Learning to Fly

*****

"A soul in tension that's learning to fly,
condition grounded but determined to try.
Can't keep my eyes from the -circling- skies,
tongue-tied and twisted, just an earth-bound misfit, I."

~ Learning to Fly, Pink Floyd

I remember the first time I flew vividly.

The other details of the day escape me - I couldn't tell you about what I had for breakfast that day, or what I wore, but I could describe in explicit detail what it felt like to have the wind rush through my hair. To feel weightless and boundless, as if I had just grown a pair of wings and the entire sky was now open to me as my own, private domain. To swerve and sway through the sky with utter freedom of movement and an infinite number of possibilities... the world renewed and born again. I could even describe the corresponding elation and adrenaline that coursed through my veins as a result of this one, perfect action and the vow that wherever I ended up, I would never let go of this one memory; holding it dear to me - forever close to my heart.

I had been six, and my father, very nearly obsessed with the game of Quidditch and desperately wanting me to share in that interest, had decided that early lessons on a broom wouldn't go astray, despite the decree that wizarding children were required to wait for schooling before engaging in such a feet.

My father's eyes had twinkled as he had informed me one morning of his plans, his giddiness on my behalf nearly radiating off of him in droves. My mother had simply clucked, and shook her head, amused at my father's child-like excitement over divulging the gift of flight onto his son and my extremely apparent eagerness.

She had watched from the doorway of our house as my father took me out on the lawn and taught me how to summon the broom to my hand, and mount it. From there he stepped back, eyes glowing, and imparted onto me the bit of advice that I would come to know as his trademark...

"Kick off the ground with your feet, Oliver, and aim towards the sky. There is nothing holding you back, my boy, nothing."

And then I flew and was instantly transformed.

At the time I made a picture in my mind of how I must have looked elevated in the air, my face radiating pure, unadulterated joy.

Years later I was to witness first hand what that expression must have looked like, for I saw it, appearing just as I had imagined it would, reflected off another.

Harry Potter.

The boy who impacted the world and saved a society, but who would always be, to me, the one soul who knew, understood and appreciated what it was to fly.

*****

A new season of Quidditch was always exciting for me. There was a familiarity to it, like coming home, and a charge of adrenaline. Some of my fellow players would return for a new season, some would not. New people would be introduced, and anything was possible - anything could happen. And this year there was even more cause for celebration... just three months prior, Voldemort, the dominant force that had cast a proverbial black cloud over the entirety of the wizarding community, had been defeated by Harry Potter.

The details of Voldemort's demise were sketchy at best. The Puddlemere players, like the other Quidditch teams, I imagine, had been somewhat sheltered from the war. We only knew that occasionally the threat became so heinous that a game would be cancelled - the ministry wanting to ensure that not too many wizards were stuck in one location, just ripe for an attack by unruly Death Eaters.

We had the papers, of course, but coverage of the war was limited. The ever-wise Dumbledore had seen to that; exerting his remarkable skill at keeping certain facts, most of them really, under wraps, to the point that all we really got was a brief synopsis here and there about battles, raids, deaths and captures.

My thoughts often went to Harry during that troubled time; the little boy with the wide, wondering eyes, a love of flying that paralleled my own, and, of course, the extremely unfortunate destiny of being the one to continuously confront Voldemort.

I never doubted that Harry would win. I had seen his intensity - his sheer determination. I had seen it, and I understood it. The world at large is a very competitive place, beyond the Quidditch pitch. It's the spirit of life, of nature - the passion that drives us, the innate force that dictates our very instinct for survival.

Harry was the youngest seeker in over a century for a reason and it was more to it than just his brilliant skill on a broom. He genuinely and truly wanted to win, and focused all his energy on doing so, with each and every game that he had played. I had once watched him, just thirteen years old, pull off an extremely difficult and highly advanced Patronus spell because he thought one of the Gryffindor games might be in jeopardy and I knew then, as I knew now, that if anyone could pull off the impossible through absolute love of life and indestructible determination, it would be Harry Potter.

Yet that knowledge didn't prevent me from being startled to find him in the Puddlemere locker room that fall after Voldemort's defeat.

I had felt a certain tension walking into the room, a distinct electrical current that hadn't been there in the previous four years I had played for Puddlemere, and my eyes had been instantly drawn to the source of that energy... Harry Potter. My heart felt as if it had jumped to my throat as I regarded him, the blood racing to my brain inexplicably fast. When I had left Hogwarts he had been a mere boy, teetering on the edge of adulthood, yet now, before me, sat a man, ever beautiful in his quiet demeanor.

His hair was still a wild mess of shiny ebony tresses, and his eyes, as they glanced around, were just as large and purely green as ever - the kind that could look right through a person to gauge their soul. He still had an aura of intensity, and a power unmasked by the senses, but there was a part of him missing - the childlike innocence he had previously held. I found myself wanting to get to know this new Harry, to marvel in the wisdom he had gained, one adult to another.

The war had left its mark on him, as wars tend to do. He sat alone and somewhat dejected by his locker, changing in to training clothes, the rest of the players giving him a large radius of free space, clearly in too much awe of him to be welcoming.

Howard, a chaser, approached me at the doorway and announced in a hushed tone... "That's Harry Potter - THE Harry Potter," he said, as if I could possibly not know. "He's our new seeker."

A flash of indignant anger spread through me on Harry's behalf. How hard it must be, I realized then, to be treated as if you were unapproachable.

This was Harry. My Harry. The boy whose expression captured the joy of flight, and whose spirit I had always secretly admired. With only mild trepidation I left Howard to approach Harry, glaring at the rest of the players while doing so, strangely protective of him.

"Hello Harry," I stated when I had reached his side, my words a mere whisper of breath, rasped by some emotions that I wasn't even aware I owned.

My heart clenched as he turned to me, green eyes boring into mine, a slow, happy, almost relieved smile spreading across his face.

"Hello Oliver," he replied softly.

*****

The first time that I met Harry I was amazed by how small he was. I mean, I knew logically that he was only eleven at the time, fresh-faced and eager. But after the events that claimed the life of his parents, and, at least we all had thought at the time, Voldemort, the entirety of the wizarding world had taken to whispering Harry's name with the unhampered reverence usually reserved for the four founders of Hogwarts, or Merlin, himself. I couldn't help but expect him to look the part of the larger-than-life, strapping young hero.

Instead Professor McGonagall brought to me a tiny child with delicate features, and an adorable expression of bewildered curiosity. Whatever disappointment I had, however, was extremely short lived. The devotion I had to Quidditch, even at fifteen, was already absolute, and, being a newly appointed captain, I was determined to make my mark in the Hogwarts history books... I was going to lead the Gryffindor house into awe-inspiring victory over Slytherin, the past champions, and snatch the cup out of their ever-so-cunning fingers. The only thing standing between my steadfast ambition and I was the rather large dilemma that my team didn't have a seeker.

McGonagall's descriptions of Harry's first time on a broom had caused goose bumps to form on my flesh. This small, fragile looking boy had caught remembrall midair after a fifty-foot dive, all without a scratch. It had felt like Christmas had come early that year.

Yet even with visions of sugarplums dancing in my head, I was still unprepared for the sheer aesthetic beauty of watching Harry Potter fly my first time training him. There was elation, and there was joy. There were movements so graceful a dancer would weep with envy and sheer nerve so potent that Godric Gryffindor himself would probably stand up and clap.

Harry Potter didn't just know how to fly - he knew how to soar.

I didn't know or recognize it until many years later, but I had fallen in love with Harry in that moment.

*****

I wasn't a stranger to uncomfortable tension.

It used to be odd, on that first day back for the summer after ten months at Hogwarts. My parents' house didn't feel like home anymore, despite the fact that I had spent all of my childhood in the same location, and my parents felt more like a visiting aunt and uncle than they did my driving force. I had been out of their care for the majority of the year, deciding for myself whether I wanted breakfast or not each morning - it was hard to go back to being their child again after experiencing that kind of freedom.

The initial greeting every June, after the school year had ended, was always slightly awkward, though we never spoke of it. We would smile at each other, eyes shining; give the traditional hugs, wondering all the while what the hell to say to each other beyond the customary small talk.

My father was always the first to break the tension... "So Oliver, how was Quidditch this season?" And just like that an in depth conversation was launched, and the family equilibrium was happily restored.

Having Harry Potter, the undefeated champion of wizarding kind everywhere, on the team had caused a lot of awkward tension at first, but it wasn't long before the rest of the Puddlemere team warmed up to Harry - once they recognized that he ate, slept, and occasionally stumbled just like the rest of us. In fact, I couldn't help but notice that the team warmed up to Harry a little too much for his own comfort.

It was very clear to me within the first week of training that any reference to Voldemort, the war, or those lost in battle were sore spots for Harry, who instantaneously clammed up whenever anyone asked about them.

I couldn't really blame the rest of the team for wanting to question Harry, the direct source, on the events of the war. I'll even admit to being profoundly curious myself. Still, my heart felt heavy when I noticed the results of our inquiries. I had taken it upon myself to try and make Harry feel comfortable in his role as the new guy, and so far my efforts had been for naught.

Other than that first encounter, Harry didn't smile, except, of course, for whenever Ron and Hermione came to visit him after practice.

With them he was all grins, and happiness, ease and comfort and I found myself inexplicably jealous of them - of the relationship they shared with Harry and their ability to put him at ease and provide comfort by mere presence alone. I wanted to be able to do that for Harry, I wanted him to be able to turn to me, but our renewed acquaintance was too fragile - still in it's infantile stages.

That didn't stop me from trying, however. I was, after all, a Gryffindor as well, and as such, equally stubborn. I don't think that even Harry comprehended the depth of my concern or why it was I followed him one day after he made a hasty retreat from the subtle interrogation of Paul, one of our beaters.

I found him sitting on a bench over-looking the pitch, his green eyes weary and guarded, his shoulders slumped. I had the sudden, insane urge to take in my arms and squeeze him tightly to my chest, openly declaring my intention to protect him from the world, but I quickly squelched that impulse, knowing that I had to give him what he needed instead of what I needed.

"Don't tell me; let me guess... you followed me because you want to know how I took out Voldemort? Or perhaps what it felt like to watch friends die?" he asked in a tired tone, looking utterly alone and disconsolate.

"Not at all," I replied, plopping down next to him. "It didn't even cross my mind."

"What did you want to talk about then?" he asked, unable to hide the curiosity in his expression or the puzzlement.

"Quidditch," I responded spontaneously, unabashedly taking a page out of my dad's book.

For a moment Harry was too stunned to reply, and then he started to laugh, slow at first, as if unused to the feeling, and then more heartily as time passed.

It wasn't long before I joined in.

*****

It wasn't until my seventh and final year at Hogwarts that the Gryffindor team finally won the Quidditch cup. That was also the year that thirteen-year-old Harry Potter humbled me.

I had seen that year as my final hoorah; my last chance at a future career in Quidditch and thus became even more obsessed with winning than I had been in the past.

During that year I spent the bulk of my waking hours going over strategies in my head, scarcely paying attention to my classes. Even my nights were spent dreaming of Quidditch, although the bulk of those dreams were more likened to nightmares than anything else.

I remember them all vividly: one found me standing in the middle of the pitch, naked, surrounded by a crowd of people. Another had me suspended in air, on my broom, entirely unable to move or speak. But the worst by far was the one where we lost the final game. Harry fell off his broom, only this time he didn't come out unscathed and had to be carried away on a stretcher, and all of Slytherin house laughed heartily, nonstop, their voices ringing in my head until I would wake up in a cold sweat.

I didn't need a Divination class to interrupt the dreams; I was old enough to distinguish anxiety. What I failed to recognize was the effect that my single-minded behavior had on my team.

Harry had never once failed to catch the snitch during a game, save once, that same year. I remember watching in horror as the Dementors, meant to guard the school from the notorious criminal Sirius Black, later found innocent of all crimes, and infiltrated the pitch. I remember watching with complete devastation as the presence of the Dementors caused Harry to fall off his broom, and I remember going up to him shortly after Christmas break, once he was recovered from the accident, to ask him if he thought that the Dementors would continue to be a problem, and if so, the team really couldn't afford to...

Harry never allowed me to finish that train of thought; in fact, the look he gave me in response was one that would remain anchored in my mind for years to come. It was almost indescribable. There was hurt mirrored there, that was certain, and indignant anger. A touch of righteousness and a bit of disgust, though whether the later was aimed at me or at himself, I couldn't say, but mostly there was an eerie sense of purpose; this solid steel, unbreakable in intent. His look told me that he wanted that cup almost more than I did, and that there wasn't a magical beast alive that could hold him back; that he would triumph...

And so he did.

The final game of a season passed in a whirl, and most eyes, mine included, were rooted on Harry. He swerved, he swirled, he twisted and he glided, and, at the end, he raced faster than I'd ever seen him, and snatched the snitch almost out of the Slytherin's seeker's clutches, ultimately winning the game for Gryffindor.

My goal had finally been achieved, but truly, the moment belonged to Harry.

After all was said and done, and the team was safely on the ground again, I remember looking over at Harry to catch his eyes with my own, intent on sending every message I had to convey through our locked gazes: how proud I was of him, and how grateful, how sorry I was that I had put the importance of winning over his place amongst us and how glad I was that I got to share this triumph with him.

The smile on Harry's face told me that he understood.

*****

Quidditch has the ability to bring out strong emotion in people. I've watched the most stoic players burst into joyful tears after pulling off an impossible feet, and likewise I've seen otherwise levelheaded individuals throw temper tantrums that would do a two-year-old proud just because they made a blunder.

Watching Harry play, particularly as an adult, with fine tuned skill, and sleek muscle, is a revelation; like gazing at timeless art. When Harry is on a broom the emotion comes out, for he, like I, understands that it's impossible to fly and not feel something.

The only time that I get a glimpse of the excited, idealistic child that Harry once was is when he is soaring through the air. It is then that his hidden side comes out: part elation, part wonder, all naked energy. I've become addicted to that side of him, though all aspects of Harry are fascinating.

During our practices I've became proficient at multitasking, effectively mastering the ability to fulfill my obligation as keeper, and watch Harry. There have been so many times, recently, where I've found myself riveted by his expression, wondering if his countenance is a reflection of my own; if I look as pure, as happy, and as at home in the air as he does.

Our first game was no exception. It was brilliant to play with Harry again, as if we were sharing an intimate moment: the adrenaline of the game, the camaraderie of the team, and the crispness of the cool English air all adding to the giddiness I felt.

The game progresses with a whirl of motion, each of us playing a part in a larger whole: a quaffle here, a bludger there, and finally the appearance of the tiny, golden snitch.

Like a falcon diving seamlessly through the air in pursuit of prey, Harry is off, that focused, resolved expression filtering across his face once more.

Puddlemere is ahead by twenty, and the capture of the snitch would ensure our victory.

My heart picks up speed in time with Harry, my pulse racing as he darts, my body's responses synchronized to his plight. I hold my breath as I watch him reach out a hand, the Canon's seeker not far behind. One moment the snitch if fluttering erratically in the air, and the next it is resting snuggly in Harry Potter's palm, as it was meant to be.

I grin as I hear the rest of the team, along with our fans, erupt in a chorus of excited shouts and proclamations, but my heart stops, and starts again, faster than ever before, when I realize that the first direction Harry glances after catching the snitch is towards me. The joy mirrored on his face is pure Harry, reflective of a sacred moment in time that he has chosen to share with me. I feel dizzy and wonderful all at once, directly meeting his gaze and holding it, almost positive that the smile I flash towards him is wide enough to encompass the entirety of my face.

He smiles back, eyes shining, celebrative laughter shaking his frame, and in that single moment, boundless and hallowed, there is only the two of us.

*****

I'm nervous as I invite Harry to my flat for a nightcap after the game: a little bit afraid of rejection, a little bit scared of the multitude of feelings breaking through my subconscious. The look on his face indicates that he senses my unease; the corners of his mouth twitching in a tiny, amused grin, but his eyes, twin fires of glowing green, reflect only warmth. His nod of acceptance causes me to release a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding as I give him the address and we apparate home.

It's borderline profound to watch Harry take his first tentative steps into my humble abode, his gaze wondering over this and that, absorbing his surroundings. In a weird way I feel exposed... a person's home is their sanctuary, and now Harry is encased in mine. But it's heart-warming and exciting to have him there, sort of a symbolic gesture to demonstrate my eagerness in letting him in; deep into the heart of my lair and deep into the heart of me.

"There's a surprising lack of Quidditch memorabilia," he teases me softly, ending his perusal of the flat to glance at me instead.

"Yeah, well, Quidditch isn't everything," I respond with a faux blasé tone, enjoying his bemused expression.

He exaggerates a stunned expression, and then laughs along with me, warmth spreading between us like sweltering summer heat.

"You surprise me, Oliver," he replies with a grin, taking a step closer to me.

My heart feels as though it wants to escape the constraints of my chest, it's beating so fast, and for a brief stretch of time I'm afraid to speak, but gradually my Gryffindor courage returns and I reply simply, honestly...

"You've always surprised me, Harry."

He takes another step towards me, his eyes sparkling with something akin to fascination and I can't help but be awed, flattered, moved, and blown away by the vision he makes.

The urge to kiss him is so powerful that soft tremors gently cascade through my body, causing my hands to shake, but I hold out. I've waited a long time for this moment, without even realizing it. Waited for Harry to grow up, and for me to. Waited for discovery, maturity, and the right circumstances to unfold, but mostly, I waited for Harry Potter to teach me how to soar.

I can wait a little more.

Harry has spent a lifetime in fatefully cruel circumstances, and so, in this, I'm letting him take fate into his own hands.

He does.

Another step closer to me and I can feel his breath on my face. The sensation tickles my nose, and sends my mind reeling but I remain still, so paralyzed by the weight of his stare that I can scarcely breathe.

"I had the biggest crush on you when we were both at Hogwarts," he whispers in admission, "it almost seems unreal that we would wind up here, like this, after everything."

His confession hits my already intensified senses like a crashing ocean wave and I find that I can hold back no longer; I have to touch him. I have to feel that *he* is real.

The soft, smooth skin of his face feels so warm against my cool fingertips - so alive, so radiant of energy.

"I don't know how you could have, I was so hard on you," I admit with a gasp, halfway hoping he'll contradict me. He doesn't disappoint.

"No," he disagrees, smiling softly, "you allowed me to fly."

I couldn't tell if he bridged that final gap between us, or if I did, and truthfully, it doesn't matter. The gentle caress of Harry's lips against my own made me felt weightless and boundless, as if I had just sprouted a pair of wings. Suddenly, the world was renewed and born again, brimming with infinite possibilities...

Like that first time soaring through the sky.

There's no sensation to compare with this,
suspended animation, a state of bliss.
Can't keep my mind from the circling sky,
tongue-tied and twisted, just an earth-bound misfit, I.

~ Learning to Fly, Pink Floyd

The End!