Part IV – A Bite of Panic
Tick. Tock. Ron turned a page. Someone cracked a yawn. An ember turned and rolled in the fireplace. Tick. Tock. Hermione scribbled a note on her parchment. Tick. Tock.
Harry let out another sigh as punctually as a clock as he watched the light and shadow from the fire twist and move on the ceiling. They plunged and whirled, a herd of wild horses tossing their manes and kicking wildly, then burst into thousands of doves which scattered into every corner of the room. Eventually the playful shades settled into a warm orange glow and slept. Harry grimaced. Without something to watch, he knew he was going to drift into memories, and between the violent green flash and the angry gray stare, he didn't feel like reminiscing much.
He was lying on the couch, now watching the empty ceiling. Ron was paging through his History of Magic book, but staring at the wall with drooping lids as he did so. Two towers of books framed Hermione on the floor. When she would finish combing one for information and scribing it onto her parchment, she would put it on the growing Finished pile, and take another from the shrinking Unread pile.
Judging from the gothic text and rather unintelligible Nordic on the cover, Hermione was probably brushing up on more information on Hagrid's newest animal addition—his prize Norwegian Bull Eagles. They were a breeding pair on loan from the Glasgow Magical Creatures Zoological Society, intended to test the Forbidden Forest as a location for possible reintroduction. And, in her usual fashion, she was accumulating information for an essay or something. Not that Hagrid had actually assigned an essay, though.
Harry found himself staring through Hermione like she was a diluted illusion, hiding a memory that waited patiently and pounced upon him.
"He didn't," the Boy-Who-Lived mumbled to himself a moment later. "Right?"
"Didn't what?"
Harry started, lifting his head from the deep indent it'd created in the pillow, and looked at Hermione, a great dusty tome settled on her lap. "Huh?" he grunted.
"Didn't what?" she repeated.
"What?"
Hermione furrowed her brow. "Were you talking to me?"
And here it was that Ron thought it would be totally appropriate to add another, "What?" as he tore his mind out of the soggy grip of boredom. Hermione shot him a precursory, annoyed glance that made Ron turn red with frustration, asking again, "What?"
"I was talking to Harry," she amended. "Now, what were you saying?"
Harry half-smiled in amusement, watching Ron's petulant expression when he turned to him in referral, mouthing the words, "What did I do now?" He shook his head, trying not to laugh, before turning to Hermione. "Sorry. I wasn't talking to you."
"But you said something," she replied. She closed her book with a great cough of dust. "You were staring straight at me and said something. You weren't talking to me?"
Harry felt something like a prick of shame rise up, a tiny snakebite in his chest that caused him to flush a bit. He hadn't meant to speak out loud at all, let alone include anyone in the discussion. "I mean," he said, grinning nervously, "I wasn't talking to anyone. You know, just mumbling to myself."
Hermione's gaze turned on him at a suspicious angle, but she didn't pursue it. Ron, however, just observed the two, noted the conversation, and then turned back to his book, with the hazy intent of reading it before he fell asleep beside the fire. He seemed impervious to any sort of subtlety drifting in the air, and gave no mind. Harry was thankful for that, but could not shake the watchful edge of Hermione's stare no matter how long he gazed up at the ceiling, or tried to bury his mind in the warm, yellow flames.
It was not long before he felt the pull of the moon trying to tug him back to the Pitch, and found himself staring blankly out the window at its pale, empty face. He wanted the cold wind biting at his face, the wet grass soaking his trainers, and the willing comrade of his broomstick. Something to eclipse the foul mood he'd been forced to bear all day long.
Eventually, Ron's snores became too much of a distraction for Hermione to bear, and she stood up, looking curiously at him, trying to devise a way to drag him to bed. Harry helped her pluck him out of his chair, and stand him up. When he remained doggedly unconscious, Harry sighed and cast a Mobilicorpus.
Bidding Hermione goodnight with one hand, and tugging Ron along with his wand in the other, Harry trudged up the stairs in the dormitory. The rest had long ago retired and related to each other in their sleep through a rhythmic pattern of snoring. Seamus would breath in with a roaring snort, Neville would whistle out a breath between his teeth, and every so often Dean would add a sleepy murmur. After he'd put Ron in his bed, noticing how quick he was to join into the growing cacophony, Harry lowered his gaze to the floor and felt a low sigh rushing through him. His eyes crept away and led him to the window beside his bed.
The moonlight taunted him. It knew that he stood there, watching the darkened landscape through the crosshatched iron of his window, and silently kept the secret. It could not betray anything to anyone. It would not tell Hermione if he chose to turn and walk out of his dormitory beneath his cloak, broomstick in hand. It would not breathe a word if he made his way out to the pitch, if only to quench his need for flight.
And maybe a little curiosity.
Draco didn't know exactly why he found himself skimming above the Forbidden Forest in the dead quiet of night, but wasted no further effort in trying to wrestle out an answer. He could feel something sour and vile waiting in the pit of his stomach, wanting and needing release, but an entire day of wallowing in such a gross emotion had taken its toll.
He'd found himself snapping at Pansy when he would have graced her with a flirtatious smirk. He would drift off into memory and awake to the sounds of his Potions assignments shattering with an uncontrollable crack of emotional magic. None of his usual flatterers dared come his way, and all wary Slytherins had seemed to creep to their own crevices for the night, careful to avoid him. A grimace wrought across his face, he found little relief even in flight tonight. The cold wind blew through his bare toes, knocking his feet gently together as he stopped to hover and admire the landscape beneath the moon.
He could appreciate the cold night for its consistency, at least. And the bitter wind would keep him awake and away from memories. It could have turned out to be a quite productive evening, but his luck fell short. Because as soon as he had found himself fed up with the silence of the forest and ready for the silence of sleep instead, and turned his broom toward the castle, a certain silhouette rose against the moon as it crawled over the mountain range. A familiar pain registered in the pit of his stomach and he knew instantly who it must be.
He watched the figure cautiously for a moment, gauging its actions, but, as luck would have it, it motored closer still. Draco hesitated. Wishing, hoping, pleading with some higher power that it might not be Potter—it might be some like-minded Slytherin, or at least some blushing Hufflepuff who would squeak and turn frightened tail upon recognizing his smallest detail.
But it was Potter.
So, without a fool's moment of hesitation, he bent over his broom and bulleted over the forest. He was determined to not allow that intolerable mixture of egotistical hero complex and bull-headed Gryffindor ideals taint his night. It was bad enough, having to remember the sharp angle of Potter's gaze, lodged between that of Pansy's startled look and Crabbe and Goyle's markedly glazed stares. The entire day had sucked and the Gods were still not content with his malcontent, it seemed.
He arched over the wooded hills and for a moment, seized against the light of the moon, caught the attention of the other delinquent in the night sky and made him turn his head.
Harry had not honestly believed he would see Malfoy darting over the pitch as he had on the previous nights. There had been no sullen shadow slinking out of the dungeons as he rounded the corridor, there had been no shriveled hand of glory sitting in the grass beside a pair of sneakers, and there had definitely been no indication on that flushing, furious face that Harry should expect him back for another fly. A certain part of Harry was sincerely relieved, sat back, gloated with the glory of privacy and tranquility for once, and enjoyed it. But the buzz in his head that called him to his broomstick in the first place moved unsatisfied back and forth within him. He mimicked the motion he felt between his feet and chest, guiding the broomstick erratically but fluidly back and forth, taking no set course.
And then he saw he was indeed not alone and the itch in his feet shot cleanly up into his throat, throwing his level-headed part to the ground and filling him with the undeniable urge to bank and follow. His knuckles turned white around the shaft, he licked his lips, and his better judgment, which wanted nothing more than to coast and relax, grimaced and was pushed to the wayside. Harry could not believe that he was turning toward the silhouette of Draco Malfoy against the moon and feeling a whirl of joy send him bulleting after, but he did not care to wonder why.
He loved to fly. And Malfoy was a target. He wasn't following because he wanted to wring revenge or even an apology from him or because he solely wanted to—this was a game. And games were enjoyable.
So he followed.
Draco kept his speed until he had seen multiple trails of mountains and stony ridges pass beneath him, blanketed in a thick and devilish forest, and only threw his ankles forward to slow when he saw a glassy black lake beneath him break the foliage. Feeling no more certain haste after leaving Potter back on the grounds, he cut speed, bent forward, and began to glide down toward the surface of the water. A soft cry cut the night air and he heard the flutter of wings in the density below him, but did not pay attention. The obsidian of the lake's surface drew him in and he opened his bare toes as he drifted gently into the valley.
It was a smaller, and considerably less malicious-seeming body of water than the Black Lake of Hogwarts. The cool of the moonlight rolled down from the top of the valley into the pool of water, turning the black surface into a glittering back and white painting. A standing army of trees lined the shallow and rocky banks. Draco turned his head back and forth, hearing no further sounds, not even the ambient hum of the night. It was a completely silent haven.
Draco felt a thrill go cleanly through him. And not just the slippery joy of carrying off a plot successfully, not just the instantaneous and guttural enjoyment of getting in a sharp insult or witticism, but a feeling of joy out of being, existing, and realizing that though the still air in his lungs.
He steadied his broom once he'd come to hover over the surface, stuck his feet forward, toes wagging, and drifted along the water, letting the icy black liquid splash on his feet. The softest smile of happiness came across his face. His entire body filled with a gentle fulfillment he only experienced while drifting off into sleep. He even tilted his head and laughed. White diamonds danced across the oil black surface, moonlight glancing and running with him.
The calm of night temporarily cooled that Malfoy temper and smoothed the severe look on his face, leaving nothing but a still and contented smile.
For once in his life, he wasn't prisoner to emotion. Anger did not dye his vision, jealousy did not coil and hiss in his belly, and fear did not throw his heart into his throat. He liked it. He must come out here more often, he told himself with a smile, lifting his magic, singing silently, to raise him out of the water to turn and make another peaceful crossing.
He stopped dead when he turned and saw Potter hovering across from him, toes dipping in the water. The gentle smile on his face evaporated and a blank, startled look came over him.
"Harry," he hiccuped out. In his surprise, he only noticed his strangled voice and not what he had uttered.
The Gryffindor did not flinch in return, nor make any overwhelming respond to either the sharp whirl to face him, the gasp of Malfoy's voice, or the disappearing traces of joy on his moonlight face. Eyes glazed, as if he'd been watching silently for a while, he only remained there, and let a corner of his mouth turn upward for a moment. Draco felt an agonizing string grow taut and nearly splinter in his chest, waiting, terrified by what he may have revealed to the Boy-Who-Lived and how viciously he would turn it against him.
But he smiled and said, "I'm sorry, Draco. Whatever I did to offend you, I apologize. Now, can we play a game of Catch the Snitch? I've been dying to get out here and actually have some fun, not argue with you all night." He even extracted a tiny golden sphere from his pocket and pinched between his fingertips toward Malfoy. Paper-thin white-gold wings unfolded and buzzed expectantly in Harry's palm.
Draco did not think about his answer, but only tightened his grip around the broomstick, shedding all his peaceful energy and adopting his familiar barbs. He could not stand the sight of those damned green eyes looking at him, especially with that contemptible warm expression and that ridiculous, welcoming smile. It was wrong. And the sound of his own name, falling off Potter's precious little lips, was wrong.
It couldn't be genuine apology; it had to be a Gryffindor scheme to further mortify himself and give Potter more ammunition against him.
"Why don't you just leave me alone?" he spat out at Harry, purposely coating his voice in as much detachment as was left within him. He plastered his gaze onto the rocky shore just past the Gryffindor's head, trying to avoid the cage of that stare. "I came out here to be alone, if you couldn't tell."
Harry smirked. "You're just upset I snuck up on you," he said, brushing off whatever verbal poison Draco was employing. "Now," he continued, without missing a beat, "do you want to play a game or not?"
"No," he ground out, though something in him might have said yes if it had a little more control. But fear choked him again. He saw Potter now, not just sneering beneath his glasses, but lifting a wand—spitting out a hex. His throat tightened. "No, I don't."
"I'm sorry if I startled you—"
"I was not!" Draco denied, finally tearing his eyes off the shore to glare at Potter, though such a stare did nothing to repel him, only deepen the smirk that he cast back. When he finally decided to turn and run, his toes sending an arch of silver water flying as he whirled and shot out of the valley, leaving Potter hovering over the lake, he did not hear through his rage and anxiety the sound of a furious screech, nor Harry screaming his name, nor feel the ice-cold talons seizing on his neck.