"𝐈'𝐦 𝐭𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧' 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐮𝐩 𝐧𝐨𝐰
𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐨𝐥
𝐑𝐮𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫
𝐀𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧' 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮."
-'Fearless' by Taylor Swift

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HEMERA

"I'm telling you," Pansy's lungs expel an exasperated sigh as she indignantly claps the hair straightener, the sound matching the rhythmic tapping of her foot on the bathroom's pattern-tiled floor. "Your hair is literally pin straight. If I run it over one more time I can't promise that it won't start falling off."

I glare at her through the mirror, my reflection portraying the kind of annoyance that I'd deem laughable if I wasn't too busy standing my ground against the palpable waves of nerves swirling around in my stomach. "No, it's not. See this strand?" I single out said future heat victim from the rest of my hair and hold it out for her to see. I doubt she spots the minor imperfection my compulsiveness has to deal with. "It's not straight enough."

"You seem to be begging for a bald spot." Rolling her eyes, Pansy snatches the tuft from my fingers and attempts to straighten it again. Her movements might be sharp and even a bit painful as she tugs on my hair but I can't blame her for it. If the roles were reversed and I had to deal with a person who's been sitting on a chair and doing nothing but complain throughout the whole process I doubt I would have resisted the temptation to slap them. Or burned their earlobes off with the straightener.

Fear the ones who hold the weapons.

Once she's done, she flashily unplugs the straightener to make it clear that she's had enough of my audacious peculiarity and places her hand on her hip in the most motherly bossy manner. "Satisfied now?" She asks, quirking a perfectly-shaped eyebrow.

I turn my head from left to right, searching eyes taking in my reflection. My hair is still warm from the heat it endured so it feels like my fingers brush through dying flames when I smooth it out and pull a few pieces over my shoulders. "I think so."

"Shut up." She nudges the area between my traction-bearing shoulder blades. "You're literally perfect. Let's just hope that it doesn't rain while you're out."

I decide to let her sentence go in one ear and out the other as I walk out of the bathroom and grab the clothes I picked out for today. "Do you think it's possible for the universe to hate me this much?"

She shrugs, lingering on the bathroom's doorway. The ends of her hair barely brush over her clothed shoulders, "No. Yes. Maybe. If it rains, take it as an opportunity to have a magical first kiss in the rain. I mean a movie-worthy make-out session, you know?"

Laughter causes a low turbulence in my chest. I glance at the clock on my nightstand and quickly strip out of my pajamas when the realization that it's already six pm sinks in. Lucas expects me to meet him in the backyard in less than thirty minutes and I still haven't done my makeup. I cower away from imputing the blame on my defective time management and choose to believe that I'm simply another victim of the universe's grudges. "I'm not going to have my first kiss today. Although tempting, I'm not mentally prepared for it. Like let's be honest, I'm doomed to face the great risk of fainting just by hearing his voice."

Pansy shakes her head, flecks of withheld chuckles glimmering beneath her words. She walks over to her bed and jumps on it like a cat on a sun-drenched windowsill. Crossing her legs, her fingers absentmindedly find a loose thread in her cashmere winter socks and tug on it. "You're pathetic."

"Just persistent. Gotta make sure I don't get too out of character." I slip into my white cropped sweatshirt after zipping up my dark gray flared jeans. "And I'm finally winning."

"Winning as in?"

Lucas has finally noticed me. Hesitation clutches my throat like an invisible hand aiming to choke me, and the sound of the unspoken, ascending words dies out quicker than a trembling candle flame exposed to the pouring rain. Unlike the latter, no tendrils of smoke rise from their demise. My desire to vocalize any of the scattered thoughts in my brain steps aside, granting silence the crown of our attention.

Pretending not to have heard her, I decree my voice into some semblance of stoutness. "Can I borrow your mascara?" The question's only purpose is to showcase my cultural upbringing, for I'm already digging through her vanity case like a mole by the time she mutters a careless 'yeah'.

[-]

"—and the most impressive part is that it is an emergent plant and is generally dependent upon aerenchyma in the stem to carry oxygen into the roots." The information pouring out of me seems to be spiraling far out of the comprehension of anyone who doesn't live by the term 'plantsman.' If Lucas' muddled frown translates into any form of indication, I'd confidently say that I've either impressed him or rambled his ear off. Praying for my deliverance means praying for the first option.

I glance up at him from where I've crouched down next to a bush of purple-blossoming pickerelweed, the stems of the plant strong enough to resist swaying with the wind's circling current. Truth be told, I hadn't seen one in a while, not even alongside the black lake's rocky shore, and the logical part of my brain telling me not to stop to inspect it faced the same success as a parent trying to talk their child out of craving ice cream in mid-August.

It was freaking impossible.

"The rumors are true then," Lucas' voice carries the slight wavering of his concealed chuckles and the sound unscrews the plug in the humongous pool of nerves occupying most of my brain's storage space. Perhaps he doesn't truly regret asking me to meet. Yet. "You are an anthophilous."

Palms cupping my knees, I push myself to my full height and fall back into step beside him. The crisp afternoon air makes me pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt past my fingertips as I curl them into a fist, trying to keep my body heat unharmed. I usually wouldn't let the 'should've' thoughts nibble on my mind, especially on an occasion like this, but my decision not to bring a coat has started to bug me.

"Do people go and say that about me all around?" I choose to distract myself from my current state of fighting off regrets by putting a question out there.

"No. To be honest, rumors usually work like the web. You ask something and an appalling amount of information pops up. Most of the sources aren't even reliable."

My head turns to face him entirely as my feet drag themselves over the plain dry soil, pacing along the shoreline with the slightly rippling water licking over small moss-covered stones only a few feet away. The surface of the lake reflects the miraculous glimmer of the sun as though its only purpose is to be the mirror of the things we can only touch with our admiration. "You seem to be well-educated on muggle technology."

"I've been attending muggle studies for three years now. My uncle owns an electronics store in Douai and being the only heir means that it'll be mine as soon as I graduate. He's tired of it and I happen to find working there quite fascinating."

I nod, agreeing with him on the fascination part. Although impressive, technology is not something I could ever see myself approaching, with the prospect of making a profession out of it at least. Knowing how to make a phone call or take a picture doesn't count as knowledge on the topic, although I'd think of myself as a tad more qualified if it did. "Blaise attended last year. I don't know if he'll go back to it but it used to be his favorite subject."

"What does he want to study?"

"Photography," the answer flows out of me effortlessly, thoughtlessly even. "If my inexperienced judgment is dependable, I'd say that he's pretty good at it too."

Small, winged insects, dragonflies mostly, glide through the air swiftly, soaring above the tranquil water. Their wings glisten in tiny dots of light under the rays of the dimming sun. The way it sinks behind the treetops and mountain peaks on the horizon is a sight I have to drag my eyes away from. Its beauty is compelling, lulling my feet to freeze into immobility like a tree with its roots deeply embedded in fresh soil, just so I can gawk at the picturesque scenery until all the colors fade from the sky and it turns into a dark blanket of star-sewn silk.

The fact that it was his idea to walk alongside the black lake instead of limiting ourselves to marble-covered Hogwarts grounds still has me giddy with admiration of how he couldn't have been more right when he said I'd like it more than the school's yard.

"And what about you?" His question is robbed of its casualty just from the way his alluring voice and euphoric nasal accent intermingle with my bloodstream like a spoonful of honey in a cup of tea. Heat ascends inside me past the identification of my internal thermometer, tickling my veins. When his umber eyes re-introduce themselves to mine, the realization that it's just the two of us around sloshes the ninety-ninth gash in my stomach. It's getting harder and harder to keep count.

I don't notice how lost I must look to anyone who doesn't have an insight into my haze-clouded brain until I hear my voice. "What about me?"

"Have you thought about a career path you'd like to follow?"

"I guess I'll start from botanology and see where that will take me." A familiar tension creeps up to my shoulders and I roll them back to shake it off. "I just—talking about the future makes me nervous."

"In terms of failure?" His voice remains calm yet glimmers of thoughtfulness poke through its surface.

"No, not failure. I know that I'll get where I want to get someday; but knowing that we're graduating next year doesn't help with my existential crises."

Lucas laughs charmingly, emitting a sound I want to hear again. Deep yet light-hearted in a way that scrapes past my ears like a rough hand's caress, one that tries to be affectionate despite its promised nature. And one whose affection I realize I'm willing to say ridiculous things to earn.

Shoving his hands in the front pockets of his jeans with only his thumbs hanging out, he says. "If you're already stressing over things that haven't come yet, you'll most definitely have drained yourself before it's time to face them. It's like worrying about how your empire is going to turn out without having built a fortress for yourself. There's a fine line between being proactive and high-strung."

Although I've been told the exact same things by my friends and family who have gotten a sore ear from hearing me overthink my entire existence in the name of planning out my future, Lucas' voice of reason brings a spring of calm to my year-reigning winter of anxiety. The sharp icicles of disquietude limiting my freedom of thought and tearing through my presence of mind like jagged glass through silk, temporarily melt into puddles.

"Maybe you're right."

"Come on, you have to give me more credit than maybe. I think my motivational speech deserves it."

Hearty laughter surges out of me at his playful demeanor, at the knowing gleam in his eyes that indicates he is probably aware of the burning match his mere presence holds over the gasoline pooling in my chest. Aware of the way he can set me on fire with an embarrassingly low level of effort if he wishes to.

Blotches of scarlet that I never thought could match the color of the sky with such precise accuracy, spread on my cheeks like liquid paint spilling over a plain canvas. Our laughter dies out, slowly like smoke dissolving into nothingness after a blazing wildfire is put out. A few remaining tendrils of it linger in my throat, the thick euphoria gushing out of them momentarily blocking my flow of oxygen.

In the reign of our few-second-lifespan silence, the sound of our footsteps takes over, along with the dying chirping of birds nesting behind the shield of branches and leaves for the night. And then, a fine line draws his brows in a frown like a thread sewn under his skin. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

My nod translates into nonverbal confirmation and the next thing I hear is the low gravel of his voice. I don't think that listening to him speak will ever feel more real than a dream, a product of my lulled imagination. "It's about you and Malfoy."

I mentally brace myself for the question whose repetitive resonation has resulted in it being engraved into my mind like numbers in a cell wall.

"There's nothing romantic between us," I say, ahead of time, but given how the tangled expression evaporates from his features, I took a good guess.

Surprise slips over his confusion like a mask of iron, "nothing at all?"

A confident shake of my head. "No."

Lucas runs his hand over his mouth like he just had a State Secret revealed to him and doesn't know how to deal with the weight of its responsibility. "I'd pretty much bet my life on it."

My shoulders lift in a nonchalant shrug. "Many would. Every time people see a boy and a girl being close they assume it's either because they're together or blood related. Neither is the case here."

"So you're just friends?"

"Yeah."

"And is it possible that you've never thought of each other differently?"

I scuff my feet in the dry soil, "Why would we?"

His eyebrows wing up, "because half of the female population in this school drools at the sight of Malfoy doing extreme activities such as breathing and blinking and, well you are you."

You are you.

His shoulder brushes against mine right on cue and a blanket of static settles over my skin, even if our clothes stand between the potential of direct contact like the Great Wall of China. It's almost as if I can feel the warmth radiating off his body and finding shelter in mine.

You are you.

His words echo hauntingly within the walls of my skull like a prayer yelled into the face of a hollow cave. Sparks ignite in my stomach and the vital organ soon becomes the home of swirling flames that laugh at the mention of control and tame. My voice is void of certainty, void of confidence, void of anything that doesn't betray my breathless state.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You definitely are someone one would want to be with." He says it like the words don't pull the rug from under my feet and swipe me clean off the surface of the earth, skyrocketing me somewhere between cloud nine and outer space. My constantly-on-alert consciousness doesn't miss the opportunity to fully and properly grasp the flirtatious undertone shimmering there, which I am 99% sure was as intentional as anything else he does.

He doesn't look like the kind to leave meaningless threads for me to hopelessly tug on, only to realize that they lead to a dead end.

I take the concerningly high temperature my blood has reached and the ridiculous amount of warmth that breaks through the surface of my cheeks, as a hint to shift the conversation into something that doesn't bring me closer to resembling a rime tomato.

"You never told me if you made it to the Quidditch team." The chilly breeze pushes my hair out of my face, blowing the front strands back.

Lucas' chin tilts up proudly before he even says his answer out loud. His honey-drenches irises twinkle with the kind of gleam that's past the reach of any enthralling spell.

"I did. The tryouts turned out to be easier than I thought. And I never believed it was possible for me to fly as fast as I did that day; not when I had convinced myself that flying wasn't for me after the first time I fell off the broom. I was a little lost in prejudice afterward."

"Seems like 'a little' doesn't do the amount justice." I tell him, turning to look at him only to find his eyes already on me. "But I'm proud of you. Really. I don't think I could ever muster enough courage to get on a broom and actually fly amongst other players.

I don't even realize we've reached the rockiest part of the shoreline until the stones start getting bigger beneath my feet-harder to balance on. I remind myself to mind my step a little more than I did before, but Lucas doesn't follow after me. He stops in his tracks and when I face him with a quirked brow, he points to a rock, wide enough for the both of us to sit on and flattened out by the years of enduring the wind's unforgivingly vicious whips.

"Well, I don't think you'd be as bad at it. You're underestimating yourself." His long limbs bend and he crouches down on the rock, the unyielding stone solid and unmoving beneath him. I follow his lead and he holds out a hand to hoist me up next to him. His grip is so secure around my hand that I don't think I could slip off even if I desired to— exactly like he'd held my hand in the hallway when I'd so foolishly run into him and almost broken my spinal cord from landing on my ass with so much force.

I note how he takes a moment before letting go of me.

Once sat close enough to feel his muscled arm brushing against my shoulder, I look down at the crystal clear water- at how it seeps through the gaps in the stones and ripples only a few inches away from my feet, carrying a sound so relaxing I wouldn't mind listening to it for eternity.

"Trust me, I can't even kick my feet off the ground," I tell him, truthfully, while pulling my knees up to my chest after the breakout of a wave almost soaks my shoes. "So I can't even imagine how being up there," casting a quick glance at the sky, I notice how the sun has almost bled out completely across the clearing, "feels like. Part of me thinks it's freeing and refreshing- having no limits as to where you can fly. But fear is stronger than curiosity sometimes."

His voice is laced with raw realization, and he doesn't even bother hiding it. "So you're afraid of flying."

I nod once and it's enough. A shadow of something unreadable crosses his face, ghosting over that beautifully tanned skin. Something that looks a lot like he'd like to show me, help me feel that unlimited freedom of having the air tangle my hair, the rays of the sun warm on my body; as though he wants to offer me the opportunity of seeing the world without necessarily being a part of me, walking amongst the crowd. Even for a few minutes. But at the same time, I can see the understanding in its clearest form in his eyes.

He breathes in, and it seems like the words take their sweet time to gain shape in his mind before echoing around. "I could show you if you'd like. The feeling. Any verbal phrase would be such a poor description of it. Only once you fly will you be able to see its true colors." And then, doubt carves lines on his forehead. "But I'd understand it completely if you said no. I know how hard it can be-"

Draco has offered to fly me around multiple times. He's offered to share his broom with me and promised he wouldn't complain even if I scratched the skin off his flesh if I had to hold on tight to feel a sliver of safety. I'd made him swear, over and over again, that he wouldn't speed up past the mental limit I'd set or do tricks and loops around the quidditch pitch— but my reluctant agreement has yet to turn into something more than theoretical.

And yet, there's this weird feeling in my gut that tells me to take the offer this time, even if it's from someone else. My fear of heights seems to urge me into agreeing, lulling me into a trap to make me realize once and for all that I can't do it, or giving me a second chance to erase the weight of that one memory that has me unable to peer down even from the railing of a staircase.

"I think," a short pause, but still long enough for me to hear my pulse drumming in my ears. I don't know if it's the idea of flying or the idea of flying with Lucas that brings this reaction to my body. "I think we could try it." I revel at the tiny smile that twists the corners of his lips with such ease, it's like they're made of paper. "But you'll have to promise around a hundred times not to drop me. I'm not exactly willing to land on my arse."

"I'd never drop you." His tone beholds undeniable sincerity.

I laugh; a sound that ripples out of me like an instinct to his promise. And he watches me as I do, with undivided attention that doesn't even get distracted by the beauty of the scenery stretching endlessly before us like an invitation to infinity. His eyes, so like the hues of rich earth, slide over my features until they drop to my mouth; they shamelessly rest there, and even if that lasts for a fragment of a second, it still feels like minutes.

My smile drops gradually, but my heartbeat goes rigid at the closeness between our seated bodies. At the fact that I'm only an inch away from having my whole side pressed against him.

"Do that again," his voice seems to have dropped an octave, making everything he says sound more intimate. More worth the chills cascading like a waterfall down the length of my spine. "Smile. It suits you."

A kaleidoscope of butterflies bats their wings in my stomach, ever so softly and elegantly filling all the space it has to offer. I'm completely helpless against the smile that parts my mouth so widely, it's like the corners of my lips are nailed high to my cheeks.

"That's more like it." He whispers, and it sounds like it's only meant for him to hear. The low tone he speaks in brings out a rasp I hadn't heard edging his voice ever before. "J'adore ton sourire, il est tellement charmant, Hemera."

Even the mere sound of my name escaping his mouth floods my ears pleasingly. And I'd be damned if the sensation only limited itself to just one body part. Before I can stop it by doing I don't even know what, it spreads over every inch of me, clothed or not. It nearly feels like the fanning of a ghost's breath against my skin when it reaches my nape.

I might be able to identify the language as French but I'm completely oblivious as to what he said.

"What did you just call tellement charmant?" I probably just butchered the pronunciation but he looks like he couldn't care less as he grins proudly.

"How do you know that's what I said?"

"I recognized the 'il est'' part. One of the few things I know."

Lucas shakes his head, withheld chuckles making his chest rise and fall under his shirt. "Promise that if I tell you, you won't laugh at my face?"

I draw my pinky out for a promise and link it through his. "I promise."

"You need to come closer. It's a secret."

Feeling the beat of my heart drumming against the cage of my chest like a trapped bird flapping its wings and praying for its freedom, I can't help but do as he says. It's not the fact that I'm dying to know the word that makes me scoot over to him- but the wildfire of desire to be even closer. My blood reverses its course and instead of traveling all throughout my body, every drop of it collectively agrees to rush to my face as he closes the remaining distance between our seated bodies, pressing his side to mine.

Being this close to Lucas is like unwrapping a present you found under the Christmas tree and realizing it's what you've wanted the entire year but weren't sure you'd actually get. It makes me lightheaded like I'm drunk on something stronger than any drink, high on something stronger than any drug.

His eyes boring into mine is the cause of even the sound of the lake licking the base of the rock beneath us ceasing to exist. I find it surprisingly hard to be convinced that anything around us has ever been as engrossing as the pools of honey closing in on his pupils.

"I said that I like your smile. It's charming."

Can someone self-proclaim themselves dead? The 'I don't know if my heart is beating too fast or not beating at all' kind of dead? Some internal part of me reads through the songs I've added to a mental playlist for Lucas and me until it realizes that not a single one is perfect, fitting enough for this moment. Though Wonderful World by Sam Cooke comes close.

"Thank you." My throat closes up nervously around each syllable and I'm surprised I don't stutter, yet utterly thankful for it. "You're pretty handsome yoursel—"

"I didn't compliment you to get one back," when his hand finds mine and his fingers curl, the skin that bears his touch tickles and heats and burns in a way that makes me not want to pull away. " I felt like I really needed to get that out."

Not knowing how to respond to this, relief washes over me when he continues. "But I don't think that's the only thing I want to say, or do."

I swallow thickly and my voice sounds as low and weak as one's can. As breathless as someone who's been underwater for way too long. Every fiber of my being soaks in the awareness of how close his face is to mine. For a split second, my body urges me to zero the gap and pull him even closer. I physically restrain my muscles from doing so, for the realization that it's the first time someone's mouth is so close to mine makes me want to pull back as much as the limited space on the rock will allow me to.

"What else is left in?"

He chuckles and the air leaving his mouth caresses my lips warmly in a completely unfamiliar way. Part of me likes it too much, yet my mind can't process what's going on entirely, leaving the untrustworthy state of my body to lead.

"You look flustered enough as it is. I don't think you can handle me getting any closer than this-" but his head still tilts down ever so slightly, our noses almost brushing against one another in a featherlike touch I barely feel. "But maybe, that's exactly what I want to do."

"And how close do you want to get, may I ask?" he understands the teasing manner of my words, and that delivers some comfort through my stilled frame.

"Definitely closer than this" his lips peck my cheek so quickly, that the lingering sensation fades as soon as they're gone. I'm sure he felt just how warm my skin is. How it's threatening to turn ablaze. "And this" he kisses my other cheek just as briefly, this time inching a little closer to the corner of my mouth. I shudder contentedly.

I've already lost track of my heartbeat- if it's still in my chest and hasn't fled elsewhere.

His free hand raises up to my face and after pushing a strand of hair behind my ear, he drags his knuckles over my cheekbones. Heaviness gathers low in my belly, thick and molten. I know damn well I shouldn't be doing this— I'm not ready to be doing this. And yet my dropping eyelids don't resist indulging in the physical command my mind doesn't take part in.

The world blurs around me like I'm trying to inspect it through foggy glass and the earth's spinning slows on its axis. Anticipation shreds my skin and takes hold of my emotions, my reactions, my thoughts. Lucas' eyes lower and I can only focus on counting my breaths as I wait for what comes next. Whatever it might be.

A thud followed by a grunt cracks a hole in the spell circling us. I internally lash out with a string of curses I'd be quite delighted to cast upon whoever interrupted us and turn around to face said distraction.

Only for my gaze to be met with a familiar patch of blonde hair, a pair of blue eyes, and a pained frown as Draco is on the ground, hugging his seemingly injured knee to his chest and hissing through gritted teeth.

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