AN: Harry Potter doesn't belong to me. Neither do the songs I used. So if you want to sue someone, don't make it me.



Beautiful Purple Mountain.





In the mountains beyond Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, there are many cliffs and canyons, staggering mountain-scapes that claw endlessly at the sky. There, the raw bones of the earth push up through the soft valleys and impose themselves upon the heavens. There is no place more basic or elemental, no place more trapped between earth and sky, than the heights of those mountains.

Inaccessible from below, the only way to reach those forlorn heights is by air. It is a treacherous flight through the buffeting crosswinds that batter themselves ceaselessly against the rocky peaks.

Few dare make the flight, believing the rewards not to be worth the risks. Of the few who do ride the winds into the heights, fewer still do the mountains welcome back again. But for one with a love of solitude, the reward *is* great and more than enough to lure the flyer back time after time.

The peaks are lonely that high. Eagles shun the windswept cliffs for safer eyries. It is cold and desolate, but beautiful in harsh way and oh so invigorating. The mind expands outwards, unbound. There are no borders set, there on the edge between the heavens and the earth. The solitude is complete and one could imagine the world devoid of another living soul. No one to demand, no one to judge, no one to disappoint. Just sturdy enduring peaks, buffeting, freezing winds and limitless expanses of pale sky.

This day the peaks are not empty.

A figure huddles, black against the white stone of the ledge. The ledge is wide and sheltered from the winds by a rocky outcrop, but the boy is pressed in the corner furthest from the drop. He is curled in on himself, legs drawn close to the thin chest, and arms wrapped convulsively tight about them. His pale cheek is pressed to his knees and his black cloak is tucked haphazardly about his trembling shoulders. A fitful eddy of ice- drawn air dances in his black hair.

The green eyes blink open. They dart to empty drop not five feet from him and quickly slide shut, a forlorn tear slipping from the corner, and one wonders how it is that this boy, so obviously afraid of the heights he finds himself at, made it here in the first place.

The mountains know all and never before have they witnessed this boy amongst their peaks alone. Always he had followed behind a boy of blonde and crept close to the other when they sat.

The wind stirs and ghosts back distant voices from those forgotten afternoons.

~ Harry, if you don't open your eyes, you're going to run into the mountain! ~

~ I can't Draco! You know I can't stand heights! ~

~ This from the great Gryffindor Seeker? ~

~ That was a long time ago! Before.... ~

~ Well, I never thought I'd see the day that Potter admitted defeat. ~

~ Malfoy.... ~

~ Ha! I got you to open your eyes! Now keep them open. Here, take my hand if it will make you feel any better.... ~

The wind shifts and brings new memories with it.

~ I've always loved it up here.. ~

~ Thanks. ~

~ For what? ~

~ Giving me back the confidence to fly. After.... after... ~

~ You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.... ~

~ No, I have to.... After Voldemort hexed.... hexed.. ~

~ Your brooms. ~

~ Ron and Sirius were unconscious, but Hermione... She.... She was *begging* me Draco. Begging me to get her down.... I couldn't move. My hands were stuck and the brooms kept carrying us higher. And then Voldemort was there. He laughed, and Hermione.... Hermione.... ~

~ She fell. ~

~ .... After that I couldn't look at a broom. I was too afraid.... But you gave it all back to me. ~

~ Yeah, well. You can't let the bastards keep you down. ~

Once more the wind shifts, dancing with the memories of another afternoon.

~ Ohgodsohgodsohgodsoh- ~

~ Harry! Look at me. ~

~ -Godsohgodsoh- ~

~ Harry, please look at me! Listen to my voice:

~ I believe I can fly.

~ I believe I can touch the sky -

~ Sing it with me! ~

~ I - I think about - it every night and day. ~

~ Good!

~ Spread my wings and fly away. ~

~ ~ I believe I can fly. ~ ~

~ ~ I believe I can fly. ~ ~

Desperation perhaps, or desolation, or pain unfathomable, drove the boy to the peaks this afternoon, where he had never ventured alone.

The wind dies, taking with it the echoes of days past.

The green eyes open again, searching desperately for something that is not there, for something that will never be there again. Two more tears escape and roll desperately down the pallid cheeks.

A thready whisper of song falls from his mouth.

'I believe I can fly,' he chokes and buries his head in the folds of his cloak. The next lyrics are muffled, 'I believe I can touch.... the.... sky....'

The rocking starts then, gentle at first.

'Draco,' sobs the most forlorn of voices, 'Draco.'

The rocking intensifies, 'I think about it every night and day,

'Spread my wings and -' The rocking stops. The final words are whispered, '- and fly away.'

Suddenly the black head slams back into the rock face behind him and a cry is torn from the heaving chest, 'DRACO!'

The wind stirs again, picking up the cry and delivering it back magnified. It echoes from the past....

~ Draco! ~

~ Harry! Help me! I can't hold on! ~

~ You have to Draco! Don't you dare let go. ~

~ Harry.... I'm slipping.... ~

~ Well, stop it. I'm coming down to get you. ~

~ Don't be an idiot. You'll get stuck as well. ~

~ I'm not just going to leave you hanging there, Malfoy. ~

~ I told you not to be an idiot, Potter. ~

~ What then? ~

~ .... Love you. ~

~ No.... No. Not like this. Not again. Don't let go. Don't! NO!

~ DRACO! ~

The wind sobs and wails through the cliffs.

Curled in on himself once again, the black haired boy echoes the sob, 'Draco....'

He scrubs futilely at the tears that now stream down his cheeks.

'I believe I can fly,' he falters, 'I believe I can touch the sky,

'I think about it every night and day,

'Spread my wings and fly away,

'I believe I can fly,' his voice breaks and he doesn't attempt to finish. He stares fixedly into the heavens, his eyes dry now. When the sun begins to glint in his eyes, he stirs.

He stands, back still pressed to the rockface behind him. Clutching his broom in one hand, he shuffles cautiously to the edge. He stands for a long moment, staring at the distant valley floor.

His voice steady again, he sings, 'I can't stand to fly.

'I'm not that naïve.

'Men weren't meant to ride

'With brooms between their knees.'

Lifting his eyes from the depths of the valley, he gazes once more out over the lonely beauty of the mountain heights.

He mounts his broom and plummets straight down from the ledge, the valley floor rushing gleefully up to meet him. He is determined that he will never fly these heights again, never sit another broom.

The wind through the peaks screams.





Finis



AN: Just a little something I cooked up. Primarily because I wasn't getting anywhere with chapter nineteen of 'The Blood Connection'. That's been left (very) temporarily hanging.

Anyways, what did you think?

Please tell me....