分卷阅读6（2 / 2）

Without a word, they take off into the sky after the Snitch, perfectly in unison. When it’s two Seekers alone in the air, with no other players or balls to worry about or the din of a crowd to distract—and when the Seekers are almost evenly matched, the way Harry and Draco are—the game transforms into an adrenaline-pounding, blood-rushing, heart-racing whirlwind of a duel.

“Best out of five?” Draco calls, and Harry gives the affirmative, but they each catch the Snitch so quickly the game stretches into nine, fifteen rounds. They lose count. Neither of them has to pretend at courtesy or sportsmanship; this is pure competition, and from the moment they take off there’s never more than a yard or so of space between them. If Harry tries to shake Draco off, Draco matches his every loop and dive and roll with a careless, manic grin. If Draco tries to catch Harry off guard with dizzying, breakneck laps around the stadium—flying so low they nearly tear seats right out of the stands or so high Harry has trouble catching his breath—Harry anticipates his every move and follows without so much as a moment of hesitation. Half the time they forget the Snitch is there until one of them sees it and shouts; then it’s a no-holds-barred aerial sprint for the goal, weaving over and under one another, elbowing each other shamelessly as they get closer and closer to the Snitch. More than once, Harry or Draco reach out and snatch the other’s wrist by accident (Draco claims it’s an accident every time, at least), and the snitch escapes them both. Neither of them notices when the sky grows dark with forbidding grey plumes of cloud.

When the rain starts, Harry puts the Snitch away and rejoins Draco in the air, and they place bets on which of them can pull off the best feints or other, increasingly dangerous and foolhardy maneuvers, like a game of chicken designed to give Madam Hooch a heart attack. Luckily, no one is around to knock some sense into their heads, so the two of them keep going until their broomsticks get too slick to hold on to. Draco, flying upside down with his hands behind his back, thighs locked around his broom to keep it in place, laughs so hard he nearly falls off when Harry slips and knocks his forehead into his broom handle while attempting to flip it over. And then Harry says, “At least I don’t look like a goddamn albino bat, you utter berk,” and Draco laughs harder, and slips, and ends up dangling from his broom with one knee hooked around it keeping him from breaking his neck until Harry comes and gets him. Draco doesn’t even look scared. “Save me, Potter!” he calls in a high- pitched, girlish voice, putting the back of his hand against his forehead as if playing at a swoon while hanging upside-down more than fifty feet in the air. (Harry almost leaves him there.)

That’s about when they decide to call it quits; the rain is pouring down in sheets and Harry is pretty sure he’s soaked down to his underwear. They land on the pitch, which is essentially a pool of mud at this point, and immediately shove each other over. Harry swears Draco started it. Draco claims Harry tripped him.

(Harry might have tripped him, by accident. He was standing closer than necessary and couldn’t see his own feet.)

Harry has never seen Draco smile like this, artlessly and radiantly. He feels a little drunk. He doesn’t even mind being covered in mud; he hopes Draco will shove him again just so Harry can have Draco’s hands back on him.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get more done today,” Harry says, as they pause in the broomshed to catch their breath before making a mad dash through the rain back up to the castle. He’s only just realizing how late it’s gotten, that they wasted half a day—one of Draco’s final days —doing what basically amounted to nothing.

Draco shakes his head. “I’m not. I needed this,” he says. “I missed flying.”

A number of responses come to Harry’s mind then: I missed flying with you, he almost says, or We can go again whenever you want, or You belong in the air, you were made for this, but some deeply buried self-preservation instinct kicks in, and holds the words back. Then Draco says, “Ready?” and Harry says, “Maybe if we wait it’ll clear up,” and Draco shoots back, “Scared, Potter?”

And Harry slams the door open and takes off without warning, leaving Draco to shout indignantly after him and follow. The moment is gone. But Harry’s still grinning by the time he makes it back to Gryffindor Tower.

He’s sure he looks a fool, windswept and muddy, dripping all over the place, glasses askew, smelling like sweat and broom polish—but not even Lavender and Parvati’s wrinkled noses or Hermione’s tight look of worry dampens his mood. And it’s not until after he’s showered, changed into his most comfortable pair of jeans and a sweater, and collapsed on his bed that he even realizes Ron is there in the dorm, lying in his bunk with a neglected Quidditch magazine in his hands and a very grim expression as he watches Harry. The last time Harry’d seen Ron look so serious, he’d been in mourning clothes.

“Hey,” Harry says.

“Gone out for a fly, then? In this weather?” Ron asks lightly.

“It sort of came up on us unexpectedly. I swear it was sunny earlier.”

Harry realizes his mistake too late.

“It was sunny about four hours ago. You’ve been out this whole time?” Ron says, and then, after a beat: “Us?”

“Erm, yes. Me and Malfoy,” Harry says. “We needed a break from all the research, so I thought….”

He hasn’t done anything wrong, Harry reminds himself. Defiantly, he sits up and grabs for his shoes. “I’m starved. Think I might go to the kitchens. Want anything?”

Ron sits up, too. “Hermione told me not to say anything to you.”

“Say…what?” Harry asks, his fingers slipping as he tries to knot his shoelaces. He looks up at Ron, who fidgets and tugs at the hem of his shirt and appears, all around, about as uncomfortable as Harry feels.