- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
To Enjoy the Time
While fates permit us, let's be merry;
Pass all we must the fatal ferry;
And this our life, too, whirls away,
With the rotation of the day.
Robert Herrick
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
-
11. Quit Itch
-
The billowing sea of green seemed to stretch on for miles, occasionally broken by islands of foliage. The sun's fading rays spilled upon the tranquil countryside, casting the lone wanderer's skin in rich hues of magenta and gold. She lay on her back, her small, delicate frame almost concealed completely by the tall, wind-blown grass, looking to all the world asleep as the day's dying light played upon her fair features. The last of the sky's vibrance slowly stole away, a symphony of shadows its successor. The night had arrived. And she had woken.
As the years progressed, she had taken on an increasingly nocturnal quality, whether by necessity or will she wasn't certain. She supposed it began with the accursed late shifts at the Doublemeat Palace. That was then that she had first sought solace in the muted tones of twilight during that disastrous year, seeking refuge from the harsh abrasive day and the reality of her bleak existence that came with it. It was what led her to him. She would have never believed at that time that their torrid affair would amount to anything besides a wanton distraction. Just the animalistic coupling of two bodies. Mutually assured destruction in the definitive sense of the word.
She didn't so much as bat an eye when he stole away like a thief in the night.
How things had changed afterwards.
How he had changed but yet still stayed the same.
She missed him. After Sunnydale. Now. Missed him with a desperate ache that clawed at her heart.
Her small hand glided through the supple blades of grass, which glinted silver in the moonlight. As inky blackness descended, the boundless expanse of clear sky began to glisten with infinite diamonds. She sank further into the green, taking solace in the stillness she had sought increasingly over the years. Yet, the memories came as they always would; a relentless flood of sights and sounds pulling her back, drowning her.
He came to her always, unbidden, elusive as the tendrils of smoke that used to curl from his ever-present cigarette. Amid the pressing tangle of sweaty club-goers she'd glimpse a flash of white-blonde and her breath would hitch, her heart would skip—but only for a second. During the late, lonely watches of the night she'd catch that telltale swagger and theatrical billow of black leather, only to find an unwitting imposter. At the sound of every Cockney accent her head would whip round.
Once, Willow had asked her why she loved him. She couldn't produce a coherent response at the time. But now in the desolation of his absence, she knew. She didn't love him for loving her above all else; selfless, reverent, and reckless. She didn't love him for saving the world. She loves him for allowing her to simply be.
Hey, look at me. I'm not asking you for anything. When I say I love you, it's not because I want you, or because I can't have you. It has nothing to do with me. I love what you are, what you do, how you try. I've seen your kindness and your strength. I've seen the best and the worst of you and I understand with perfect clarity exactly what you are. You are a hell of a woman.
She remembered the tears streaming down her cheeks as she stared down at him kneeling before her. She recalled the raw look of adoration on his face, despite all the horrible, unspeakable things she had done to him—or maybe it was because of those things.
You're the one, Buffy.
And he had loved her in spite of that. What they had wasn't the star-crossed romance with Angel, or the carefree dalliances she partook in with numerous others. What they shared was that much more real and messy, like life itself.
So this is your favorite place in the whole world?
Yeh. Well, other than your magnificent quim, that is, he responded with his trademark smirk and quirked eyebrow, gazing at her with that look of lewd reverence that always made her feel like she was the Venus De Milo of his universe in all her naked glory.
Buffy sighed long and deep, as though the act alone would expel some measure of the abject emptiness that filled her body. It was too soon to come back to this place, for her treacherous mind associated too many memories with this little piece of heaven. It didn't seem to make a difference that she had finally gotten around to visiting Angel's various real estate holdings once she had worked up enough courage. Perhaps it was because she had been apart from the souled vampire for so long that the wounds were no longer fresh, she reasoned.
Not so much with Spike.
Letting out another long breath, she emerged suddenly from the rolling cascade of deepest green like a nymph from the seas and studied the position of the pale crescent moon with a keenness that had been acquired through a decade of experience. The night was still young. With a soft 'pop' the idyllic countryside lay once more undisturbed and the Slayer surrendered once more to the siren call of the hunt.
-
Harry hurried to catch up. Buffy pivoted round, the brief faraway look slipping off her face immediately to be replaced by one of carefully schooled neutrality.
"Oh, hey Harry."
"Where've you been all week?" Ron asked as he and Hermione fell into step with the duo.
"Around. Didn't feel much like being here," she shrugged absently.
Hermione looked positively scandalized by Eliza's blatant disregard for classroom attendance. Harry was about to ask the petite blonde where she had gone when someone called his name from behind. He turned reluctantly around to see Pavarti Patil striding towards him with a small roll of parchment.
"Professor Dumbledore asked me to give you this," she explained, already moving off.
"Thanks," Harry called after her retreating form.
He stopped in the middle of the hallway, hastily unrolling the parchment as Ron and Hermione looked over his shoulder to read along.
Dear Harry,
It's time to continue our private lessons again.
Please come to my office at eight p.m. next
Saturday. I hope you've enjoyed your first
two weeks back at school.
Yours truly,
Albus Dumbledore
P.S. I recommend Fizzing Whizbees.
Harry stuffed the parchment roll into his trouser pocket as soon as he'd finished, eager to continue his chat with Eliza. Yet as he glanced around, she was nowhere in sight. With a wistful sigh, he concluded that the girl must have slipped off when Pavarti showed up. The black-haired Gryffindor couldn't help feeling a tinge of disappointment as Ron and Hermione began to speculate animatedly on what the Headmaster's new lessons would entail. Harry's attention flitted in and out of their discussion as he scanned the Great Hall for some sign of the mysterious blonde every few minutes, but she had eluded him once again.
-
"You really should eat something, Ron," Hermione wheedled while discreetly nudging a plate of toast in his direction, which he unfortunately failed to notice.
"Yeah, Ron. You'll do great! You're the best Keeper Gryffindor's got!" Harry added.
Despite his outward enthusiasm, Quidditch had lost some of its appeal for Harry ever since he and Dumbledore had uncovered the truth about Voldemort's horcruxes. Sure, the Seventh-year still loved everything about the sport, especially its sense of freedom and the elation of a win, but it seemed to pale in comparison to the grand scheme of things. Harry supposed it was a sign that he was finally growing up, or something along those lines.
The trio arrived at the Quidditch pitch five minutes to eight. Harry held no great sense of anticipation as he surveyed the new year's turnout for the house trials. (Although, he was ecstatic to find McLaggen missing from the large crowd. Not back by popular demand.) Hermione quickly wished Ron good luck before heading for the stands to secure herself a good spot before they were all taken. Ron's complexion instantly turned slightly less pallid as the bushy-haired Head Girl gave him an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder. Not for the first time, it made Harry wonder when his two best friends would finally get a clue.
Harry decided to conduct the try-outs in the same format as before, which had seemed to work well enough. Four and one half grueling hours later, he was pleased to find himself with the previous year's teammates all returning: Dean Thomas, Demelza Robins, and Ginny Weasley as Chasers; a slightly taller Jimmy Peakes and more filled-out Ritchie Coote as Beaters; and Ron Weasley as Keeper. Harry whirled round to face his assembled team.
"Well done, everyone," he praised, "you all flew brilliantly today!" he cheered, pumping a fist in the air for added emphasis.
Harry tensed momentarily when his gaze fell upon Ginny. To his extreme relief, she nodded in acknowledgement after an awkward second and he quickly did likewise. Somehow, he knew then that things would be alright between the two of them, that they would never suffer the unbearable awkwardness that had plagued his every encounter with Cho after their horrid breakup.
"Ron!"
Hermione came running towards them looking very happy. She surprised everyone by flinging her arms around Ron, engulfing him in a great, big hug.
"You were incredible!" she gushed while Ron had belatedly realized what was going on and shyly set her back down on the grassy field.
Two spots of deep pink appeared high on Ron's cheeks, growing larger each second until they encompassed his entire face.
"Thanks, 'Mione," Ron replied sheepishly, now suddenly becoming painfully aware that everyone's eye had turned to Hermione and himself.
"Hey team," Harry began quickly, hoping to divert their attention, "the first practice is this Wednesday morning at eight. Can everyone make it?"
His question was met with six nods of assent. Harry dismissed them after saying his farewells and turned to regard his two best friends. Ron was bouncing on the balls of his feet as he excitedly recounted every save to a beaming and highly amused Hermione. Maybe they aren't as clueless as I thought, Harry smiled inwardly.
"You guys go on ahead," said Harry, "I'll clean up here and catch up later."
Ron and Hermione turned around looking startled. Apparently, they had forgotten that Harry was even there.
"Alright then, mate," Ron answered, eager to be off.
"See you later, Harry," Hermione smiled graciously, calling after the black-haired Gryffindor House Quidditch captain as he picked up his broom and the Quidditch set suitcase and headed off for their locker room.
As Harry made his way back across the school's large side lawn, one solitary figure far beyond the multitude of students basking in the last days of summer caught his eye: the person he had most wanted to find for days now. The Seventh-year could just make out the blonde's tiny frame sitting Indian-style and perfectly still beneath the shade of a secluded giant oak. Grinning in pleasant surprise, he halted mid-stride and made a beeline for Eliza Ashbery. As he drew near, her hazel eyes snapped open and fell on the broomstick in his right hand.
"What are you doing, sitting here all by your lonesome?" he asked curiously.
"Meditating."
Harry was suddenly struck with the thought that Eliza might be one of those barking mad New Age enthusiasts like his friend Luna Lovegood. But just as quickly, he rejected the idea. After all, she didn't look the least bit insane in his opinion.
"So, did Professor Snake sentence you to cleaning duty this weekend?" she quipped, her gaze shifting to the broom clutched in his hand.
"What? Oh," Harry chuckled, "Thankfully, not today."
"So what's with the broom then?"
"You're serious?" he asked incredulously, certain that the girl was pulling his leg. When he was met with a blank look, Harry burst out, "How can you be a witch and not know about Quidditch!"
Buffy shrugged, unconcerned, "I'm kinda new to all this wizardy magic stuff. What's Quit Itch anyway? Brooms being marketed as the new fangled back scratcher?"
"What? No!" Harry gasped, looking as if she had just suggested that they should eat babies for lunch with a smear of jam. "Quidditch is a wizarding sport! It's the most popular game in the wizarding world, actually. It's a sport where the players fly on broomsticks and-"
"You're kidding!" she exclaimed, interrupting his explanation mid-sentence. "You're saying that people actually ride on those things?" the Slayer asked, eyeing his broom quite skeptically.
"Yeah, of course," Harry replied, clutching his beloved broomstick rather defensively, "this is a Thunderbolt, one of the fastest professional brooms you can buy."
"Uh huh," she muttered, not hearing the rest of his words as the image of Professor McGonagall wearing her witch's hat and riding a broom silhouetted against the backdrop of a gigantic full moon popped suddenly into her mind while the theme song to that old television program Bewitched began playing in the background. Unable to contain herself, Buffy's head tipped back as a stream of boisterous laughter suddenly bubbled forth. It was simply too much cliché proving true for her to handle.
Harry shifted on his feet awkwardly before he succumbed to her infectious mirth. It looked to her as if he hadn't laughed for a long while himself. They went on for seemingly hours until both were desperately short of breath and holding their agonized sides that felt as if they were in serious danger of splitting open.
"Thanks," Buffy croaked as another giggle escaped from her lips.
Laughter had become precious to her. Buffy couldn't remember herself ever laughing so hard after the third awakening except when she was with the quirky Headmaster. Glad to have found another person who could make her laugh, the veteran Slayer watched Harry as he gazed down at her and smiled. For a brief moment, she was struck by the intensity of his uncannily vivid green eyes glittering behind his glasses and how the radiant sunshine played up his classically handsome features in a way that she had never noticed before. His face was lit up in a great big smile with such ardor and unspoilt genuineness that it touched a place deep inside her, which resonated with a warm, tingling glow. For perhaps the first time since the incident, Buffy decided to lower the insurmountable barriers she'd erected around herself.
"I really needed that," she said with uncharacteristic candor, her eyes becoming less closed-off for the moment.
Harry thought she looked even more beautiful like that.
"I admit it does sound a bit ridiculous if you think about it," he returned with a self-deprecating grin.
Harry knew it was a long shot, but at that point he would have used just about any miserable, pathetic excuse to spend more time with her. He hoped there was a bigger chance now that he'd put Eliza in a good mood.
"Do you want to give it a try?" he asked tentatively, "I swear it's a lot more fun than it looks."
"I don't know—" Buffy hesitated. She was having problems with the phallic nature of it all. And the seating space looked about as comfy as a—well, a stick between one's legs.
"Come on, Eliza! You're not afraid of heights, are you?"
To Harry's immense relief, his last question seemed to get a rise out of her. Buffy sprang to her feet with preternatural grace and deftly pulled her hair up into a ponytail. It was then that he noticed the nasty-looking gash running down the underside of her left arm and another cut exposed by her upraised shirt.
"What happened to your arm?" he asked without thinking.
"Angry puppy," Buffy shrugged, her terseness clearly indicating that she didn't want to dwell on the topic. "Okay, I'm ready," she prompted, her tone instantly more guarded and her eyes veiled, "So what's the what?"
It took Harry a couple of seconds to decipher her slang. He decided to save pondering over her injuries for later and summoned up his broom. The black-haired Gryffindor gestured for her to stand at the front of the Thunderbolt after he had settled himself towards the back.
"Just climb on and hold tight," he instructed.
Shooting the young wizard another dubious glance, she sighed and swung a leg over the broomstick. Settling in, Buffy found much to her surprise that it was actually somewhat comfortable. Must be one of those hidden magic charms.
The blonde Slayer did as told, "Like this?"
"Perfect," said Harry.
He leaned forward to grip the handle, his arms encircling Buffy's small frame in the process. Harry briefly pressed his nose into her soft hair and decided that she smelled irresistible, good enough to eat with the notes of jasmine, citrus, and something unmistakably earthy.
"Hang on," Harry whispered, his hot breath intimately tickling her ear.
The pair shot straight upward on the Thunderbolt as Harry kicked forcefully off from the ground. As they soared through the air, Buffy was at once struck with the heady rush of boundless freedom that could only be experienced while flying. They circled once around the Hogwarts castle, the bird's eye view allowing the blonde Slayer to fully appreciate its sheer breadth and intricacy of design. This is way better than a roller coaster, she noted to herself as Harry veered off suddenly, shouting to be heard in the gushing wind as he freed a hand to point at the football stadium sized plot of land lying below them.
"THAT'S THE QUIDDITCH PITCH DOWN THERE."
With a burst of speed, he steered them around the triple goal posts on either side and weaved them through several of the elevated stands. Then, Buffy and Harry were sailing over the Forbidden Forest, which in her opinion looked much less foreboding from afar, and tracing the slopes of the surrounding mountains.
"HOW HIGH CAN THIS THING GO?" Buffy asked, surprisingly enjoying herself.
"LET'S FIND OUT!" he hollered back, all of a sudden feeling adventurous.
Harry tugged the Thunderbolt's handle sharply and they climbed higher and higher into the clear midday sky. He stopped their ascent when the air around them began to feel significantly colder and thinner. Harry glanced down to see the massive Hogwarts castle reduced to the size of a matchbox.
"It's so peaceful up here—it's perfect," Buffy observed, more breathless from the awe-inspiring view than the altitude.
"We can stay for a bit if you like," the Seventh-year Gryffindor offered.
She twisted around on the broom with a gracious smile alighting her pixie-like features, "Thank you, Harry."
He thought she looked impossibly more gorgeous then with her tan skin aglow, blonde hair gleaming gold, and normally dark eyes a curious blend of blue and green with flecks of amber in the bright natural illumination. Resplendent. Harry grew emboldened and ventured to hold her a little closer. He was very glad that Eliza had straightened again and was therefore unable to see the goofy grin that had split across his face when she didn't shift away from his embrace.
"Don't mention it."
Eventually, they began finding it a bit difficult to breathe and Harry broke the comfortable silence with great reluctance.
"Ready to go back?"
"Yeah," the Slayer sighed a little wistfully.
"The fast way or the slow way?"
"Surprise me," she whispered with a smile in her voice.
Buffy let out a startled gasp as Harry pushed down on the Thunderbolt's handle with unexpected force, tipping them into an almost vertical drop. They sliced through the air with the giddy feeling of weightlessness.
"DID ANYONE EVER TELL YOU THAT YOU'RE CRAZY?" she yelled, her amused laughter muffled in the whipping wind.
"I'LL TAKE THAT AS A COMPLIMENT!" Harry hollered back.
As the ground rose up sharply to meet them, a nagging anxiety grew in the pit of Buffy's stomach. There were far better ways to kick the bucket than falling to painful death, she should know. Besides, been there, done that.
"HARRY, PULL UP!" she warned with twenty-five feet between the pair and their imminent ugly demise, but he simply ignored her.
"HARRY!"
The Slayer was about to taking measures into her own hands when Harry yanked roughly on the Thunderbolt's handle with less than two feet to spare. Miraculously, the broom tilted back with a jerk into a horizontal position and slowed to a stop right in front of the same oak tree.
"Wow!" Buffy breathed with a dazed expression as soon as their feet had touched down on the grass. "I gotta get myself one of these babies."
Harry grinned widely as he watched her pick up the now lifeless Thunderbolt and examine it with new-found interest.
"I can show you how to ride it yourself," he offered.
"Th—"
Buffy's reply was cut short by a loud rumble that erupted from the Gryffindor's stomach. Harry ducked his head in embarrassment as his cheeks predictably inflamed. He should have known that things had been going too well to last.
"I'd love to, but it sounds like your stomach has other plans," she smiled in understanding and handed the broomstick back with great care.
"Er—do you want to have lunch together instead?"
"Nah, not hungry. But thanks for the ride, it was absolutely amazing."
Harry grinned again, feeling extremely pleased with himself, "Well, let me know when you want the lesson then."
"I will," Buffy promised before resuming her earlier seated position.
"Bye Eliza."
Harry strode back across the lawn and into the Great Hall, the satisfied grin never once leaving his face. Ron and Hermione were already working on dessert by the time Harry reached the Gryffindor table.
"What took you so long?" Ron asked in between inhaling towering scoops of his chocolate sundae, luckily his complexion had returned from the earlier sickly green to a more normal color.
"I took the Thunderbolt out for another spin, must've lost track of the time," he shrugged, holding up his beloved new Quidditch broom as evidence.
Hermione appeared ready to question Harry on the reason behind his silly grin but got distracted when Ron stole the cherry from her own sundae and popped it with flourish into his waiting mouth.
"Ronald Weasley!"
Smack.
"Ouch, 'Mione!"