Harry Potter sat on his broom, flying in lazy circles. He'd read all the books Hermione had found in the Restricted Section from cover to cover, and now he just had to do it. And Quiddich practice was exactly the breeze he needed.
Literally, in this case.
Harry Potter's room had always been dark - and when he'd slept, when it wasn't light outside, it was often pitch black. He'd gotten used to being quiet, not wasting electricity, feeling his way in the dark.
The wind, the air, in the sky - it was even more invisible. And Harry knew his sense of touch was keener than most, anyway.
So his thoughts, his memories were flung skyward, molded into different gusts of wind, some halycon, others fierce. And the most secret of all went past the stratosphere, up into the Heaviside layer - surrounded by Muggle static electricity, powered by his own belief.
Down on the ground, he made another memory castle. One full of fake memories, of ones that he could use as bait. Or as traps. Harry'd stored enough of his safe memories there, anyway... but there were duplicates. His memories were his, and he cared far less that someone might read them, than that they might destroy them.
Without his memories, who was he, really?
Just another stupid Gryffindor.
That wasn't happening, never ever.
[a/n: Just a view from the sky, Harry's hair ruffled by the wind. As you might have noticed, he doesn't really pay much attention to Quiddich practice.
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