The sky was a bruised violet, the colour of a fading haematoma, as the sun began its slow ascent behind the jagged line of the mountains. Draconia gripped the handle of her broom, feeling the familiar grain of the wood against her palms. The air was cold enough to bite at her exposed skin, but she did not care about the chill. Above her, the sky transitioned from a deep indigo to a pale, translucent grey. Harry drifted a few metres to her left, his silhouette a dark, sharp edge against the brightening horizon. They were high above the pitch, far above the reach of the morning mist that clung to the grass. Neither of them spoke, because the silence of the dawn was a thing to be respected.
Movement was minimal as they ascended, their brooms carving smooth, wide arcs through the thin air. Draconia watched the way his hair caught the first weak light, the messy strands turning a dull gold. He was flying with a new kind of precision, a desperate sort of grace that she had noticed growing over the last few weeks. He no longer looked like he was merely trying to keep up with her; he was competing with her. The rivalry was a living thing between them, a tether that pulled them higher and higher into the empty expanse. She felt the pull in her chest, a tightness that had nothing to do with the altitude.
Everything felt different when they were up here, away from the scrutiny of the Slytherin common room and the heavy expectations of the pitch. The world below was a blur of green and grey, a distant reality that seemed less substantial than the wind rushing past her ears. Draconia banked her broom to the left, her body leaning into the turn with practiced ease. Harry followed her, his broom tilting in perfect synchronisation. They were two points of light in a vast, waking world, suspended by nothing but wood and magic.
"You're pushing too hard," Harry said, his voice barely carrying over the wind.
"I am not pushing, I am flying," Draconia replied, her eyes fixed on the horizon.
He laughed, a short, sharp sound that was swallowed by the expanse. "You're always pushing. It's a problem."
"It is only a problem if you can't keep up," she countered, and she meant it.
The wind caught her robes, the heavy fabric snapping against her legs as she levelled out. She loved the way the air felt against her face, a sharp, clean sensation that cleared the cobwebs of sleep. They drifted upward, the ascent steady and unhurried. There was no race today, only the slow climb toward the light. They passed a layer of low-hanging clouds, the moisture cooling her skin. The sensation of flying was the only thing that felt entirely real to her.
"Do you think we'll win the cup?" Harry asked.
Draconia looked at him, noting the way his eyes searched the sky for something. "We will win because we have to. It is the only option."
"That is a very grim way of looking at it," he teased.
"It is a realistic way of looking at it," she corrected him.
They reached a height where the air felt thin and brittle, the stillness of the upper atmosphere pressing against them. Draconia felt a sudden, strange impulse to stay here forever, to hang suspended in this transition between night and day. Down on the pitch, there were schedules and expectations and the constant, grinding pressure of the Slytherin streak. Up here, there was only the wind and the light. She watched him bank a wide, sweeping circle, his eyes narrowed against the brightening glare.
"You're quiet today," Harry remarked, his broom drifting closer to hers.
"I am thinking," she said, though she didn't know what she was thinking about.
"About the match?"
"About everything."
He drifted closer still, until the tips of their brooms almost brushed. The proximity was a heat in the middle of the cold. She could see the tension in his jaw, the way he held himself with a new, hard confidence. He was no longer the boy who stumbled through his first year; he was a seeker who could read the air as well as she could. He was a threat, and he was a partner, and the distinction was becoming harder to maintain.
"You're thinking too much," he said, his voice dropping an octave.
"And you're flying too fast," she shot back.
They pulled apart, the distance between them widening as they climbed higher into the light. The sun was a bright, white disc now, slicing through the violet haze. The light hit the grass far below, turning the pitch into a shimmering emerald. They were nearly at the apex of their climb, the point where the air felt most fragile. Draconia felt a surge of something fierce in her gut, a longing that had no name but felt like a physical weight.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Harry asked, gesturing to the expanse of the sky.
"It is acceptable," she said, though the lie tasted like ash.
"Acceptable? It's magnificent."
"Don't be dramatic, Harry."
"I'm not being dramatic, I'm being honest."
They drifted in a slow, circular pattern, the way a predator might circle its prey. The silence returned, but it was not the heavy, awkward silence of the changing rooms or the crowded corridors. This was a clean silence, a hollow space that allowed for thought. Draconia looked at the way the sunlight caught the edge of his broom, the wood glowing with a pale, golden light. She wanted to tell him something that wasn't a taunt or a deflection.
"You've gotten better," she said, her voice low.
He didn't look at her, keeping his eyes on the horizon. "I had a good teacher."
"Don't be vain. You're still a nuisance."
"A nuisance who is catching up to you."
"Hardly."
They rose into a final, steep climb, the wind whistling in her ears as she pushed her broom higher. The air was thin, the sensation of weightlessness nearly overwhelming. She felt as though she might simply tip over the edge of the world and fall into the sun. The height was a sanctuary, a place where the rules of the ground no longer applied. She looked at him, seeing the way he breathed, the way he existed in this moment of pure, unadulterated speed.
"I think I love the way it feels up here," Harry said, his eyes bright.
"It's the only place where things make sense," she replied.
They reached the highest point of their flight, the moment where the ascent felt as though it could go on forever. The light was blinding now, a white-hot glare that washed out the colours of the world. Draconia felt the rush of the wind, the sharp, cold sting of the altitude, and the sudden, overwhelming need to be known. She looked at him, seeing the way the sun defined the lines of his face, and she felt the truth of the moment settle in her bones. She decided to say one honest thing at altitude and it was legal to do so, because nobody can hear.