"T-there's something wrong with my broom," Harry said, his eyebrows furrowed with both confusion and exasperation when the stupid thing would not hold still. Of course, movement in magical objects was typical. It was something that Harry had come to expect throughout his years in Hogwarts.
But this sort of movemant was just beyond absurd. The wood refused to remain still within his hands, jumping and writhing as if the broom were in pain. That certainly could not be right.
"Harry, I understand your concern but we have a game. We cannot afford to call this all out," the captain pressed, his name escaping Harry's recollection in that moment. Was it Longbottom? Finnigan?" Harry could not be sure. Best that he did not answer the boy then, Merlin knows what that sort of response might garner him. He was already disliked in his own House, he didn't need to give his housemates another reason to hate him.
Sodding hat should have put him in Gryffindor, it would have been a vastly different story.
With that thought, Harry nodded his hand and swung his legs over the broom. His movements were careful, his fingers gripping so tightly around the wood that it looked like he might snap it with his bare hands. It was better to be overly careful than sorry later, Harry had had more than enough experiences in the past to know that mishandling a broom could lead to far too many consequences.
"Hurry up, Potter. We don't have all day!" The captain shouted again, and Harry rolled his eyes before rising from the ground. The air was cold, the wind nipping at his bare cheeks as he rose and quickly shot out from where he'd been and out to the open field where many of the players were already waiting for him.
The sky was a bright blue, the sun shining brightly above their heads. It was the most warmth Harry had felt since rushing outside with his broom in hand, and Harry grinned. With weather like this, his house was assured a win. Hopefully the win would be enough of a distraction to keep their filthy comments to themselves about his mother. He'd already punched that bloody Malfoy bloke in the mouth already, and the school year had not even gone full swing.
And then, almost as if sensing Harry's thoughts, the broom began to vibrate beneath his fingers, the only warning Harry had before it shot out past the throng of people. Harry shouted, his mouth wild as he tried to force the broom to listen to him.
Come on, come on, stop it, Harry thought desperately as the broom swerved, his head missing the Gryffindor stands by a hair.
And then the broom dropped, and Harry felt his glasses press harder against his face, the world around him a kaleidoscope of color as he zoomed back into the Gryffindor stands, twirling and jerking as if he were riding a wild bull.
Harry wondered what he had done in his past life to deserve something like this. Sure, he was mouthy and often picked fights with the wrong people, but he certainly didn't deserve to die from a broom accident. None of his cheek with the older Slytherins warranted this sort of treatment.
The broom dipped lower, the wood parallel to the side right at his side as it shot him head first to the ground. Harry's teeth clenched, and his eyes widened in fear. He tried to control the broom, to get it to stop, but it refused. He tried to release the broom, to at least take a hold of his wand as he death spiraled down, but the broom, as if sensing it, would jerk and bounce so suddenly that Harry would have to reclaim his hold on it.
It was infuriating and absolutely terrifying all at once.
The ground was growing closer and closer, and Harry could do nothing but watch as he fell. He could hear the shouts of the people on the stands to his left, could he the screaming of his housemates to his right, but none of that mattered in that second.
Harry closed his eyes, and then, Harry felt something clasp tightly around his waist before his grip on the broom was wrenched abruptly from the broom. Harry gasped, his arms flailing outward, preparing to fall to his death now that he no longer held a dealthy grip on the broom.
Harry had expected to continue falling, to feel the familiar tug of adrenaline and fear that twisted at his stomach when he'd been pulled away from the broom. But there was no falling, no strange flipping low on his belly.
Harry's back felt warm, the thing cradling his arm pulsing with a heat he had not expected.
Harry opened his eyes, and he was still high in the air.
Harry could hardly believe it. It didn't make any sense that he could be like this now. That he wasn't plunging to his death. Harry wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, overjoyed and confused at the strange turn of events.
"Are you alright, Harry?" Harry heard a smooth, low voice say just behind his head. Harry stiffened, realizing in that instant that the object wrapped tightly around his waist was an arm, and that the warmth seeping into his back was that of a body.
A firm, and lean chest that Harry had not expected at all.
Harry felt his mouth open and close, unsure of what to say. He didn't recognize the voice. At all. But it seemed to Harry, in that moment, that the person practically cradling him into his body knew perfectly well who Harry was.
"That was quite dangerous, you know. Quite unbecoming of a member of the Slytherin house," the voice continued, and Harry shuddered despite himself, the voice rich and almost mesmerizing.
Harry shook his head, casting aside some of his shock for the moment, disturbed by how affected he was by the boy holding onto him.
"How do you know my name? How are we still in the air?" Harry shot out, and the boy chuckled behind his head before their bodies descended. Harry's breath caught at the speed, his arms latching onto the arm on his waist for purchase.
It was not until Harry's feet were on the ground that Harry finally felt his body come to life, twirling around and pulling away as quickly as he could from the boy holding him to tightly around his waist.
Harry tried not to gape. The boy that had saved him was...unreal. Harry was sure he had never seen him before, and Harry made it his business to at least know all the persons in his house. How could he have missed someone that looked like they came out of a Witches Weekly magazine?
The boy's hair was immaculate, the rich black of his hair a sharp contrast to boy's pale skin. And then his eyes, Harry didn't have the words. They reminded him of the darkness in a lake, its depth unknown.
"My name is Tom Riddle...it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
