Involuntary Suspension
Title: Involuntary Suspension
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ron/Draco
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,483
Summary: “Did you just...?” Weasley screwed up his face and stared, the boulders in his tiny brain rolling about unhelpfully. “Did you just sniff me?”
Author’s Notes: Written for ficadron for the prompt flying. Originally posted here. The rating is for innuendo. Remember: nothing dirty actually happens. It’s just that your inner twelve-year-old will be well pleased. This is pre-slash, with implications of them starting to fancy the pants off each other. Also, there are lumberjacks, and they’re okay. (And they belong to Monty Python.)
Involuntary Suspension
This is stupid, Draco thinks.
And of course it’s stupid, because everyone with half a brain knows one shouldn’t go flying through the air without a broomstick clasped tightly between one’s thighs, head flung back and eyes streaming at the rapture of escalation. Flying, Draco has long since decided, is not about business, nor is it about necessity; its sole purpose, rather, is to incite pleasure, and if, from this pleasure, one also gains the benefit of substantial profit, then such a gratifying exercise can hardly be labeled as folly. Not, that is to say, that he’s yet experienced enough to have a level of impeccable professionalism firmly within his grasp; but it’s always been his intention, no matter what his father says.
Draco has Goals and Aspirations. He has things he’s willing to work for, and work he’s willing to let other people do for him; and with much more than half a brain to call his own, Draco isn’t stupid.
He’s simply thrust into unfortunately stupid situations.
Much like the one in which he now finds himself, wherein he is flying without the aid of a broom. Wherein a statement like This is stupid is as true and obvious as, Weasleys are poor, or, Granger is annoying, or even, The best Potter is a dead Potter. Simple statements of fact.
FACT: Draco Malfoy is being held captive in the air over the lake by Despicable Weasley #6.
FACT: Draco Malfoy does not remember doing anything at all to provoke this behavior.
FACT: Draco Malfoy is probably going to vomit at any moment.
His clothes are mussed. His hair is sticking to his forehead. He is completely and utterly spent, and desires nothing but release after being whipped about brutally by Weasley’s wand. His head, in fact, is throbbing to the point where he worries it might explode over all the ingrates who have gathered down below to watch.
This is stupid, and completely and utterly unfair.
“Enjoying yourself, Malfoy?” Weasley jeers, or tries to jeer-Draco’s only consolation is that The Jeer looks even more ridiculous on Weasley’s speckled mug than it does on Crabbe’s, which is something rather remarkable. In fact, Draco almost would remark upon this fact, except he feels something hot burning at the back of his throat, and is forced to close his mouth and swallow.
“You wish, Weasley!” Draco spits after the feeling passes.
Still, Weasley looks smug, peering up at him through loathsome, overgrown ginger locks, and even Granger isn’t doing anything much to interfere. Her smile is half-reproachful, half-gleeful, the cow; at her side, Potter has begun some sort of dance that may denote amusement, or the need to wet himself, or possibly both, one being the consequence of the other. The quickly-forming crowd delights in pointing and laughing like a bunch of brainless baboons-comprised mostly of Gryffindors, naturally-as several of them copy Potter’s motions.
Draco screws his eyes shut and tries to think back.
Breakfast? Check.
Cold sausage because he’d come too late. No toast because the elves had changed something about the marmalade, rendering it inedible.
Potions? Check.
He’d put extra effort into his sauntering out of the Great Hall in lieu of a most disappointing and disheartening meal. His stomach had growled all the way down to the dungeons, frightening off several lost first-years.
History of Magic?
Draco pauses in his musings, appearing as thoughtful as one can whilst being physically assaulted thirty feet up in the air.
No check. No check at all.
Being unable to tolerate another day of the decrepit old ghost’s fascinating tales of goblin hierarchies and Wardy the Wooly Whale-man’s Woeful Wanderings, he’d stolen off with the intent of making for sunnier, less Wardy-filled climes. But as the Gryffindors had seemed to be heading off toward Herbology in one great, raucous mass, he’d fallen in line with the last of them, hoping to once again peel off most inconspicuously for want of liberty.
NO. CHECK.
He had strolled along with his hands in his pockets, nearly whistling to himself in a picture of near-plebian exaltation. The sun had lightly dusted his shoulders and the top of his head with its warmth, and the wind had caressed his face with her gentle, teasing fingers. He had considered lazily making his way to the soft banks of the lake, upon which he would lie beneath the shade with his hand trailing in the still waters, quietly reflecting perhaps on poetry and the Giant Squid. Life had been lucky. Life had been wonderful.
Then he had glanced up out of uncharacteristic curiosity, and found Weasley staring at him. The other two of the Golden Three hadn’t bothered noticing him yet, but it was disconcerting enough being gawped at as though he, Draco, were the idiot, and not the other way around.
“What do you want?” Draco asked in a tone that suggested he was not actually interested-because he wasn’t.
“What’re you doing here, Malfoy?” Weasley had either ignored him, or enjoyed answering a question with a question.
“I’m minding my own business,” Draco drawled, careful that the I’m was breathy and drawn out for more than a condescending second. He shot a look at Weasley in a way that clearly added, As should you be to his statement.
Weasley sputtered at this. “You’re bloody well not!” he spat (and sputtered). Sputtered and spat, like a boiling, unattended cauldron filled with something inedible and foul-smelling. And poor.
Draco had always assumed that Weasleys smelled foul, but had never bothered to test this hypothesis, as to do so was beneath him, and he hardly cared that much, anyway. But, once again driven by an insatiable bout of curiosity, he leaned forward on the pretense of preparing to say something particularly nasty, and sniffed as casually and discreetly as he could. “I. Am. So,” he added as a precaution, and not without a hint of triumph. Weasley held the faint aroma of sweaty underarms (and Draco noted with satisfaction that Weasley’s underarms were, in fact, disgustingly sweaty, which was inexcusable even on a hot day), broken only by a slight, not precisely unpleasant, woodsy scent (which obviously suggested that Weasley had become a lumberjack).
“Did you just...?” Weasley screwed up his face and stared, the boulders in his tiny brain rolling about unhelpfully. “Did you just sniff me?”
“Don’t be absurd, Weasley.” (He’s a lumberjack and he’s okay. He sleeps all night and he works all day.)
By this time-though Draco hadn’t noticed it at first-Potter and Granger, along with a small, fetid flock of their underlings, had stopped, and were beginning to gather round. The lake glittered enticingly just beyond their little circle, and Draco almost wished-almost-that he had simply ignored Weasley, stalking off importantly with his pointy nose pointed at the pale blue sky. But Weasleys were easily insulted, and too stupid to think of clever retorts, and so it probably would have been a crime not to take advantage of such an opportunity.
“He sniffed me!” Weasley was still exclaiming to his cohorts, disbelieving. Said cohorts were still gazing back at him with equally idiotic, equally disbelieving expressions. Potter seemed unable to think of something clever to say.
Ordinarily, Draco delighted in such an occurrence, yet now, annoyance had begun to drag the corners of his mouth down into a frown. He had not managed total casualness and discretion: he had been caught in the act, as it were, and the fact that he could feel his face starting to grow hot was both an admission of guilt and a cause for alarm.
“I didn’t!” he shouted shrilly, but rather than settling the matter, it only elicited more stares.
The situation finally deteriorated in its entirety when Draco, thinking he might just shrivel up and die if he didn’t, shouted something along the lines of, All right, I did, and he smelled like arse, which he probably gets from his mother; and this was when he found himself hoisted up into the air, into this completely stupid situation, with absolutely no warning whatsoever.
FACT: Draco Malfoy does not believe in karma, but is beginning to understand why some people do.
FACT: Draco Malfoy does believe in instant gratification, partly because he never thought it would one day turn against him.
SPECULATION: It has.
It’s difficult to get his brain working when it’s spinning about like some sort of demonic ferris wheel, but eventually, he pulls himself out of painful reminiscences and begins to form a plan of attack.
Or rather, of escape.
Such a plan must strain the near-endless limits of his Slytherin cunning and guile, must astound each and every onlooker beyond comprehension. It must be the most incredible plan ever concocted by any living being on Earth, remembered for centuries by history books and bards, who would sing his praises until the end of time.
And Draco just so happens to have such a plan stashed away, waiting to be used at the opportune moment.
He suddenly pulls a quizzical face, and points with mock astonishment to a spot just over Weasley’s shoulder. “Look over there!” he cries.
“What?” Weasley mutters. He glances behind him, and, distracted, manages to accidentally bring Draco closer to shore. “Where?”
Potter and Granger are peering back at the alleged irregularity as well, their brows and mouths furrowed with frowns.
“I don’t see anything,” says Potter.
Which only makes everyone else look all the more closely, and Draco come floating all the more toward safety, until he’s directly above Weasley’s head-and nobody even notices. Are Gryffindors always this dense?
Well, yes. Draco shakes his head and smirks. Of course they are.
But all amusement and idiocy aside, there’s still the matter of getting down. If Weasley & Co. continue to look away from him for long enough, there’s a small chance he’ll simply be able to float away toward a tree of some kind, and, once reaching the top, climb down to freedom. Draco flaps his arms a bit, eventually moving them in the manner that one might adopt were one doing the breast stroke, in hopes of propelling himself forward. However, this is only successful in the loosest sense of the word, for he goes forward, indeed-only to begin turning in a large circle, as if he’s a goldfish swimming hopelessly round in its bowl.
“ARRGGHH!” he shouts in frustration.
Looking up to find Draco looming and thrashing about above him, Weasley drops his wand in surprise. The latter’s mouth is a large, unseemly O.
In an instant, Draco plummets toward the ground, triumph waning as he realizes just how much this is going to hurt. But instead of hitting the dirt with a loud, bloody THUD, and cracking his head open upon whatever sharp objects are looming within it, his own large, unseemly O of a mouth collides with Weasley’s, and they are both swept neatly into the lake.
On shore, people begin to turn round in surprise, not quite sure what’s going on. A few head off in the direction of Herbology, or even back into the castle, too befuddled to enjoy the scene any longer.
Offshore, the situation is rather the same, only less calm. Neither Draco Malfoy nor Ron Weasley have processed what’s happening, except that inadvertently the lips of one have touched the lips of the other, and they’re beginning to sputter and violently wipe their mouths in disgust, when they realize that they’re underwater.
“I’m drowning!” Draco screeches, except it comes out more like, “BUHGLUBGLUB!”
It isn’t as though he can’t swim. Like flying, it’s something Draco was taught to do at an early age. Unlike flying, however, swimming isn’t a hobby he ever much enjoyed; and besides which, there’s quite a difference between paddling leisurely in the cerulean waters of a swimming pool, and flailing for one’s life in the dirty brown filth of lake water and squid excrement.
His vision is beginning to go black as he desperately claws upward, lungs burning.
And then? He feels a strong arm hook around his waist and haul him toward the surface.
FACT: Someone is saving Draco Malfoy’s life.
When he’s done coughing and sputtering and gasping for air, lying back on the warm banks of the lake, he half expects his rescuer to have tentacles. Would the Giant Squid expect payment? And how much soggy toast would that amount to in the end? He doesn’t know, and trying to figure it out makes his head pound horridly. So, after a few uncomfortable moments, he gives up. The grass is warm, and he nestles into it, shivering. The slope of the bank protects him from the wind. Perhaps he’ll drift off to sleep.
It’s at this point that he realizes there is someone breathing heavily near him.
Draco’s eyes shoot open, and he almost screams.
Nothing’s there except blue sky.
He rolls over onto his side.
Weasley.
Now his eyes narrow. Weasley’s hunched over with his arms wrapped around his knees, hair dripping down his skin. His clothes are molded to his body. He isn’t really looking anywhere; he simply continues breathing, and staring off in the direction of the lake. But it’s a stare that Draco recognizes, one that sees, just not whatever he’s looking at.
For a moment, it’s just the two of them, sitting in the grass like it’s a normal day, a sunny, summery afternoon, and they’re nothing more than acquaintances who happen to have gone for a leisurely swim at the same time.
Then time rolls forward, and the moment ends.
“Ron! Ron!”
Potter and Granger rush to Weasley frantically. As if he’s hurt. As if he’s not breathing obnoxiously loud. Granger rests her hand lightly on his back.
“Ron?”
“Are you all right?”
They pull him slowly to his feet, against a soundtrack of murmurs from the crowd that’s still behind them. He shoots Draco a strange look, somewhere between thoughtfulness and confusion, before saying, “Yeah, yeah. S’all right. I’m fine.”
Potter turns his head briefly to glower at Draco, and then proceeds to ignore him. “You should’ve just let the git drown,” he mutters furiously. “Dunno why you saved him.”
They proceed up the bank in a line three across: Weasley in the middle, supported on either side by their shoulders.
“Yeah, well,” Weasley says. “Next time he insults my mum, I won’t.”
Draco watches them go, seeing but not really seeing. There’s a swooping sensation in his stomach, somewhere that’s deep down and usually quiet.
FACT: It feels a little bit like flying.
Later, as the sun goes down, he’ll puzzle on this, trying to comprehend the connection-if there’s really any connection at all.
For now, though, in the comfort of the afternoon, he lies back, and thinks of Weasley.
THE END
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ron/Draco
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,483
Summary: “Did you just...?” Weasley screwed up his face and stared, the boulders in his tiny brain rolling about unhelpfully. “Did you just sniff me?”
Author’s Notes: Written for ficadron for the prompt flying. Originally posted here. The rating is for innuendo. Remember: nothing dirty actually happens. It’s just that your inner twelve-year-old will be well pleased. This is pre-slash, with implications of them starting to fancy the pants off each other. Also, there are lumberjacks, and they’re okay. (And they belong to Monty Python.)
Involuntary Suspension
This is stupid, Draco thinks.
And of course it’s stupid, because everyone with half a brain knows one shouldn’t go flying through the air without a broomstick clasped tightly between one’s thighs, head flung back and eyes streaming at the rapture of escalation. Flying, Draco has long since decided, is not about business, nor is it about necessity; its sole purpose, rather, is to incite pleasure, and if, from this pleasure, one also gains the benefit of substantial profit, then such a gratifying exercise can hardly be labeled as folly. Not, that is to say, that he’s yet experienced enough to have a level of impeccable professionalism firmly within his grasp; but it’s always been his intention, no matter what his father says.
Draco has Goals and Aspirations. He has things he’s willing to work for, and work he’s willing to let other people do for him; and with much more than half a brain to call his own, Draco isn’t stupid.
He’s simply thrust into unfortunately stupid situations.
Much like the one in which he now finds himself, wherein he is flying without the aid of a broom. Wherein a statement like This is stupid is as true and obvious as, Weasleys are poor, or, Granger is annoying, or even, The best Potter is a dead Potter. Simple statements of fact.
FACT: Draco Malfoy is being held captive in the air over the lake by Despicable Weasley #6.
FACT: Draco Malfoy does not remember doing anything at all to provoke this behavior.
FACT: Draco Malfoy is probably going to vomit at any moment.
His clothes are mussed. His hair is sticking to his forehead. He is completely and utterly spent, and desires nothing but release after being whipped about brutally by Weasley’s wand. His head, in fact, is throbbing to the point where he worries it might explode over all the ingrates who have gathered down below to watch.
This is stupid, and completely and utterly unfair.
“Enjoying yourself, Malfoy?” Weasley jeers, or tries to jeer-Draco’s only consolation is that The Jeer looks even more ridiculous on Weasley’s speckled mug than it does on Crabbe’s, which is something rather remarkable. In fact, Draco almost would remark upon this fact, except he feels something hot burning at the back of his throat, and is forced to close his mouth and swallow.
“You wish, Weasley!” Draco spits after the feeling passes.
Still, Weasley looks smug, peering up at him through loathsome, overgrown ginger locks, and even Granger isn’t doing anything much to interfere. Her smile is half-reproachful, half-gleeful, the cow; at her side, Potter has begun some sort of dance that may denote amusement, or the need to wet himself, or possibly both, one being the consequence of the other. The quickly-forming crowd delights in pointing and laughing like a bunch of brainless baboons-comprised mostly of Gryffindors, naturally-as several of them copy Potter’s motions.
Draco screws his eyes shut and tries to think back.
Breakfast? Check.
Cold sausage because he’d come too late. No toast because the elves had changed something about the marmalade, rendering it inedible.
Potions? Check.
He’d put extra effort into his sauntering out of the Great Hall in lieu of a most disappointing and disheartening meal. His stomach had growled all the way down to the dungeons, frightening off several lost first-years.
History of Magic?
Draco pauses in his musings, appearing as thoughtful as one can whilst being physically assaulted thirty feet up in the air.
No check. No check at all.
Being unable to tolerate another day of the decrepit old ghost’s fascinating tales of goblin hierarchies and Wardy the Wooly Whale-man’s Woeful Wanderings, he’d stolen off with the intent of making for sunnier, less Wardy-filled climes. But as the Gryffindors had seemed to be heading off toward Herbology in one great, raucous mass, he’d fallen in line with the last of them, hoping to once again peel off most inconspicuously for want of liberty.
NO. CHECK.
He had strolled along with his hands in his pockets, nearly whistling to himself in a picture of near-plebian exaltation. The sun had lightly dusted his shoulders and the top of his head with its warmth, and the wind had caressed his face with her gentle, teasing fingers. He had considered lazily making his way to the soft banks of the lake, upon which he would lie beneath the shade with his hand trailing in the still waters, quietly reflecting perhaps on poetry and the Giant Squid. Life had been lucky. Life had been wonderful.
Then he had glanced up out of uncharacteristic curiosity, and found Weasley staring at him. The other two of the Golden Three hadn’t bothered noticing him yet, but it was disconcerting enough being gawped at as though he, Draco, were the idiot, and not the other way around.
“What do you want?” Draco asked in a tone that suggested he was not actually interested-because he wasn’t.
“What’re you doing here, Malfoy?” Weasley had either ignored him, or enjoyed answering a question with a question.
“I’m minding my own business,” Draco drawled, careful that the I’m was breathy and drawn out for more than a condescending second. He shot a look at Weasley in a way that clearly added, As should you be to his statement.
Weasley sputtered at this. “You’re bloody well not!” he spat (and sputtered). Sputtered and spat, like a boiling, unattended cauldron filled with something inedible and foul-smelling. And poor.
Draco had always assumed that Weasleys smelled foul, but had never bothered to test this hypothesis, as to do so was beneath him, and he hardly cared that much, anyway. But, once again driven by an insatiable bout of curiosity, he leaned forward on the pretense of preparing to say something particularly nasty, and sniffed as casually and discreetly as he could. “I. Am. So,” he added as a precaution, and not without a hint of triumph. Weasley held the faint aroma of sweaty underarms (and Draco noted with satisfaction that Weasley’s underarms were, in fact, disgustingly sweaty, which was inexcusable even on a hot day), broken only by a slight, not precisely unpleasant, woodsy scent (which obviously suggested that Weasley had become a lumberjack).
“Did you just...?” Weasley screwed up his face and stared, the boulders in his tiny brain rolling about unhelpfully. “Did you just sniff me?”
“Don’t be absurd, Weasley.” (He’s a lumberjack and he’s okay. He sleeps all night and he works all day.)
By this time-though Draco hadn’t noticed it at first-Potter and Granger, along with a small, fetid flock of their underlings, had stopped, and were beginning to gather round. The lake glittered enticingly just beyond their little circle, and Draco almost wished-almost-that he had simply ignored Weasley, stalking off importantly with his pointy nose pointed at the pale blue sky. But Weasleys were easily insulted, and too stupid to think of clever retorts, and so it probably would have been a crime not to take advantage of such an opportunity.
“He sniffed me!” Weasley was still exclaiming to his cohorts, disbelieving. Said cohorts were still gazing back at him with equally idiotic, equally disbelieving expressions. Potter seemed unable to think of something clever to say.
Ordinarily, Draco delighted in such an occurrence, yet now, annoyance had begun to drag the corners of his mouth down into a frown. He had not managed total casualness and discretion: he had been caught in the act, as it were, and the fact that he could feel his face starting to grow hot was both an admission of guilt and a cause for alarm.
“I didn’t!” he shouted shrilly, but rather than settling the matter, it only elicited more stares.
The situation finally deteriorated in its entirety when Draco, thinking he might just shrivel up and die if he didn’t, shouted something along the lines of, All right, I did, and he smelled like arse, which he probably gets from his mother; and this was when he found himself hoisted up into the air, into this completely stupid situation, with absolutely no warning whatsoever.
FACT: Draco Malfoy does not believe in karma, but is beginning to understand why some people do.
FACT: Draco Malfoy does believe in instant gratification, partly because he never thought it would one day turn against him.
SPECULATION: It has.
It’s difficult to get his brain working when it’s spinning about like some sort of demonic ferris wheel, but eventually, he pulls himself out of painful reminiscences and begins to form a plan of attack.
Or rather, of escape.
Such a plan must strain the near-endless limits of his Slytherin cunning and guile, must astound each and every onlooker beyond comprehension. It must be the most incredible plan ever concocted by any living being on Earth, remembered for centuries by history books and bards, who would sing his praises until the end of time.
And Draco just so happens to have such a plan stashed away, waiting to be used at the opportune moment.
He suddenly pulls a quizzical face, and points with mock astonishment to a spot just over Weasley’s shoulder. “Look over there!” he cries.
“What?” Weasley mutters. He glances behind him, and, distracted, manages to accidentally bring Draco closer to shore. “Where?”
Potter and Granger are peering back at the alleged irregularity as well, their brows and mouths furrowed with frowns.
“I don’t see anything,” says Potter.
Which only makes everyone else look all the more closely, and Draco come floating all the more toward safety, until he’s directly above Weasley’s head-and nobody even notices. Are Gryffindors always this dense?
Well, yes. Draco shakes his head and smirks. Of course they are.
But all amusement and idiocy aside, there’s still the matter of getting down. If Weasley & Co. continue to look away from him for long enough, there’s a small chance he’ll simply be able to float away toward a tree of some kind, and, once reaching the top, climb down to freedom. Draco flaps his arms a bit, eventually moving them in the manner that one might adopt were one doing the breast stroke, in hopes of propelling himself forward. However, this is only successful in the loosest sense of the word, for he goes forward, indeed-only to begin turning in a large circle, as if he’s a goldfish swimming hopelessly round in its bowl.
“ARRGGHH!” he shouts in frustration.
Looking up to find Draco looming and thrashing about above him, Weasley drops his wand in surprise. The latter’s mouth is a large, unseemly O.
In an instant, Draco plummets toward the ground, triumph waning as he realizes just how much this is going to hurt. But instead of hitting the dirt with a loud, bloody THUD, and cracking his head open upon whatever sharp objects are looming within it, his own large, unseemly O of a mouth collides with Weasley’s, and they are both swept neatly into the lake.
On shore, people begin to turn round in surprise, not quite sure what’s going on. A few head off in the direction of Herbology, or even back into the castle, too befuddled to enjoy the scene any longer.
Offshore, the situation is rather the same, only less calm. Neither Draco Malfoy nor Ron Weasley have processed what’s happening, except that inadvertently the lips of one have touched the lips of the other, and they’re beginning to sputter and violently wipe their mouths in disgust, when they realize that they’re underwater.
“I’m drowning!” Draco screeches, except it comes out more like, “BUHGLUBGLUB!”
It isn’t as though he can’t swim. Like flying, it’s something Draco was taught to do at an early age. Unlike flying, however, swimming isn’t a hobby he ever much enjoyed; and besides which, there’s quite a difference between paddling leisurely in the cerulean waters of a swimming pool, and flailing for one’s life in the dirty brown filth of lake water and squid excrement.
His vision is beginning to go black as he desperately claws upward, lungs burning.
And then? He feels a strong arm hook around his waist and haul him toward the surface.
FACT: Someone is saving Draco Malfoy’s life.
When he’s done coughing and sputtering and gasping for air, lying back on the warm banks of the lake, he half expects his rescuer to have tentacles. Would the Giant Squid expect payment? And how much soggy toast would that amount to in the end? He doesn’t know, and trying to figure it out makes his head pound horridly. So, after a few uncomfortable moments, he gives up. The grass is warm, and he nestles into it, shivering. The slope of the bank protects him from the wind. Perhaps he’ll drift off to sleep.
It’s at this point that he realizes there is someone breathing heavily near him.
Draco’s eyes shoot open, and he almost screams.
Nothing’s there except blue sky.
He rolls over onto his side.
Weasley.
Now his eyes narrow. Weasley’s hunched over with his arms wrapped around his knees, hair dripping down his skin. His clothes are molded to his body. He isn’t really looking anywhere; he simply continues breathing, and staring off in the direction of the lake. But it’s a stare that Draco recognizes, one that sees, just not whatever he’s looking at.
For a moment, it’s just the two of them, sitting in the grass like it’s a normal day, a sunny, summery afternoon, and they’re nothing more than acquaintances who happen to have gone for a leisurely swim at the same time.
Then time rolls forward, and the moment ends.
“Ron! Ron!”
Potter and Granger rush to Weasley frantically. As if he’s hurt. As if he’s not breathing obnoxiously loud. Granger rests her hand lightly on his back.
“Ron?”
“Are you all right?”
They pull him slowly to his feet, against a soundtrack of murmurs from the crowd that’s still behind them. He shoots Draco a strange look, somewhere between thoughtfulness and confusion, before saying, “Yeah, yeah. S’all right. I’m fine.”
Potter turns his head briefly to glower at Draco, and then proceeds to ignore him. “You should’ve just let the git drown,” he mutters furiously. “Dunno why you saved him.”
They proceed up the bank in a line three across: Weasley in the middle, supported on either side by their shoulders.
“Yeah, well,” Weasley says. “Next time he insults my mum, I won’t.”
Draco watches them go, seeing but not really seeing. There’s a swooping sensation in his stomach, somewhere that’s deep down and usually quiet.
FACT: It feels a little bit like flying.
Later, as the sun goes down, he’ll puzzle on this, trying to comprehend the connection-if there’s really any connection at all.
For now, though, in the comfort of the afternoon, he lies back, and thinks of Weasley.
THE END