Airborne

To quote Oscar Wilde "All art is at once surface and symbol." Did I succeed?

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He told me he'd never flown before.

I believed him.

Certainly he's ridden a broomstick, but to fly, to soar free and beautiful into the sky, racing the wind and chasing clouds... I don't think he's ever done it.

Flying is a miracle.

I don't think he believes in them.

I think he's always ridden a broomstick simply for the purpose of traveling from place to place. He's never ridden for the pleasure of it, for the sheer rush of feeling your heart pump as you streak across the sky, every infinite second borne in air a challenge to the sun, to the land-bound creatures.

Flying is freedom.

Something he's never really had.

He bought his first broom with money he'd saved up from working industriously as apprentice for Sir Thorpe. It was second-hand, a bit of a sad sight, with unclipped twigs, and unpolished handle. Splinters dug into his skin the first time he held it, but he didn't mind. It was his. The ultimate freedom, a defiance to laws of life that had been beaten into him. People do /not/ fly, Tom, and they don't make things happen just by willing it to.

That first time he rode, it was an uncertain, graceless ascent, fear and insecurity dragging him down much like the pull of gravity.

He fell.

That first taste of freedom frightened him.

So he'd clipped his wings before he could take flight.

Flying is a dream.

He had dreams torn from him.

So his dreams became twisted ambitions instead. For that flow of freedom, he had power. He traded miracles for great, impossible, DARK magic. He learned to Apparate, and put his broom away.

And he learned to break the wings of others.

Flying is an act of defiance.

He's been defying everything that has been said of him since birth, and in a way affirming them.

But that was never an act of defiance he committed.

A pity though. He would have made a brilliant flier.

I watch him now; he mounts a broom again. For the second time, he tries to fly again.

It's a miracle, Tom. Believe.

Believe that you can do it. Believe that you have it in you to make miracles.

He's never played Quidditch, he told me. Never even watched it. He told me that it was because he hated how mad everyone was about it, about the complete uselessness of the sport.

For Tom, everything has to have a use. And he indulges in his own craving for the trivial things he's denied himself in such unspeakable cruelty.

I think it just hurt him to see others fly when he could not.

He grips the broom tightly. I know he's afraid, but anyone else won't be able to see it. He's the picture of steely control. He looks much like a king about to ride off to a war. But there's no charge to lead, and nothing to conquer anymore.

Just the sky.

It's freedom, Tom. Break the chains.

If there's any position I think he would have played, I think he would be best suited as Seeker. Even the name defines him. He has that drive, that single-minded focus one needs to be a Seeker. You streak through the air, chasing after a single elusive gold Snitch. It's also a lonely post, perfect for him. He would fly, a lone figure, circling the Quidditch pitch. And when he catches a glimpse of the Snitch, he would go tearing after it, force personified and velocity in flesh. When he closes his hand around it, a look of triumph would flash in his eyes.

Tom would catch the Snitch not for the team, not even for victory.

He would catch it because he would not let anyone else capture it.

So now he stands, feet on the ground, broom held tight. And I hold the Snitch in my closed fist. With my eyes on him, I open my hand.

And I let go.

Breathless seconds pass before he kicks off from the ground.

He's not graceful, he's not perfect.

He can't fly beautifully because he's never learned how. Never let himself learn how.

It's a dream, Tom. For once, close your eyes. Only then will they be truly opened.

I think he's going to fall again.

I want to shout, but I keep silent, his name an unvoiced cry in my throat.

The broom stops in mid-air, and he falls, the broom with him.

I watch him, and I wonder what he is thinking, what he is feeling.

Unfold your clipped wings, Tom. I've healed them best as I could, but I can't fly for you.

It's defiance, Tom. Defy them. Defy everything you've been told you were.

Fly.

I think he heard me.

He stops, a few feet from the ground, and climbs up again, into the sky. The snitch is distant glint of gold, almost lost in the painful azure of the sky.

He flies as brilliantly as I thought he would. The ruler of the sky, an eagle, a falcon, a dragon. One day, you will glide, confidence bearing you aloft, but for today you fly like an unerring arrow.

Believe in miracles, Tom. Free yourself, Tom. Let yourself dream, Tom. Defy the heavens, Tom.

You seem almost afraid to reach out. Do you think that by letting go of the broom you might fall again? You won't, Tom. Not this time.

One hand clasped tightly around the broom, another slowly moving towards the Snitch, you draw closer. It eludes you but you chase after it. You are no longer in the world, Tom. All you see now is the Snitch. All you feel now is your own heart beating. All you hear now is the wind. There is nothing else.

And in love with the beauty of it, you close your hand around the Snitch. And my hand closes around yours.

Flying is an act of love.

A love of self.

Something you'd never thought yourself worthy of.

Until now.

I love you, and now you do too.

You've flown, Tom.

And I fly with you.