Serotinal | T
Rippling across the waters and dotting the grey skies were pebbles, stones and just about anything that could fly: as one chaser to another, one beater to the next, and then the keeper and then the seeker were gone with the wind. Flung out to the pitch like rocks to be skipped; and to none’s surprise, they were dancing and were entirely in their element.
That it didn’t matter it’d been months since they had all flown together, or that some of them had retired and were replaced with new faces. Or that some of them had switched out and were now playing with different rules, or that some of them had bulked up or slimmed down for their roles. Still unused to the centres that now bore them above the earth, but getting there — bit by bit — as they circled to concur.
Where chaser, then chaser, then Ginerva next to Ronald, Ronald by a beater, said beater by her next, and then next to them was the chaser that began this little ring. For at the centre, with a crown made of twisted dark hair and like antlers to the sky as he leveled with the others, Harry nodded to each of them.
He assessed them; they welcomed it. He smiled; they grinned. He hunched; they followed. He gestured with both hands while straddled to either leg was a thin strip of magic that the world knew as wood. And that somehow, he was comfortable and at ease with where he was.
As if he never left the ground and had been talking while on earth, never reaching or reaching down to steady on his broom, because it was as natural as breathing or laughing at a funny joke. And even the others — even Ginerva — couldn’t manage without a touch, always a finger and a thumb and then a palm around their wood, in case the weather had opinions.
It wasn’t shy with its words. The skies were turning dark, and the wind was picking up. Maybe a storm was in the distance, but far enough to play quidditch. Because each and every one of them soon hollered and then dispersed.
Every quaffle for itself was then snatched into the air, and one bludger was set loose and one tie feigned a snitch. It unraveled out of Harry and he charmed it with something, that then it fluttered like a bird and flapped with all its being. Darting slowly and so slowly that this could hardly count as practice, but it did and it had as Harry followed to where it went.
Never losing it for a moment because this tie wasn’t his and because the owner would then choke him and bound Harry with his own if he ever lost this for a moment — and down on earth, Tom was watching.
And there was nothing more peculiar than the leash around his neck, made of crimson and gold and Gryffindor-ed to the silk, with Harry’s tie where his were before the former had stolen it. Had tugged it from his shoulder, and then replaced it with his own and a promise he’d give it back. Because he wanted something of a challenge and figured this would be worth it.
“Worth what, exactly?” That was nibbled to Harry’s ear, and Tom was delighted with how red and fumbled he could make him. That Harry lost it on the knot that had kept him well and busy: busy enough to not wander and be woefully distracted, well for appearance and it grounded him to reality, and kept from all the things that he knew were to rile him. Were to make him forget where he was going or what he’d do when Tom nudged him — just like this — and then he found himself against a wall.
Bracketed with a body and humor he couldn’t resist, and there was that low, low voice like coffee to his nerves. And like a shot into the vein when Tom breathed him all in, and then savored every juncture of Harry’s blush, his pulse and how he yielded to Tom’s nose.
Melting farther and melting back before he blocked Tom with his palm when the other had leaned in. For a kiss, for a nudge?
“I won’t ruin the surprise.” But to have said so was a paradox: it created anticipation and negated the unexpected that would’ve made this all worth it. Yet, at the same time, the mystery was a hook and Tom was fished. He’d never know of what would come if Harry took it away from him, and to deprive him was so cruel that it surprised him anyway.
“The pitch,” Harry told him. He fastened his own tie, and it hung like a collar Tom could take off at any time. Had he wanted to — he didn’t want to — as his own tie was hidden beneath a layer of many clothes that were the one thing he couldn’t pull, even if they were the only ones in this deserted corridor. “Meet me there this afternoon.”
“And why would I do that?”
And then the funniest thing happened: Harry kissed him on the nose and no legilimens was ever uttered for Tom to hear the other’s thoughts. Because Harry was as open as a book that never closed: not because it wanted to, but because it could not. It’d been on its spine for so long that the pages would bend up and once closed, they persisted until the cover popped open. And from the ocean to a forest, from one glance to another, Tom could hear the distant laughter of Harry’s heart while it throbbed.
In-and-out, in-and-out and what a voice that music was — that Tom could hear it and hear it still, even now while near the pitch. As Rapunzel or Juliet as he leaned against the stands, accompanied by Hermione and a few of the younger years, who were blissed out and excited for the upcoming quidditch year. And were unperturbed that a Slytherin was here of his own will because Tom was wearing Harry’s tie and that alone meant him well. And that suited him to his like while unbothered as he watched Harry whoosh through the air like a stone across water, like a show made for him at the guise of some practice.
That for once, he was interested in what Harry would normally do as both the captain and the seeker for a team he should ‘boo!’ for. But the thought of it was childish because — because damn, what a performance.
That even the others were distracted when Harry caught his silky snitch and that somewhere along the way, it involved a handstand so he wouldn’t crash. When he veered here for his catch and nearly ran into the stands, Harry reached out to twist himself and to divert his Firebolt. As you would do with your skateboard when you hovered and came back down, but the descent was slow enough that Tom could eye him — up and down.
And that faint bit of autumn that was dangling from his neck; well, it was met with other patches that burned the summer from himself as Tom was wooed and besotted — mind racing for this to end. So it could be wholehearted and appropriate for him to steer Harry to the locker rooms so he could see that handstand in action and whatever else Harry had been hiding.