half-step. "It's Harry, and that's Ogden's. Draco, be pleased to meet Harry—and Ogden's." He bowed, the ridiculous git, and chuckled; Draco's blood sang out like a ruddy Hallelujah chorus. His cock perked up, which was not unexpected, damn it! "Ogden's, this would be Draco Malfoy, winged git, and, um…Veela. Er…thought you might like a shot, actually. It's…a bit nippy, tonight. You look to be parched, too. Very, er, pointy."

"Stuff it with your rudeness, Potter! Shut your mouth, already!" Draco's temper, which still lived and thrived, reared its ugly head and snarled, overwhelming his undeniable urge to simply gather Potter up, sack and all, and embrace him closely. And deal with that mouth in some other—far more pleasing—manner. "I don't need to drink for my courage, Potter! I'm not a yellow-bellied coward, damn you!"

"Not being rude, actually," Potter shot back instantly, the odd grin never wavering. "Just kidding around; make you feel better, yeah? Ah…warmer, I meant. It is cold, nit. It's near the end of September already. Not exactly the balmiest of climes, Scotland. So, um." He gestured with the concealed Ogden's again, from right up close to Draco—close enough to be…accidently touched.

Draco was scandalized, balmy, barmy or no! Potter, appearing here on the Pitch, uninvited and offering him ill-gotten whisky, after hours? Who'd have ever thought? Certainly not he, in all his many thoughts of Pot-Harry.

"I," he stalled, "um—don't usually."

On the one hand, a drink with Potter would be a companionable sort of event; on the other, he was horribly close to losing his grip on reality altogether. Potter was fit, the cheeky little git. Moonlight did things to his hair that should be illegal. Draco was gagging to stick his fingers there. Well…talons.

"Please…Draco?" Harry blinked up at him from hardly any distance away. The paper-clad bottle crinkled and sloshed invitingly, offering to take the edge off Draco's tension. It was very tempting. Too tempting. Everything was, right at the moment. "Have a little nip with me and address me by my name, alright? That'd be so much the better than that awful 'Potter!' you're always barking. Friendly-like, right? And we should be friendly, now. We're not enemies, Draco."

They should? Draco's internal compass reeled. In what universe had he landed?

But then…hadn't he been thinking lately it would be a useful state of affairs, being…civil with Potter?

"Harry," Draco tried out, experimentally. He'd naturally said 'Harry' before, but only in private. By himself, where no one could overhear, like, er, Aunt Bella…or Mum…or Pansy or Blaise. Why would Potter ever want him to—well, never mind that now. He could actually use a sip of something fiery to bolster up his sagging will. He was here to fly, wasn't he? Hovering was the stuff of merest tots and mewling babies. He could manage more than that, he was certain. "Harry, then. Um, right. So, Harry, why did you suppose I needed Ogden's tonight? Doubt me, do you? Like always?" he added the last nastily, but then…there was a bit of the nasty, lingering.

Who could blame him for it, either?

"Oh, no," Harry replied airily, waving the bottle and his other hand about freely. His hair flopped over his brow; Draco longed to push it back into place. Squashed that, instantly. "A little loosening up, though; nothing wrong with that, Draco. Oil on the cogs, yeah? Ron and I down a medicinal dram before every match, these days. Need it something fierce, honestly. Too many memories, yet. Concentration's shot."

"Oh?" Draco raised a brow. He kept the habitual sneer from forming with a conscious effort. Old habits died hard, even with Potter now symbolizing everything Draco could ever imagine wanking over. "And why is that….Harry?"

Oddly, Harry—who'd just been so casually at utter ease being in Draco's company it was almost rude—stiffened up like a bloody poker. Tensed his shoulders, tightened his lips and very deliberately stared away into the darkness that encroached upon the Lumos he'd lit, his green eyes (what Draco could see of them, behind the perpetually battered spec lenses) distant and meditative.

A thrill of uncalled-for anxiety climbed Draco's spine, spreading like wildfire down the shafts of his idiot feathers. He wasn't sure he could quite bear watching Harry Potter look so very…melancholy. Potter shouldn't be like that; he's too much to live for. Draco wanted him to live and keep on living, even if—even if.

Um, no! Not going there! Draco's brain reminded Draco's Veela firmly. Oh, fucking no!

"Er. Fear of flying, mate."

"What?"

Now was something Draco simply couldn't conceive of, not for an blithering instant! Harry Potter, genius on a fucking broomstick, Seeker to the Stars, most likely, and already widely reported to have been offered positions by Puddlemere, the legendary Krum's Bulgarians and likely a host of other international Quidditch teams—afraid? Inconceivable!

"Inconceivable!" he snorted, speaking his mind clearly for once, with no filters. "You? Afraid of that? Don't fuck with me, Potter! You've been excelling at it for years now, blast you!"

Harry only looked at him, blank as an unwritten chalkboard. Draco shut his mouth abruptly and blinked in return, and thought hard and fast about events for a quick second. Opened his mouth to gabble, filters possibly shed permanently and he'd not even had a drink yet!

"Wait! Are you?…Oh. It was the Room, wasn't it?" he faltered. "I did that, didn't I? To you? I'm awfully sorry, Potter; I never meant to—"

"No!" Harry was visibly flustered, all at once, a dark tinge of heated blood rushing to his moonlit features, his feet shifting in their rubber-soled shoes. "No, it wasn't you, Draco! It was—it was—Pomfrey says it's only reaction. Normal. I should recover very quickly, she says; matter of a few months and, erm, constant practice, and besides, I've ways—" he gestured with the sloshing sack, "to cope. Um…want some, then?"

The Ogden's ended up a bare inch from Draco's nose; he could see Potter's knuckles, white and tight. They were individual works of art.

God, he was madder than the average hatter!

"Well, if you put it that way, Potter, then...alright; don't mind if I do."

Draco clutched at the bottle like a man staggering toward an oases in the Gobi—thankfully. Because, yes, he could—did—want. And his want had to be drowned at birth, damn it, like an unwanted Crup puppy. Potter was being friendly only; he wasn't offering Draco anything more. He wouldn't.

Harry smiled at him, tension smoothed away from his clean-cut features like bloody magic. It was a lovely, lovely smile, that, and Draco found himself returning it, in spades, helplessly. That grin also fell squarely in the 'I want' category, but Draco restrained himself nobly, and only swallowed a decent glug…or three. Potter evidently didn't run to proper tumblers for his whisky; he'd no way of judging how much he'd swallowed, except by the burn. Which was, er, also lovely. It dimmed the crying-out of his worse half—idiot Veela bits!

Damn that Lucius!

Passing it back and forth between them, perhaps it was possible they had more than the proscribed medicinal dose, but…still, it was comforting, at least for Draco, to feel the heat of Ogden's finest settling into his quivering middle. He'd only ventured out to the Pitch reluctantly tonight, and only because of the way Potter—Harry—had left it the evening before, with the (possible, but who could tell with Harry?) expectation of meeting Draco here again, as if they'd scheduled a standing appointment. Albeit after curfew, when they'd have privacy and no one would be able to witness Draco's foolish attempt to…fly.

Because it was foolish, now more than ever, with Harry here to watch him muck it up. He'd make a ruddy spectacle of himself and Harry wouldn't—Harry might.

Laugh, and not as nicely.

Well…Draco didn't require an audience, not for his first time. Hovering in place and flapping like some great bloody owl was alright for bloody beginners, but he was a man, now, and supposedly a full-grown Wizard. And Veela, damn it all to Hades.

It would be awful, if Harry…laughed. Or was…disappointed in him. Draco wasn't certain he could stand it; too many memories, and all of them horrid. His fingers closed, pads slippery with sweat—with disappointment.

Far from giving his courage, the Ogden's was stealing it. Harry's face, open and beguiling, was leaching it away. Draco sagged in place.

"I…I don't think I can, really, Po—" he began in a rush, the third swallow loosening his unwary tongue, if not his tense shoulder blades. He shrugged, creakily. "You know. Just like…that. I, erm…I—need more time, I think. Maybe."

"Harry," Potter enunciated, "it's Harry, and of course you can. I have not the slightest doubt of it, alright? You've everything you need, Draco, right there on your back and in your head…'cepting a little more practice. Besides—"

"Besides?' Draco prompted, when Harry didn't continue. "Besides what, Po-Harry?"

"I need you to, Draco. I…want," Harry leant over their hands, momentarily entangled as the bottle passed casually from one to the other, "I want…you…to fly." And plopped a damp kiss on Draco's nose—the very tip!—as if it were as nothing, the brain-boggling arse! "Very much so."

"Oh!" Draco blushed. Thank Merlin Harry couldn't see him all that clearly, because the scarlet rush of blood began at his navel and climbed all the way up. His skull beneath his hair was likely pink, even! And his temples were throbbing, right in time with his wayward dick. "What, Po-Har—Po—"

He was flaming with heat, all over, as if come over feverish. A fire burning him from inside out!

"Harry, Draco," the man smiled. Winked, too, cheeky prat. Golden Boy, Saint Potter—Gryffindork; the ancient ragged taunts burnt away in the face of Draco's consumptive, overweening need to please Pot-Harry. To live up to his standards; to impress this amazing boy. And, no, Harry wasn't a boy anymore—and no more was Draco, matching schoolrobes or no. "That was only for luck. Alright? Now, go. I'll hold this and you start. I want to see it, Draco. I want to watch you do it."

"Oh—ah—erm," Draco muttered, not quite sure where he was to start or at what, precisely. "I don't exactly think—I mean…" He'd rather like to start by asking some questions (why had Potter—Harry—just kissed him? That being the burning issue of his evening), but yes, alright…technically, he was here to learn flying. Yes. The kiss—short as it was, barely a blink long—had left Draco some residual comfort, more even than the Ogden's. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, trusting the huge monstrosities that sprouted unwanted out of his aching back. In the very depths of his brain, residing near that congenital need to inhale and exhale, his newly bloomed Veela instincts muttered cheerily: maybe-Potter-will-kiss-me-again-if-I-do! "You're sure of this, Po—Harry? 'Cause I'm not, 'specially."

Maybe. Gods, he was indeed foolish. Sod his instincts, anyway; they were no use to him!

"…So much." Draco pulled a face at his companion.

"Go on, git," Harry only said, grinning widely, and gave Draco's wobbly spine a little shove with his elbow. "I'm waiting…and, erm, still waiting."

"Shut up, Harry. I'm just…getting to it." Draco sneered, or rather took refuge in sneering, as it was comfortable. Comfort was paramount now, creeping as he was along on this sheer cliff of incipient panic.

"Any moment now, I'll take off."

He squared his shoulders and prepared to march off, but his feet seemed stuck on something. The grass was very, er, clingy, at night. It had a hold on him. It was rather dark, too, which was only natural. He'd not be able to see to navigate, would he? All the more reason to put this off to another day, then; wait until he was more prepared—

"Going to go, er, right now," Draco vowed, gulping. "You'll see. See if I don't!"

"Uh-huh," Harry nodded. "I see that. Not." He cocked his chin thoughtfully and took another neat swig of Ogden's while Draco was contemplating just how far he should run before spreading his pin feathers—once he actually manage to get started, that was. Or perhaps he could simply continue running—straight on back to Hogwarts? "You're not...afraid of it, are you, Draco? Them, rather? Do they…are they painful to use? I hadn't thought about it, but—''

"Hardly!" he snorted, appalled. "Fool!" As if he'd ever admit that! Before Harry? The twinges, the burn, the utterly awful lack of grace and balance, which had been so much a part of him when he believed himself to be pure Wizard? Oh, no, no, no! Draco whipped his head about, scowling. It was his creeping lack of spine that was ruddy excruciating, that's what! His cowardice, damn it. Shameful!

Potter likely knew that. This was a set-up, that's all. An elaborate one, and deserved maybe, but he'd fallen for it, just a bit. For Potter's apparent genuineness—his lack of guile. Forgotten—allowed himself to forget—that Potter had likely only bothered to grab Draco's hand and allow him to get a leg over his broomstick because he was right in the midst of full-throttle hero-ing at the time and what was one more life on the plus side? Even if it was a Slytherin life...and a Malfoy's.

"Hah! That's so rich," he snarled, wheeling away on a heel-stumble, his wings flapping uselessly behind him, the weight of them impeding him. "Prat—I knew you weren't just here to be my personal cheering section, Potter! You're here for your own amusement, aren't you? Need a laugh, right?"

"Draco."

"What?" Draco demanded bitterly. "Bored to flinders back in your ivory tower, Potter? In need of a bit of sport?"

Draco closed his eyes, shuddering. He was mucking it up again, wasn't he?

Oh, he was. He was.

"'Harry', for the last time, git—it's Harry. And shut it. You've got it all wrong."

"Well, you're not getting it, Harry," Draco blustered, drawing himself up and ignoring Potter's protest handily, his wingtips folding themselves across and over one another with a neat, sharp 'shhhrffft' sound. He was not to be diverted—and, contrarily, he was not to be shown up by some scrawny git who thought he was a ruddy chicken! No!

"I'll prove it, alright? I'll bloody well show you!"

Draco hauled in one last lungful of air, coughing a bit on misswallowed spit, and took off and away down the length of Pitch from Potter running hell for leather, gaining speed as he galloped, wings flapping, and shouting out behind him, over his pumping, swiftly rising-falling shoulders. Feathers! Feathers were bloody everywhere, all 'round him, whiffling and slicing the still air into shreds; it was a blizzard of them. "As I won't give you the satisfaction, Harry Potter—I won't!"

"Good!" he heard echoing behind him, but the strengthening breeze carried away any taunts Po-Harry might have to add to that satisfied exclamation. "Good-oh, Draco! Go at it! Show me, then; all you've got, you great ninny!"

Draco was ten yards above the Pitch and rising abruptly when he twigged it—he was, in fact, using his wings as he was meant to!—and Harry's face was but a circular moonlit glow, spectacles glinting like flies' eyes, far beneath him, teeth white and eerily, ghoulishly, grinning wide.

Draco whooped his glee—he'd done it! He'd gone and bloody done it! He was the man, the top, the ace—

And then an entirely unlooked-for, horribly rude, spiraling magical thermal took him, up, up, up—and he shrieked, unceremoniously, and did a very stupid, ill-judged thing: he folded his wings. Those great horrible projections of his, which still boggled him, which still felt awfully unnatural—like visible curses. Outgrowths of his personal failures—to be a Pureblood, to be a fully competent Wizard—to be someone a person like Potter might possibly consid—

And plummeted.

Cancel the brooding! Draco decided frantically. At this moment, he'd really rather just manage to survive intact! Wait! Weren't Veela supposed to be unnaturally strong—impervious to injury? Oh, bloody Merlin, let it be so!

"Got you! Hang on tight!"

Stupid Harry. Potter, rather. Of course he had his broom tucked about his person, probably Shrunken in his robe's pocket, the non-believer, and of course he could fly like a champion on absolutely no notice, and even with a third of a bottle of Ogden's under his belt. Potter could, that deceitful prick.

"Here now," Potter commanded him, setting his lips into a straight line. "Get your leg up and over—that's it—good job! I've got you alright, Draco—relax!"

He was hauled onto Potter's broomstick, plucked out of the air and plopped gracelessly arse-over-teakettle on that extension of Potter's heroics—his broom. Potter's broom, which had always been the sign of victory to Draco.

Hard, lean and swift, it was. With Potter atop it, it was poetry. Art in air—unlike him.

"Fucker!" Draco gasped gratefully, squirming to crane his neck and see 'round his stupid fluffed-out wings—useless things, like the rest of him. Failures. Potter kissed his nose for the second time in recent memory. "Oh! Tosser!" Draco added, rightfully miffed at the impertinence—but not at all displeased, contrarily. Gave him something other to consider than his own abject failure, didn't it? Something…nice, and unexpected. "Perv! That's assault, you little miscreant! Unhand me—desist, Potter!"

Harry growled at him, a friendly little rumble that fried the remainder of Draco's synapses and left him blinking. Oh, the heat that burned in his chest and thighs; the sodden, pounding ache he felt in his stupid cock! It hadn't subsided in the slightest, had it? He'd been hard all this time, all through every bit of drama—and was still primed, his fingers half-curled and clawing at the broomstick between his thighs in place of grabbing at Har—Potter.

And breathless—gasping breathless, choking on literally nothing…but that was only the remnant of his own idiotic fear, right? Right!

"Mmm-hmm. Whatever you say, git. Next time, um—keep 'em spread, okay? Goes better that way, I think."

Harry's voice was dry as dust; no, it was more buttery-rich with sherry-flavoured sardonic tones that thrilled him darkly, but Draco could also glimpse that infectious grin when he risked a glance behind him, hear that heady…purr, was it? He was growing accustomed to the new smiling version of Potter; it was very attractive. And the deeper tones in Potter's so-familiar voice were more like Napoleonic brandy than sherry ever was, leaving his head spinning with potent blue fumes and flitting daydreams.

"Fucking tosser," he replied sharply, with much strong feeling. He had a great deal of 'feeling'; at the moment, all of it attuned to Harry. None of it useful at all. "Showing off like that. Pffft! I was fine—just about to pull up. I'dve gotten out of it, Potter—I had a plan."

Draco set his jaw. He'd hadn't had a plan, but Potter didn't need to know that, did he?

"Uh-huh."

"Put me down now," Draco ordered peremptorily. "I'm not through yet. Not even begun, actually. That was just—merely a dry-run, Potter. A test, you know?"

"Yes, Draco." Practically dripped of smarm, those three elongated syllables. "Dear, dear Draco. My name, by the by, is Harry. H-a-r-r-y. Harry. Very easy. Try to remember it, will you?"

"Oh! You—you great—sodding-!"

Ohhh! That did it! Infuriated, Draco squirmed 'round, clambering inelegantly so his bum and thighs were half across Harry's lap and half straddled over the prat's broomstick, an ankle twining round a boney shin for balance. Clamped the annoying idiot's wind-chilled ears right between his own two claw-tipped hands to hold that messy head immobile and flapped his great irksome wings ever so slowly, tentatively, in hopes of sending them scudding on the broomstick at a nice steady pace.

"Fit—git!"

Ready to show Potter something else, now. Something Veela were known for—a little advantage Slytherin were acclaimed for, for that matter: snogging the daylights out of their chosen victims. Slaying with bloody sex appeal.

"I'll show you, Harry—see if I don't!"

Harry obligingly placed a gentle staying hand on the vibrating curve of Draco's left wing, apparently realizing before Draco did that his pulsing wing thrusts would only cancel out Harry's own forwarding spell on the broomstick, but Draco wasn't paying attention to any old hands or much of anything other than Harry's actual mouth, lips pursed pink and moist in the moonlight, mainly because Draco was busily acting on overriding impulse.

Kissed him—Potter, Harry—Draco did that, (yes, impulsively! Shut up!)—fastening his greedy lips on Harry's just barely parted ones, and then inserted his eager tongue between the giving pinkened strips of salt-kissed flesh, jabbing away. Poking, digging, invading fiercely, just as he'd longed to from the moment the sod had pecked at the quivering tip of his own narrow Black nose and left his heart to soar willfully skywards, unbound from the heavy grasp of gravity.

"Harry," Draco announced, supremely certain of this, if nothing else. "Harry, you're a menace." He dove back in, nipping along the way as a mild punishment. Menace to Draco's pride, Harry was—a threat to his very convictions. And 'menace' was a form of fond endearment, practically. Like prat and git and Potter. Potter Stinks! had been nothing short of semaphore tor exactly the opposite—but Draco wasn't thinking of that revelation—not at all. "Harry Potter, you great galumph, I sodding well hate you for doing that! I was perfectly alright on my own!"

"Mmm, now—that's!" Harry groaned softly, eyelids fluttering closed, when Draco finally pulled back for a breath. "Much more like! Again, Draco—do that again!"

"Oh, I will—Fuck!" Draco spared a glance behind him, and frantically pumped his pinions in reverse, braking them. "Trees, Harry! Mind the fucking trees! That's the Forest!"

"Oh—oh, shit! Buggering Merlin—hang on!"

The Third Night:

"What, no Ogden's?" Draco asked off-handedly, when they met up on the Pitch at their usual time. Well…he was actually early, but then so was Harry. Hmmm, both arriving early—what could that mean? "You've faith in me now, Harry? Think I can handle this without being souped up on Dutch courage?"

Harry laughed that laugh of his, and it lit his face up. Like a blooming rose, that. On trees of rose bushes—whole gardens, Draco's fancy blathered, and he smiled stupidly at it for a moment, imagining himself presenting Harry with an armful of scarlet, mist-bedewed ro—foolish!

"Not at all, Draco. I don't doubt your courage, git. I know you've plenty to spare."

"Oh?" The picture of him and Harry in some nebulous flower garden, smiling foolishly at one another over bushels of blossoms sped away, dispelled by this startling revelation. He'd thought—assumed, because he'd only his view of his actions to go from, naturally—that Harry would think very little of him. Still. That he'd lost any and all respect he might ever have garnered, from being clever, or smart or even simply determined. Besides, he'd not made much of a show of proper flying last night, had he? "No?"

"No."

"Er..I see." He didn't, actually, but that was by the wayside. Tonight Harry had his broom with him, obvious and unShrunken. Draco admitted to a little curl of excitement; he could ponder Po—Harry's opinion of him later, in private. If he wasn't alone up there, then…maybe. "Are you—are you planning on flying with me, Harry? Is that why you've brought…that?"

Draco flapped a paw at the broom, which was nothing special. Not like Harry's old Firebolt or his Nimbus. Just a common-garden one, and likely from the broom shed on the Pitch. "Where's your—"

"Gone," Harry shrugged. "Shattered. No matter. And yes, I am. Thought you might like the company, once you're up there." He pointed to the night sky above, twinkling still and bright, and scored with the millions of pinprick stars that populated the constellations. "And I'd not mind a chance to simply fly, no pressure."

"Oh…well," Draco hesitated. He still wasn't very skilled, though he'd taken an hour to himself in the afternoon to practice braking and landing—two very important items on his agenda. But height. Altitude was crucial and he had to admit he was a bit…leery, yet. What if he went up too high? He might forget what little he knew about his horrid wings and then where would he be? "S'alright, then. If you want?"

In deep shite, and likely with a broken neck, that's where. He'd not want Harry to see him like that, tumbling out of the sky like a perfect ninny. Done that once already; no need for a second visit to Arsehole territory, what?

"I want."

"Are you sure, Harry?" Draco asked, thinking to divert him. If he could but practice a wee bit longer; perhaps manage some style along with the arduous flapping of the bloody huge span of muscle and feather an unkind Fate had stuck him with, he might come out of it smelling like roses. Be, er, impressive. "Because I wasn't planning on much, tonight. Just a few runs, nothing special. I'm, erm, rather tired, what with classes and regular Quidditch and—"

'Potter' had become 'Harry' again, after the narrow brush with the Forbidden Forest. Nothing like screaming a particular name to imprint it upon memory forever.

"You're stalling, git. Get up there, go on," Harry motioned to the air above the Pitch, "I'll be right after you, don't worry. On your heels, this time. Chasing your skinny arse, Draco, so you'd better watch out!"

"I wasn't," Draco huffed, but he stood stock still nonetheless, as ordered, and gathered his scattered concentration, eyelids clenched tight to aid himself in doing so…Harry being the distracting bloke he was. Broke out into a short blind sprint across the deserted Pitch with a gasp and lurch—five yards, ten, fifteen—and was airborne almost before he knew it, the sodding huge things at his back instinctually beating him away from the unyielding surface of the packed-down ground. "Actually worried, git. So there, Harry!" he called out, seeing a shadow rise behind him. "Bite me, non-believer! Not concerned a'tall, git! See? Knew I'd be brilliant, once I was up! 'Course I am—don't see why you ever even questioned it, Ha-Harry."

Draco glanced back through the shield of his feathers cautiously, wondering if Po—Harry—would allow him the conceit. Just to save a bit of face, of course—one ex-archrival to another, as it were.

"Of course not, Draco," Harry agreed, equably enough, his drawl issuing from some point just off Draco's starboard. Draco peered 'round that way, also cautiously.

"Of course not?" he echoed. "Really, now, Harry? I quite though you thought I needed a boost—didn't you?"

"No!" Harry humped a careless elbow at him. "You, er, just needed some more, er…time," he tacked on politically, swooping 'round to draw level with Draco's deadly dull straight-arrow flight. "And a little…encouragement, maybe. But…everyone needs that, yeah?"

"Um…"

Draco gulped, considering. This wasn't his broom, which he understood without thinking; which he could fly blindfolded and with two hands tied behind his back. This was different, world apart, and it was all him and nothing else besides preventing him from meeting the earth below without ceremony.

Okay…perhaps Harry was on the right track. Maybe.

He'd only himself to rely on, true, and he was—he was afraid, yes. Though he'd never admit as much to Harry—nor anyone, not even Mother. And he and Harry, they were—they'd had…conversations, recently. Very—today, yesterday, even. And during the actual daytime, as well, in classes and in-between classes, about nothings and nonsense, but still. Harry wasn't so difficult to be with, if Draco allowed it to happen. And Harry seemed to want it that way: he'd been the one to seek Draco out first, right beneath the beetling brows of Weasley and Granger, too—or perhaps despite them, going by past experience. Though (thankfully) those two non-fans of Draco Malfoy hadn't said a single negative word against Draco—or what Harry was doing—not a word.

He'd been grateful for that; he'd didn't think he could manage to force himself to outright fight for Harry's attention. After all, he wasn't the same as he'd been before his silly wings came along and shattered his life, his expectations—not by a long shot.

Not the same Draco at all.

Draco recalled himself just in time; he was dropping down like that unfortunate stone from the Astronomy Tower, the closely-mown grass of the Pitch perilously near his boot tips. He brought himself up short, the muscles in his arms and shoulders and the untried new ones that arched up beyond that, flowing like conduits down the length of the wings, all engaged in putting in some rather frantic overtime, beating furiously at gravity. They ached like the dickens, but it was a good burn—a healthy burn. Maybe Wizards couldn't fly unaided, but Veela could.

"That's it, Draco!" Harry called out, grinning. He was ten feet above Draco, circling lazily, and Draco just caught a glimpse of the concerned little quirk of his eyebrows before it disappeared into an all-over smile of triumph; vicarious, he supposed. "Join me, you slacker! Come up now! The air's lovely up here—you're missing out!"

"Git," Draco gritted, under his breath. "Just you wait, Harry! Half a moment, prat!" he shouted out instead, flapping all the harder and rising steadily. Oh! There was a thermal! A warm draught of air that would do his work for him! He had a much better idea of how to use those now. "I'll show you some real flying, arse! Just you wait—"

"Right here," Harry purred, and he was, too, hovering an inch off Draco's increasingly sore shoulders. Flying certainly wasn't cake; it took a lot out of one. He'd have to start eating more and maybe— "Right beside you, all the way."

He smiled, and Draco felt like a bloody Hufflepuff; smitten with adoration. It was purely horrid—it was absolutely delightful.

He was an utter idiot, but at least he was being an idiot with Harry instead of at him.

"Oh….Harry," Draco couldn't help but chuckle; it was so…it was so frigging mushy, those words. And so completely odd, that sort of remark falling casually out of Harry's lips and into Draco's ears—as if they'd been mates all along or something. And they'd never been that. "You sop! Do you even hear yourself? You sound like a two-sickle romance novel—cheesy!"

"I do?" Harry blinked at him, and it was all Draco could do to continue his vigorous, ungainly progress upwards and forwards. "Really?"

He blinked. Only Harry could render the act of lifting and lowering his eyelids into an act of heady seduction.

Likely only Draco Malfoy, practicing fool, could be so easily seduced by the same.

"Really…er."

Oh, those eyes. Draco had had dreams of them; scads of them, all bulging with grins and Harry-smiles, all trained directly upon him. Full of glint and sparkle and reflected starlight and…in those dreams, he'd be bold. He'd just bend his neck that little bit, as he was doing now, since Harry was stumpy and scrawny, and then he'd lower his mouth—just so—adjusting—and touch—

"Hah," Harry interrupted Draco's most recent fancy, shattering it. "Well, shit. Just meant I'd be here, if, um, ah, you needed hel—"

"Don't need help, git," Draco barked shortly, miffed at having his delightful little fancy cut short.

He banked a bit, letting one wing tip drift and deliberately beating the other hard against the thermal, and tried to circle gracefully away. Certainly he veered 'round, though likely it wasn't graceful at all, damn it! His cheeks were brilliant; he'd been about to kiss—no, snog!—Harry again, and he wasn't certain yet if that was acceptable, or wanted—or not. And wasn't about to push it, either. For all his bitching and moaning, he rather enjoyed Harry's company. A bit.

More than he had before, certainly. Because they'd never rubbed along before, not as they seemed to be doing now.

Here. On the Pitch, flying. Flying about in proximity. That's all, of course.

Which naturally reminded Draco of some rather memorable matches of the past. Exciting ones, when they'd both had the chance to show off their moves. Fun, really—those, if one discounted the bitter sense of competition he'd always nursed asp-like in his breast. But this night wasn't like that, was it? Not at all!

"Come on, then, Harry," he urged, suddenly eager to put all thoughts of his Hufflepuffian tendencies behind him, where they belonged. "Let's build up some speed, yeah? Get a race on, maybe? Bet I could beat you to Lake!"

"Oh—well, er, sure!" Harry startled, did a little sideways swoop and then laughed. "Right, you're on! I'm game, Draco."

"What'll we bet then? What stakes?"

Draco pushed himself a little more, drawing ahead.

That was it—physical exercise. He just needed more of it, enough to tire him, and then he wouldn't suffer these odd little impulses—these unaccountable fits. And a dare—a sporting wager—to divert his mind from…whatever it needed diverting from. "As I do want to see what these things can do, Harry, but."

"But?"

"You have to make it worth my while, yeah?"

Harry laughed again; a chuckle that sent the blood surging to Draco's bits. "Git. How about who brings the bottle next time?"

"Super! That'll do! One your mark, ready, steady-"

"Bastard! Hold up!"

But Draco was already speeding away, his course set, his wings buoyed up by enthusiasm in his newly discovered talent. Here was (finally!) a place where he held the advantage!

His enthusiasm, though…it wasn't entirely true. Draco could admit that, privately. But most of it was, in the end. Not many had wings they could call their very own, as pesky as they were to deal with in reality. And not everyone had a Veela heritage, either, and Draco had adored his Grandme're. Had wanted to be like her—in a manly way, of course. But she'd been so pretty, and so loved, even by his crotchety old Grandfather, and everyone had adored her charm and her graces. When she'd passed on, Grandfather Abraxas had been sodding inconsolable—and eventually just a bloody sod, as he remembered it.

Perhaps it would be of use to him, being Veela. Might serve to make up for the Malfoy name, in a way. Mayhap he'd find someone worthy—not Potter, of course—but someone, who might…eventually…come to admire him despite himself. Er…care. For Draco.

"Draco?" Harry's voice was far away, and Draco barely heard it for a moment. He looked back behind, searching for that familiar slight form. "Draco! Higher, alright? There's another air current up here—a better one. I can feel it! It's like swimming, git! Buoys you right up, Draco. Come up and have a free ride, yeah? Take a damper, enjoy it."

"Oh!" Draco once again reined his wandering thoughts in. He was—what? A hundred yards above the ground and going nearly as fast as he ever had on a broom. And all of that was entirely him—no broom? "Oh gods, yeah—that I could use, Harry. That I could use."

And he rose, to swoop about Potter. Harry. Untouchable Harry Potter, trapped on his Wizard's broom with no wings to free him.

Draco was visited with the thought that Harry, of all people, should be the one given wings. He deserved them; he'd make a symphony of them.

…But not the other—the Veela part. Draco wouldn't wish the other on Harry; not for a ruddy instant. No one should have to crave another human being to this degree and then be expected to simply grin and bear it.