Adversary | T
If the seasons could be found in the jaws of an animal — as Spring in a stag’s when it leafed through a meadow, tugging to the roots of a carpet at its heels; Summer in a terrier’s when it fetched through the litter, bouncing to the earth and with a stick for its owner; Autumn in an otter’s when it caught silver dollars, cracking at the quarters while drifting on its back; and Winter in a snake’s when it brandished its fangs, looming out the three inches and no one wanted to be bitten — then the seasons in a human could be found there.
Just as well: in a smile, a grin, the utterance of a name, a smirk and the prowl of an Expelliarmus from those lips.
As the entirety of a year was rebounded and disarmed: blue turning red as Winter bled to Fall, green turning yellow as Spring grew to Summer: when Harry deflected, sliced, had shifted the other way, spun around the trunks overlooking the Forbidden Forest, and like thunder from a distance he struck with all his magic. And it rippled through the air like static and lightning.
Frizzling the hairs rising higher on his arms when Protego and a curse — and a mild one at that — blossomed from the bone of Tom’s wild yew wand.
Purple and then red. Green and then silver.
Orange hitting yellow. Blue meeting black.
That nothing could exist as they mocked this mock-duel, aiming to wring the other when they were meant to disarm.
Caught within the snares of each other’s little game that you could mistake them for dancing, for courting around the other: as Harry sent his flowers in the form of Expelliarmus and Tom would trumpet back with every hex he was fond of. And where some of which weren’t taught in their fifth year curriculum, but Harry — he didn’t mind.
It made it more fun to fight him. And in turn, Tom couldn’t tear his gaze from the lion.
For he was utterly distracted and mesmerized with his person, caught within the seasons and the power sung back to him.