Running Without Wings

Harry was running. His feet beat a steady rhythm on the pavement, the sound reverberating in the night air. Icy breezes tore at his hair and face, blowing through his thin shirt and chilling his skin. Darkness rushed by on either side, flashes of black that ran past him in inky streams. Stars cast a cold, bare light from the moonless sky and threw pale ghosts of shadows on the dark grey pavement. The only other sound apart from his feet was his own breath.

Harry loved to run. As a child, running had been a necessity, his only escape, his only way out. It was still his primal instinct when in danger. Run. Not what the world expected from brave Harry Potter. In their eyes, Harry Potter would stay and fight, run headlong into danger, rather than away from it. They were only half wrong. To stay and fight was a reaction, almost an instinctive one. Almost, but not quite. His instinct was to run. It was drilled into him, built into his psyche by countless arguments, almost daily punches and cuffs right from age three. If they couldn't catch him, they couldn't hurt him. Running kept him safe.

Safe, and secure, as well. If he was running, he was in control. He ran where he wanted to, as fast or as slow, or as long as he liked. He had no need, opportunity or inclination to please anyone else while he ran. It was something he did for himself. Go left. Turn here. Slow down.

His breath was ragged as he slowed down, albeit not stopping altogether just yet. Dark shapes came into focus, resolving into the familiar forms of trees, houses and fences. He could make out windows, lighter patches against the black pools of their walls. Running faster made those patches mingle with the dark background, hiding them from view. Running faster stripped away excess baggage, not making differentiations unless with things that were inherently different. Running was impartial.

Slowing down caused him to pant, to breathe heavily in a manner that he did not require to when running faster. When younger, this had made him think running faster was easier than going slow. Running faster seemed to negate his need for air, for the sustenance that came with it. That it required less energy, less oxygen, less effort.

As he'd grown up, he realized he was right. Not being able to run at that speed felt like he was being fettered, bound and imprisoned. Like a bird unable to use its full wingspan, or a storm forced to blow like a zephyr.

He quickened his pace, tearing like a blade into the night, running on the balls of his feet. Cold rivers of air parted before him, with a whisper that grew steadily louder till it was a piercing howl in his ears. He could hear nothing else, not even the sound of his own feet on the pavement. His heart pounded, in perfect harmony with the harsh breeze against his face, making his eyes water. He was racing the wind, contesting the elements. The wind screamed against his throat, acknowledging the challenge.

He shifted his weight to his toes, his step lighter and lighter till he was no longer running, was no longer even touching the ground. He was flying, the world falling away beneath his feet and the heavens opening up to greet him. This was where running became something altogether different from what it was to other people, he felt like he had been given the wings so long denied to mankind, it was in moments like this, that running began to fill the void that his broomstick left in the months he spent unable to use it. The same thrill, the same rush of air in his face, the same hammering in his heart, the same rush of blood in his veins.

At this point running was a release, a liberation. It left his fear, his grief and his consciousness behind him, and he could feel his body fall away, until running was no longer corporeal, no longer the work of his legs, but the soaring flight of him, Harry, himself. It stripped him of anger, of sorrow, of dread, of weariness, of pain.

He was still running away, then, still escaping, but he had forgotten what he was running from. Could no longer remember what he was running to. He had forgotten the beginning, forgotten the destination. All he knew was the road, the journey. A journey he made alone. Running required no company.

He no longer raced the wind, but in a way he was racing himself. Measuring himself by his own yardstick, not by the one the world dictated. Not the benchmarks they would have their hero use, but his own, more exact standards. It was here and now that he loved himself best, in the darkness, in the intrinsic joy of speed, in the pure joy that it is and always will be, to fly, to soar, to go beyond. It was only like this that he could accept himself, could see himself for what he was, with all his limitations, his set boundaries and ideals, his duties, and unquestioningly take them on, recognise them, and love them, as innately being his.

This was the peak, and he could go no higher. He would tarry a while longer here, where he could be free. Here, in this place that belonged exclusively to him, him alone. It was this place, this instant, that defined him as who he was, just as he defined it, strived for, and loved it. It made him fearless, inextinguishable. Whatever doom fate had prepared for his body, here he would come in the end, here he would stay.

He lingered a little, knowing that with slowing down all his self-doubts, his fear and pains would return. Yet

slow down he must, for that was life. He would return tomorrow. No matter what stood in his way, he would return , as always. Return, and every time stay longer, till at last the time would come, when he need never leave.

He let out a slow, exhaling breath as the wind - the earth's own wind - welcomed him back with a screaming cry in his ears. It grew softer as he slowed his pace, diminishing to a whisper as he drew to a near-standstill. He did not really stop. He never stopped.

Houses and trees met his gaze, the cold glare of the stars winking off the glass panes of the windows. Smells of warm, wet earth reached him as he breathed in several short breaths to calm his lungs. Almost stationary, he regulated his breathing, slowing it from a desperate pant for air to a calm request for oxygen.

Harry checked his watch, noted the time, and took the way back, running, as always. Behind him, the darkness echoed for a moment with the sound of his steps, until they faded away into silence in the crisp night air.