Harry
I've been flying blind for an eternity, zooming around in a white abyss that came so suddenly it could have been summoned by magic. I narrowly avoid colliding with players and dodge bludgers at every turn, all the while keeping my eyes peeled for any sign of the snitch. My team is as hungry for a record breaking season as I am. Somehow they've managed to score almost two dozen goals to Slytherin's nil. Now, it's up to me to bring it home.
Finally, I spot it near the ground, directly below me—a glittering speck of gold dust against a blank white sheet. But I'm not the only one who's seen it. Malfoy is already racing toward it from halfway across the pitch and I'm at least as far above it. I try to think—How close is it to the ground? How quickly can I dive? Would I be able to pull out of it in time?—but with each second that passes, Malfoy gets closer and closer. He's twenty meters away...sixteen...twelve...
I could let him have it, I think. Gryffindor has more than enough points. His catching the snitch would only end the match. But can I stand to give up a perfect season?
An invisible hand grabs my insides and twists them at the thought. Before I know it, I'm prying my frozen fingers from my broom handle, reaching into my robes, where my wand is tucked safely against my chest, breathing deeply.
"It's an insane idea," says the voice of reason. "You'll almost certainly die."
Almost certainly, I counter, meaning there's a chance. It's all the hope I need. I take a moment only to line myself up with the snitch. Then, I launch myself from my broom.
The fall takes an age. Icy air whips around me, cutting into my bare skin as I cut a path through the dense, swirling snowfall. My eyes are wide open, despite the cold, and my plan—the six word mantra—runs continuously through my mind.
Grab the snitch. Say the spell, I think over and over again, as I seem to hang weightless in the sky. Grab the snitch. Say the spell.
Then, the air breaks and I'm falling—truly falling—at lightning speed. Suddenly, the ground is rushing up to meet me. I'm ten feet above. Something small and round thwacks into the center of my open palm. The snitch! I close my fingers tightly around it. Eight feet. Six feet. Say the spell! I swing my wand arm forward and point at the ground, the incantation on the tip of my tongue when—
WHAM!
Something smashes into me and sends me careening sideways, tumbling through the air like a leaf caught in a windstorm. As I twist and spin out of control, I feel something—someone falling with me. I catch glimpses of him—an emerald green robe sleeve, silver blond hair, a dark mahogany broom handle—and try to grab ahold, but with the snitch in one hand and my wand in the other, my grip is tenuous at best. He's out of my reach before I can grasp him, and in the next heartbeat, the abyss has swallowed him whole. Terror spikes in my blood, followed swiftly by the pain of every bone in my body shattering as my descent comes to an abrupt end.
In the silent moments that follow, I feel the icy chill of death seeping through my robes and into my skin.
Open your eyes, the dead whisper. Face us...
Like a child cowering in the dark, I shake my head and squeeze my already closed eyes shut tighter. It doesn't stop them from coming, though. I can feel their greedy fingers scraping at the earth around my resting place. A hand clamps onto my arm and starts to pull me upward. I struggle against it, fighting as hard as I can to keep my place. A second hand takes my other arm, a third and fourth grab each of my shoulders, and as one, they wrench me out of the ground.
The sudden burst of light behind my eyelids catapults me into consciousness. I'm not dead, I think as I swallow thick gulps of frigid air. The ground is so cold and wet against my cheek. No, not the ground. The snow.
And then I remember. The storm! The match!
I roll myself onto my back, ignoring the at least a dozen body parts screaming in protest, and greet the circle of concerned faces hovering above me. Then, with my last ounces of strength, I lift a quavering arm, unclench my frozen fingers, and let fly my golden gift.
The pain, the cold, and the terror all drown in the wake of my rapture, because in this moment, I am not 'The Boy Who Lived','Saviour of the Wizarding World', or 'The Chosen One.' In this moment of untainted triumph, I am Harry Potter, Quidditch Hero.
~o~
The next few hours are a haze as my ability to stay conscious wanes. A roar of cheering and screaming deafens me as I'm lifted onto a stretcher. Cold brilliance gives way to warmth and darkness. I fall back onto soft, white linens. Someone is moving my limbs—raising, lowering, twisting, prodding, pinching. It hurts, but I'm powerless to stop it.
"I suppose you think you're quite clever," says a soft but stern female voice, "risking your life for a silly game!"
"Not...silly..." I murmur, feeling like my mouth is swimming away from my face as I speak.
"Don't bother trying to talk," she says. "Your little stunt cost you dearly. You've got nine broken bones and a nasty fracture in your skull. Open up."
I obey and am rewarded with a mouthful of liquid smoke. It's all I can do to keep from coughing it up spitting it back out.
"There," she says with satisfaction, and I vaguely wonder if it's with her work or my reaction. "You'll be right as rain in no time. I hope your match was worth it."
Her voice echoes as I slip into the ether of enchanted sleep. The pins and needles have already set to work mending my arm, both legs, ribs, back and head, and just before I drop off I smile and whisper, "Was..."
~o~
Hot water cascades over my body from each of the three shower heads hanging over my stall. I press my palms against the gray tiles and let the enchanted rivulets snake around my arms and legs and torso, loosening my aching, muscles. Sweetly scented steam wafts around me, and I breathe it in deeply. Its effect is instantaneous. I feel my eyelids droop as relaxation washes over me, and yet...
The tightness in my chest. It's still there.
I ran. Like a fucking coward, I read his note and I ran. I crept out of the Hospital Wing while Madame Pomfrey's back was turned and took to the corridors, his words haunting every step of my aimless journey.
'Harry, I tried to stay until you woke up but Pomfrey kicked me out. I'll be back later. Hopefully, she'll be in a better mood. Don't go anywhere. There's something I need to tell you.'
Something he needs to tell me, indeed. I turn my face up to the stream and let out a frustrated sigh. This is exactly what I was afraid would happen. Two years of holding him at arm's length, of ignoring his subtle hints at his feelings for me while I have one meaningless encounter after another with every Quidditch enthusiast from here to Hogsmeade—Two bloody years of hoping that he'll just give up on me, that he'll realize he deserves so much better—and instead he chooses to redouble his efforts.
The idiot, I can't stop myself from thinking, and I instantly feel guilty.
It's not his fault, I tell myself. The plan was stupid, anyway. And cowardly. This'll be better. A clean break.
As I reach for the soap, an uneasy feeling bristles through the hairs on the back of my neck. I freeze just in time to see a jagged jet of white light scream past my fingertips. The shelf holding the bar of soap explodes in a shower of stone and broken tiles. I throw myself back, but my body feels heavy, my senses dulled. I feel a sharp pain as a tile shard cuts across my cheek.
Heart pounding, I whip around to squint through my nearsightedness at my attacker. I make out a pale figure with white blonde hair, wearing emerald green Quidditch robes.
Draco Malfoy.
"What the hell are you—"
He raises his arm again, his wand aimed directly at me. Without thinking, I jump, tumbling across the wet floor as the wall cracks open behind me. A jet of water surges from the gap. He takes aim again. I touch my thigh and think of the wand sitting on top of my quidditch robes with a pang of regret. I have no defense, and now no cover, so I embrace the only option left to me.
Before I can think better of it, I'm on my feet and running. My legs feel heavy, hard to maneuver. I lumber towards Malfoy, clumsily dodging two more of his curses until my body collides with his. We stumble back and fall in a tangle of flailing limbs. The floor rushes past our heads as we plunge into the empty swimming pool sized bathtub in the middle of the room. I brace myself for the crushing impact, but it never comes. Instead, the air tightens around us, slowing our descent like a bungee cord. We come to a stop with our faces barely an inch from the tub's marble bottom. Then, we're launched back out of the tub, into the air.
My back hits the floor tiles with a wet smack. Malfoy lands in a heap on the next to me. He attacks without hesitation, scrambling on top of me, straddling my torso. His fist slams into my cheek. Blood sprays from my mouth, mingling with the water pooling beneath my head. He wraps his fingers around my neck, his palms pressing against my throat. I can see his eyes, bloodshot red and shining with tears.
"You cheating bastard," he growls, squeezing tighter and tighter.
White lights are popping in my eyes. I try to blink them away, but it only makes them worse. My chest is spasming, desperate to fill my lungs with air. I dig my fingernails into his hands, his arms, his face full of rage, but his hold is firm.
Then, in a moment of clarity, I reach above me, scrabbling at the floor beyond my head for something—anything useful as the room starts to go dark. Mercifully, my fingers brush against something solid and slippery. The bar of soap! I grasp it and, rallying all the strength I have left, I take a madcap swing at Malfoy's head.
The bar and my fist both connect with the side of his face. I hear him grunt in pain before his weight lifts off of my body. Suddenly, I am coughing, wheezing, choking on the air rushing into my lungs. I sit up as quickly as I can, my head still spinning. His wand is laying on the floor, halfway between me and the row of shower stalls. If I can just reach it...
I try to crawl. His fingers are around my ankle in seconds, yanking me back. I try to fight, to kick him off, but the floor is so slick that my arms slip out from underneath me. He rolls me onto my back and takes another swing at my face. This time, I'm ready. I block his punch and counter with one of my own. My knuckles ram against his mouth. I feel slicing open as they run across his teeth. Before he can recover from the shock, I grab the lapels of his robes and throw him onto the floor.
The upper hand now mine, I pin him down—his arms with my hands, his torso with my torso. He struggles wildly beneath me, trying to buck me off like a rabid hippogriff, but we both know I was always the stronger of the two of us. I hold him fast, and slowly, he loses steam. His body eventually goes limp, his head falls back to the floor, and he looks up at me defeated, breathing heavily, with one question in his eyes:
What now?
It's the question I am asking myself, at the moment. How am I going to make him pay for attacking me when I was most vulnerable, for nearly strangling me to death? Instinct tells me that to pay him in kind would be to sink to his level, but the dark part of me that feels the bruises forming on my neck and my back and my face wants him to suffer. I lean forward to pronounce my judgement. Without warning, his head rushes toward my face. I have just enough time to brace myself for the pain of impact before his lips capture mine.
Our mouths come apart as quickly as they had come together. I stare at him in shock. He rears forward for another assault and my body reacts before my brain can process what's happening. I meet his lips with equal force, parting them, delving into his depths with my tongue, swimming in the mix of blood and firewhiskey. His wrists are twisting in my fingers, begging freedom. I release them. Suddenly, eager, slender hands are grasping my shoulders, moving up my neck, burying themselves in my hair, running over my back, squeezing the cheeks of my arse and swells of arousal pulse through me in their wake.
I moan into his mouth, my senses finally awakened to the desires of my body. My cock throbs between our torsos, aching with yearning to feel his touch. I claw at his robes, silently threatening to tear them off his body. He pushes his chest against me and I happily relinquish control to him. I let him roll me onto my back, our mouths still working frantically against each other. Then, all at once, he pulls away. He places a hand on my chest and, too late, I see his other arm rear back. I feel my eyes widen in shock before he swings his fist into the base of my jaw and everything goes black.
AN: So many apologies! I can't even begin to describe the trouble I've had with this chapter! I had it almost finished and then, in a sudden stroke of inspiration, I decided to flex my authorial muscles and add a layer of depth to it that wasn't in the original plan. Two and a half months of looking at this chapter every day later, I am frustrated and just glad that I've managed to bring it to some kind of end. So, needless to say, it's not my best by far and I'm nowhere near happy with it, but I'm exhausted and I've decided that if I want to finish this story before the end of the year, I'll just have to fix this chapter later. I hate to post mediocre work, but I can't let perfectionist brain get the better of me. As always, thanks for reading. Please review!