Flying

Flying

 

So you're sitting in bed, and it's foggy, and early, and you look out the window and see someone flying around. You wonder who it is, but a flash of platinum blonde hair gives it away.

And you shake your head and go to the showers and you realise that you had never quite thought that Malfoy might be as dedicated to flying as you. Yet, you can't get the thought of Malfoy flying off your mind.

Though you've seen him fly before, this flight is somehow more personal, and you feel as though you've taken a peek at his journal without him knowing. It's something about the careless movements, you suppose, or the unaware, yet all the more arrogant, serenity with which he held himself even hurtling through the air at sixty miles per hour.

You don't think on it, because when you do, your mind becomes far more muddled than it was before. And it's quite a disconcerting feeling.

 

But when you go to bed, he's still on your mind.

And, then, you have a dream. You're against a wall, and he's kissing you, and your eyes flutter open, and you see his unmarred, pale skin; his long face; his silver eyes, flecked with cobalt, shooting fiercely into yours. Though your glasses are discarded, perhaps you see him clearer that way.

You want to know that face that you've never truly seen. You want to fall into that gleaming, silver gaze.

You want him.

 

When you wake up, you realize that your subconscious has been deflowered by a Malfoy.

 

*

 

Then at morning, when you sit at the breakfast table, Hermione peers at you anxiously, and asks you if something's wrong. You say no, and when she tries to look into your eyes, she is greeted instead by a messy head of black hair as you turn away.

You don't want her to see your eyes, because then she would know, would understand.

And nobody should understand. Because you don't even understand, and you don't know if you want to understand.

All things considered, it is reasonable to say that you have a headache.

So you go to Madam Pomfrey for headache medicine, which she gives without question. You've been up to visit her more than once.

And then you decide to do the strangest thing. You decide to cut class.

You don't care about Hermione, or Ron, or what they will say. Nor do you care that the NEWTs are this year. And you certainly don't care that it is Potions, and Snape will have your head.

 

You care only that you need to get away. So you go outside, and breathe, and the air is piercing your lungs, tearing your throat, and just being alive hurts. Your limbs become much too heavy, so you sit on a rock in front of the lake. The lake's gleaming, a mirror, and as the sun sets, your mind wanders--a foggy day, an early morning flight.

Realization strikes you, and you yell, and you feel your heart stop. You slam your fist on the rock.

 

You're in love with Draco Malfoy.

You slam your fist again and again against the hard stone, and, while the pain is searing, it soothes.

And you watch a bloodstain appear on the rock, and it feels like something's shattered in your hand, but you don't let up, and suddenly your face is down on the rock, your bloody hand covering your eyes, exchanging your tears for blood, and you're crying, and you don't know why.

 

You want to die. You want to live.

You want pain. You want love.

But you need him.

 

And that's what frightens you.

Dimly, you notice Hermione at your side. For some reason, she's crying out, and clutching at you, calling for help. She's fumbling desperately with her wand, bellowing every incantation she knows at your hand, and ice creeps through your veins.

But you wonder why she's worried about your hand when your heart hurts so much worse.

 

*

 

You're dreaming.

It's black.

For a moment you can't see anything, but then, with a start, you realize Draco's there again. This pleases you; you're not sure why, and it fills you with something warm and comfortable. He's looking at you. His eyes pierce you, and yet they don't hurt. He's wearing white, and his skin looks luminescent under the loose folds.

 

He proffers his hand. And you take it.

And, for once, maybe just once, everything feels like it should. There is no death, there is no Voldemort. There is only your emotion, and Draco's hand, and his smirk, and his condescending tone which is tainted, just a little, with something thoroughly indescribable as he leans in, and whispers, "I love you."

 

And everything feels perfect. Draco by your side feels better than anything you've ever known.

 

You want to tell him you love him back.

*

 

But then you wake up.

You’re thrown into a world of unforgiving pedigree, and stained hate. And the waves that pull up to shore fail to wipe away the bloodstain on a large, grey rock.

When you look out the window, you realize that Draco's flying again.