Lily Bay - Fear of Falling

    There is a place in Hogwarts, a place that very few people know about. A tiny alcove halfway up the Southern side of the North tower. Once, it must have been useless; it is merely a miniscule bay behind an old tapestry, with stone floor, ceiling, walls. There is no glass in the window, merely a wide stone ledge, about a foot across.

    Once, it must have been useless, but that was hundreds of years ago. Now it is lush, filled with beautiful flowers overflowing from their pots. There are orchids, rich royal purples and innocent, light greens. Stunning amethyst bearded irises, with their bold yellow stripes. Violets, gorgeous pink-blooming honeysuckle vines, faded-denim forget-me-nots, white snow crocuses. But most of all, there are lilies.

    The whole place seems overpowered by lilies; white Easter lilies, bold tigers, sunny yellows, and an immensity of humongous ivory flowers with deep plum centers.

    Lily Bay, those who know of it call it.

~

    It is Harry’s asylum. He goes there, sometimes, at night, when Hermione and Ron are slumbering and he cannot sleep. He pushes aside the great drapery aside and enters by moonlight. He used to sit cross-legged on the solid stone floor, breathing the saccharine smell of the flowers into his lungs. His knowledge of flowers is shallow; it does not run much deeper than that red roses signify love, yellow happiness, white purity, but white lilies are death. He knows that by all Muggle accounts, the flowers should not bloom together. But they do, through the winter, great, audacious beacons of hope.

    In recent visits he has sat on the stone window ledge and hung his feet over the edge. The ground, hundreds of feet below, seems to pull on his Converse sneakers before giving up. He will not move.

    For some reason, the niche reminds him of his mother. He can smell her on night’s breath, taste her in the nectar of the honeysuckles. She is there, at all times, alone until he comes.

~

    Tonight, for some reason, he stands on the ledge, serene, arms barely outstretched. The flowers, all the lilies and orchids, violets and irises, but no roses, are there. He thinks he could fall from the ledge and die happily, but doesn’t dare find out.

    “I’ve always been afraid of heights.”

    He jumps nervously, turning slightly over his shoulder to see a certain blonde, leaning on the doorframe, smirking ever so slightly.

    “Malfoy,” says Harry, turning back to stare sightlessly out into the night. He hears subtle footsteps behind him, and imagines that he does not care.

    “Fear of heights,” he says after many minutes of odd silence. Turning to his left, he leans on the blonde’s shoulder for support and swings his leg down from his perch. “Is only a form of self-doubt.” He brushes himself off with one hand; for some reason, it is a moment before he removes his hand from the other boy’s shoulder. But the blonde does not care. “You can’t trust yourself not to jump.”

    He looks up finally, breathing deeply, and finds he cannot smell the flowers anymore; he has lost the moment.

    The blonde boy studies him silently: he has baby-smooth skin, so perfectly white. Deep green eyes, pieces of jade set in ivory, are framed with long ebony spikes. His eyes are shining in the moonlight, reflecting the lilies, and for some reason the blonde finds that he cares.

    At the same moment Harry is seeing his opposite for the first time. The pale skin is absolute in its flawlessness, glowing moon bright in the night. But what draws Harry to him for the first time is the silver eyes, somehow suddenly heartrending beautiful.

    Tentatively, the grey eyes reach forward; a thumb tenderly brushing a tear drop away as soon as it falls from its emerald captor. Understanding, like electricity, shoots between them at that simple touch, hand to face, and shocks them both. Harry frowns slightly, then smiles a small smile, closing his eyes, and for the longest time they stand there, unlocked, eyes loosely shut.

    Harry opens his eyes, and for a moment the grey eyes are peacefully closed before waking to the moonlight.

    “Come with me,” says Harry, lightly seizing the blonde by the wrist.

    There is not hesitation. Harry stands back on the ledge easily, no fear of falling. He extends his hand down, and in one swift motion, has righted the blonde beside him.

    The blonde looks over the ledge and shudders slightly. Harry steadies him with a touch on his shoulder, and he grins somewhat apologetically.

    Harry smiles. “Just remember what I said.”

    For a moment the other boy frantically searches his mind for what Harry had said. What had he said? But then all thought ends.

    Slowly, with poise, Harry places his lips against the other boy’s, and kisses him slowly, keeping his hands behind his back. It is a chaste kiss, practically platonic to Harry. He is careful, so careful, to keep it slow, and innocent, and as he breathes evenly between kisses, he can smell the flowers again. Caught up in the moment, he can taste the honeysuckle on his own lips yet again. It is perfection, silhouetted by the moonlight.

    They separate slowly, eyes still just closed, and Harry smiles as Draco looks up. “Are you still afraid of heights?”

    The blonde smiles to himself. “Only afraid of falling,” he whispers.

    “Don’t be,” says Harry, kissing him affectionately again. “You won’t fall.”

    “I already have,” says Draco, leaning in again to caress Harry’s lips with his own.

    Harry looks up at Draco when they break apart, and understands.