The Ends of A Broomstick

Prologue:

Hard to Alight from A Tiger's Back

once you take on a thorny task, you'll find it hard to get rid of it

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The second night back at school, despite the weather being a little on the cool side, provided Harry with an hour or two to exercise his broom and work away the restlessness that had inevitably seeped into his bones throughout the course of another summer at the wretched Dursleys. While everyone else busied themselves with catching up with one another, playing wizard's chess or Exploding Snap, and even some early studying, Harry had excused himself, saying he wanted to practice some new Quidditch moves he had been thinking about over his vacation. Of course, no one denied him his pleasure as most of the Gryffindor's were well aware of his home away from home.

Goosepimples prickled up along Harry's arms once he ascended into the air, greeting the cool breeze that ruffled through his slightly shaggy ebony locks. For the first little while, he lapped around the pitch practising dives and just relinquishing the freedom that Hogwarts allowed. When he tired of that particular activity, Harry leaned down against his broom handle, resting a cheek against the smooth surface, and slowed down to a lazy pace so that he could collect his thoughts: the real reason why he wanted to escape for a few hours.

A most peculiar event had happened during the middle of the summer; actually, just around the week of his birthday, Harry recalled. Everything had been going normal, as normal as life could get at the Dursley's, when an unfamiliar owl had tapped incessantly against his window at four o'clock in the morning. Groggily, Harry stumbled across the room to displace the latch. A large, regal bird flew in swiftly, deposited a plain looking package on to the bed and then disappeared back off into the night. Hushing Hedwig gently, Harry went to the bed and picked up the package. Sturdy brown paper enveloped the rectangular shaped parcel and a scraggly looking shoelace held the wrapping on. Who could have sent it ran across Harry's mind as he searched for a return address or any clue or indication; unfortunately though, there was nothing to help identify the sender. Perhaps the package had been delivered to the wrong house, Harry thought as he unfastened the knotted shoelace and slid the paper off.

A thin, black leather, buckle-bound book fell into Harry's hands, to which he promptly let it clatter to the floor; it was a diary. Who would send him a diary? Perhaps Hermione had sent it as an early birthday gift, but a card usually came along with it. It couldn't have been Ron, Harry would have been able to recognize the owl and he doubted they had gotten a new one within the past month. Curious now, after deducing who it couldn't have been, Harry let his trembling fingers pick the item up from the dusty floor.

A diary, usually a harmless item, had brought Harry a hell of a lot of trouble four years ago; he was now wary of those things. The leather that covered the diary was plush and soft to the touch; the thing reeked of extravagance and he bet that it must have cost quite a few galleons. But, who would spend a small fortune on such an item and then have it delivered in regular post paper?

Harry had been very cautious and suspicious about opening his unusual gift, so he hadn't. Instead, he tucked it safely away underneath his mattress until he could put it in his trunk. Once it was there, he buried it at the bottom, hoping to forget about it. But, for every single spare moment since he had locked it away, he had been unable to stop thinking about it. It was a constant nagging at the back of his brain and Harry often contemplated just opening the front cover to take a look at what was inside.

The beginnings of rain splattered against Harry's glasses causing him to sit up. He had been so enwrapped in his thoughts that ominous black clouds filled the sky, and a bitterly cold and ghastly wind had surrounded him without his awareness. While yanking his round-framed lenses off of his face and using the bottom of his shirt to clear off the droplets of water, a heavy cloud decided to empty its contents in a downpour of rage. Slipping his now useless glasses back on and gripping a tighter hold on his Firebolt, Harry attempted to head back towards the shadowed castle, battling violently against the wind.

*

As the harsh rain whipped through the thick air, splaying fine strands of woven silver against pale, delicate features, a black cloaked individual tightly hugged their arms around themselves in an attempt to keep in as much body heat as possible; the temperature outside had substantially dropped once the rain had begun. Casting his eyes upwards, to carefully observe a waterlogged student that was struggling against the howling wind, he was unable to keep himself from looking away. Intrigued, the thickly cloaked figure peered more adventurously out from behind the green and silver branded Quidditch stand for a less restricted view.

More out of habit than spite, a trademark smirk gracefully slid on to pale lips, though it did not reach their eyes as the scene unfolded before them. Intent eyes watched as the infamous student's grip on their broom slid away, leaving them hanging upside down by only their legs, their spectacles plummeting toward the ground in a downward spiral. Slender fingers gripped the stand and a hesitant foot moved to step forward, but stopped at the last moment as the figure swung a hand blindly upwards and began to heave themselves up. A small sigh of relief released itself through pursed lips just as the broom handle slipped once more from the student's grasp and they descended quickly twenty five feet to the ground, landing in a heap of limbs.

How ironic. Harry worked like an addiction: always present, always providing an immeasurable, unfulfillable craving that bled through his veins and threatened to consume him: a drug that sent his emotions - any emotion - into overdrive. Though, what greatly bothered the figure was his own inability to break his habit; it terribly tried his already diminished lack of patience. After months of meditating on solving this matter, only one conclusion made the most sense: the only way to break the addiction would be to destroy the temptation, and Harry possibly dying from a pathetic slip of the fingers was not the way he was supposed to die. No, if Harry's untimely demise was to be done right, he was going to have to do it himself.