Nothing belongs to me.
XXII: Flying
She was a good flyer. He'd give her that.
If it hadn't been for the fact that she was a Weasley and a girl, at that, she might have been a great flyer.
Draco would never admit though that he had seen her that night. When was it? One, two years ago?
He had been intending to do exactly what she managed to: break into the school's broom shed, and then hit the Quidditch pitch.
Draco could still remember how small he felt, watching her up there soaring around, flying, like some great bird, but more graceful than any bird he'd ever seen.
A deafening roar shocked him out of his reverie.
"Ginny Weasley had caught the snitch! Gryffindors win!"
His eyes combed the field for her, ah, yes. She was there, hovering near the Gryffindor goal posts.
Her broom rose steadily higher, the snitch clutched tightly in her small fist.
The afternoon sun caught the molten ruby that was her hair, creating a blazing aura brighter than any beacon. Her lips turned upward in a small smile.
Draco wondered if someone had turned off the oxygen. What other explanation could there be as to why he couldn't breathe?
He continued to stare, dazed, long after she had sped away. His classmates made no attempts to summon him, and Draco sat there stupidly as the stands emptied.
Of all the emotions, he felt, sitting there, the most familiar it seemed was confusion. Indeed, Draco could not fathom why he felt like, like he was flying, even when his feet had never even left the ground.