Voltage

Voltage

'This is not happening, oh God, this isn't happening'

It began for the same reason I begin anything. That spark, the very kilowatt base unit of passion- and it was there, fizzling between us as if it had nowhere else to go. It was easy to discover electricity in the boy whose life revolves around a lightening bolt.

I saw it only once, hurling forwards on a broom, reaching more for your face than the wings against my fingertips. And you, spiraling for the Snitch and only the Snitch, in that singular determination so typical to your flying. It was always a race. Everything between us was a contest and each competition seemed like the one to end it all.

And there, crackling between your pupils and the streaks of green in your eyes, was that spark. I glared across at you and could not stop, and you- you must have thought that I would cower, the way I always do, and pull away just before impact. Distracted, we met in a headlong collision. I remember being tangled in your limbs, watching the blood pool in the folds of your Quidditch robes and feeling content.

Even while I wondered whether it was your blood or mine, I was prying into those eyes of yours, searching for a remnant of that latent electricity.

Later, the spark-frenzy had been broken out of me and I had gone back to loathing you. You slept with head mummified and prized Firebolt laid out like a funeral pyre at your feet. My broom was the same stack of tinder, though unsurprisingly more malevolent, and I was sure it was smoldering already in fury. I sat up in bed and began staring you down.

You were asleep, of course, but I took it as a plea for mercy when you gave a soft snore. It was another victory for Malfoy. I was one up.

Another snore. You turned uneasily in your sleep. 'Don't grovel too much, Potter,' I said. 'It doesn't become you.'

Me and my fantasies. I sighed viciously and staggered over to your bedside, brandishing the snapped handle of your broom like the wand of a giant. And then you cried out.

Your legs shuddered, but your arms were taut, hands gripping your head as if preventing it from splitting into two even halves. I can't remember which one of us was whimpering louder. But your jaw muscles clenched spasmodically and I clutched the Firebolt's handle hard enough that I had to pick out splinters afterwards. 'Oh God.'

Most days I can think of a dozen different things that I want. All I wanted in that moment was for you to stop. So I crawled down next to you and scraped your fingers off your forehead, to hold them behind you and feel you tense and relax again and again.

I hated you most then, whispering desperate comfort into your deaf ears and praying, praying for you to sleep in peace. I hated the feeling of my chest pressed against your back and I hated the way a flush prickled at my body. I despised you.

Yet, it's said that the only emotion stronger than hate is love. I pushed myself too far, loathed you too long for a normal rivalry. Hatred and passion, a passionate hatred, and then emotion blurred and it became something else entirely.

I brushed the back of your neck as you gave your last tremors and fell back into sleep.

The days after were explosive. You became constantly volatile, sensitive to the touch because the electricity was finally grounded in you. It would be awhile until an owl came dipping into the hall and dropped you another broomstick. The boycott for new school brooms was in full swing.

There was no way for you to fly.

I acted normal to an extreme degree, responding easily to your unexpected insults and challenges, perhaps more than I should have. We're older now, and childish brawls in the corridors were not tolerated for prefects. Despite this, chance meetings between classes moved us to hexing. Goyle and Crabbe were suddenly out of work. I was handling personal affairs, I was landing the underhanded curses and tackles.

Anything to touch you, magically or otherwise. I played a delicate game, leading you slowly between hate to love. I looked you in the eye once a day, slipping glances between potion ingredients and magical beasts. Waiting for the instant when the spark would reappear and your spells would turn into caresses.

I never caught it.

Then you sabotaged my Quidditch practice. I opened the broomshed to find my brand new Firebolt gone. And where were you? Blending in with the obstinately grey sky, ringing magnificent loops and freefalls around the clouds on my broomstick. My broomstick. I felt livid and wanted you all the more for it.

A sudden downpour sheeted through the air, big heavy drops that clung desperately to my eyelashes. I stood there shouting at you to come down until I was surely red-faced, when you finally turned towards me and became a human cannonball.

You dive-bombed for the ground, arms slack in their grip. 'Suicide' was my first thought. Sheer horror was my next.

No.

You prat, thinking to throw it all away. Thinking I could somehow forsake you, when I nearly had you on the brink of affection. Damn it, Potter. I can't need you any more than I do.

I moved a little, shifted into target range. Maybe through the rain you didn't see me in your path until our second collision. Maybe you meant for your broom handle to crush through me.

Love was the sound of my ribs cracking and the final spark seething in your eyes. You laid atop me in shock for a moment while I cried silent tears of blood and relief, and then you went so pale. Your glasses were fogged by spring showers.

'Oh God' was all you could say, again and again. Love was hating you for it.

I had my last embrace with you, my blood staining your hands and you screaming for help with such desolation. You shouted yourself hoarse, but no one came. Perhaps they knew that this was my last moment. My last with anyone, but particularly...

'Oh God, Malfoy...'

Love was feeling your touch and the lightning in the distance.