Our train's ahead,

and its patrons have been so mislead.

Judges play gypsy roles,

Cherry pickin' while the gentlemen fall.

Aching prophets scurry south,

Tangled up in all their vows.

They can hear us from the street,

It's a shame we can't retreat.

You see the road is seasoned,

with the bows of treason.

Painted wagons are gleamin',

while the dust is settling.

Chapter 21

"This is definitely stupid," Harry validated.

"I know, I know, but bear with me," Draco waved him off.

Harry chuckled and shook his head as he watched Draco attempt to gain his balance. The blonde had taken him out in to the backyard, where Harry appreciated his mother's abandoned garden in its multi-colored abundance; though, he only saw it from beyond a patterned concrete wall. He walked across the patio that he had seen Pansy Parkinson dining, onto vast greenery. The Malfoy Manor certainly appeared bleak and solitary from the front, but once someone went inside or ventured the backyards, it seemed too vast for such a small family - much less, a single teenage boy. Draco shared that there was a flying trick he knew; that he had seen a Quidditch match many years ago, with the Vratsa Vultures going against the Fitchburg Finches. He had watched one of the Vratsa Vultures gloat in the middle of the game by riding his broom as one might ride a surfboard. He saw it happen for only a few seconds, but that since then, he had been hell bent on mastering the art. Harry was unsure if it were something that could be mastered; Harry had told Draco that there was a blatant reason that he had only seen that trick once. He said that it was a very interesting trick, but not a safe way of flying; to which, Draco replied 'you sound like my mother'.

Harry watched the blonde take his shoes off, roll up the sleeves of his shirt and cuff the hems of his pants. Harry strangely admired the shape of Malfoy's ankle, the even look of his feet – everything about him looked so prim and clean. He put his right foot in front, slipping the width of the broom between his two front toes. His left foot faced the tail end of the broom, and his big and second toe held the sides of the broom there also. His long legs and outstretched arms reminded Harry of a ballerina; he was forming himself to be so precise and Harry gauged Draco's experience in attempting this. He stood, cross-armed and thought that, even with rolled up pants and curly toes and tired eyes, he still looked so regal. Harry had asked what the purpose of the white peacocks in the yard were, and Draco had gone on some tangent about how aesthetics reflect class and care and that they played but a minor part in his family's image. Harry had only half-listened to him, but did notice that he had enjoyed hearing Draco speak at such length.

"Well?"

Harry snapped his eyes up into Draco's that stared expectantly at him.

"What?" Harry asked.

"Get on," Draco offered, as if it were obvious.

"What? No way!" Harry declined readily, "No, no – if this is some plot to kill me, Malfoy, you're –"

He scoffed and replied, "You're so paranoid. Just get on, by the tail. You're supposed to help me from killing myself,"

"And you're certain you've got to be on suicide watch on my broom?"

Draco rolled his eyes and answered, "You complain so much!"

"Me!? I complain too much?! Malfoy, do you even hear yourself when you speak, or do you just tune out the sound that comes out of your face? You are the most whiny, little –"

"I'm trying to share something with you, Potter!" He shouted over Harry's rant.

Harry paused thoughtfully and stared into Draco's silver eyes.

"Do you get it? You wanted to do this. To be friendly, right?"

Harry wanted to nod, but wasn't sure if his body would listen to him or not. Draco sighed and went on,

"I used to do this with Crabbe. He would spend two weeks of every summer at my house. And, obviously, up until last year, we would do this together. This is a personal, stupid hobby and I am inviting you to do it with me. So, are you going to get on, or not?"

Without any further hesitation, Harry standing, straddled the broom, behind Malfoy. He only asked,

"When we get in the air – this isn't going to smack me in the crotch, is it?"

Draco glanced back at him and told him with a shrug, "Guess we'll see,"

Harry's crotch was hit forcefully with the broom as it lifted off the ground to Draco's demand. He had a feeling that Malfoy had done it on purpose. Before Harry knew what was happening, they were seven feet in the air, and though Draco's physical balance seemed precarious, his face was full of confidence. He smiled and Harry saw his toes curl more tightly around the broom.

"I need you to hold onto my ankle – the one closest to you, obviously,"

"Obviously," Harry mimicked playfully; in truth, he was very nervous.

He could feel Draco's smirk without looking at him and saw him crouch more, bending at the knees. His arms were stretched out, flatly on either side of him and he gave the spark of flight with just a sweep of his arms.

Harry's butt was lifted off the broom and he worked hard to keep his knees so tightly together that he wouldn't fall off. They certainly couldn't keep a straight line, but Draco could turn them and despite his faltering left foot, Harry could feel him having fun and heard him chuckle. Harry looked up and squinted against the gusts of wind, and yelled,

"Malfoy! I'm going to fall off this damned thing!"

"You have to use one hand to hold onto the broom, you idiot!"

Harry immediately removed his right hand from Draco's foot and gripped the broom. He watched Draco's arms swerve like a bird's wings. They twisted and turned and when Harry dared to look below them, they had risen at least twenty more feet. He looked back up at Malfoy and his arms were slowly working back to his sides, but the broom maintained its speed. In one swift movement, his arms abruptly rose up into the air and he called out some freeing cry. Harry would have appreciated how spectacular the image was, if there had been a split second in between that and the broom turning vertically. As Draco fell back, Harry righted the broom evenly, horizontally and managed to catch Draco against his body.

Instead of terror or anger, as he expected, he heard Malfoy begin laughing gladly. He was out of breath and Harry noticed then, that there was a hand on his cheek. Draco's back was pressed up against Harry and he could feel Malfoy's belt against his hips. Draco's right arm was bent at the elbow and his spidery hand was touching Harry's cheek, almost lovingly. Harry only half-concentrated on the control of the broom; he found himself staring at Malfoy's face. Having fallen back the way he did, his cheek brushed Harry's and his torso leaned more against Harry's left side. He could see Draco's cheeks, lit up with blotchy red blush and few, small beads of sweat. His smile was enchanting; his face was filled with relief and the rush of danger.

Harry wondered momentarily if Draco would have done well in Gryffindor, or Ravenclaw.

"I can feel your heart, Potter!"

Harry felt heat spread over his face as Draco turned his head to him, smirking,

"Developing a bit of a crush are you?"

Harry smiled, suddenly assured that Draco Malfoy did belong in Slytherin.

"You want to fall to your death, Malfoy?"

He heard the blonde laugh loudly and felt him slither forward. He took control of the broom and called back, against the wind, "It'd be wise to hold on tight, Potter! I like it fast!"

Harry quickly wrapped his arms around Draco's ribs and felt an acute sensitivity in his stomach and chest that he'd never had before. Something about Draco's wording made him feel nervous and far too aware of his physicality. The last thought he had of the blonde before they zipped off into the sky for a playful ride, was that Draco Malfoy looked damn good on a broom.

George was sitting in his room, writing down his ideas for Giggling Gum, which would cause the chewer to lose control of their laughter. He smiled while writing down the ingredients he'd need; he would have to test it a lot, to make sure that hysterical laughter would ensue, but no one would suffocate. He paused in his writing, as he was sure for a moment that he'd heard shuffling feet.

He looked to his door, waiting for a pair of feet to walk by, but none did. He continued to hear the shuffling, and had somehow lost track of time, because by the time he looked down at his paper, he had written "far" messily all over the page. He dropped his quill and jumped off his bed in shock. He stared at his bed, unaware of what time it might be and he wondered if he'd been cursed. He decided to leave his room and escape the strangeness. He considered the possibility that Fred had begun haunting him.

"Mum,"

Molly looked up from her laundry and smiled at Percy, standing in her bedroom doorway. She sat cross-legged on her bed, folding piles of her aprons, dresses and blouses. She patted the space next to her and Percy silently followed the gesticulation, planting himself on the side of her bed.

"What can I do for you, Percy?" She asked sweetly.

"I need to…"

She could sense the uneasiness in Percy, and so stopped her chores. She tried making eye contact, but Percy was refusing to look up at her. When a single teardrop fell onto her comforter, she lunged forward and took her son in her arms. She cradled his head as he began to weep, she rocked them slowly and kept asking Percy what was so wrong. He was incoherent underneath the cascades of his tears, but managed to choke out,

"It should've been me, it should've been me – everyone is thinking it. It should've been me, and not Fred,"

Molly's heart sank and she tightened her hold on him,

"That's nonsense, Percy. I love you and we are a family – we all love each other. No one wants anyone dead. Your brothers and sister love you, Percy – no one would think such a horrible thing,"

He shook his head against her and felt like a small child again; words unavailable to him to express his sorrow and guilt. He knew that Fred would not wish him dead, if he were there; survivor's guilt was one thing, but being an older sibling having out-lived a younger is another. He did not know how to illustrate his pain; the pain of an older brother, unable to change the fate's design, no matter how smart or sorry.

"I couldn't protect him, I wasn't here – I didn't come home, I left and I shouldn't have – I shouldn't have and now he's gone and it should've been me, shouldn't it have? It should've been me,"

Molly hushed him and reassured him, over and over again, that he was immensely loved and forgiven. She was overcome with a feeling of dread, though; that Fred's death was killing the family. She worried that if a boy as bright as Percy could fool himself into believing that he should have known to martyr himself for his brother, that her other children must have been suffering deeply as well. But no one was speaking of it.

How can I help, if they don't tell me what's wrong?