Crispin slung the goggles over his head to circle his neck. As he pulled the gloves on, flexing his fingers within the leather, he spotted the bag. Wisely he didn't comment on the eclectic thing. His lips quirked and he shook his head. House pride, taken to a new level. "I can't wait," he answered her honestly, even though his stomach flipped. Her hand on his arm set him to laughing. A childish move, a childish game, long ago played and since forgotten.
Her laughter taunted him as much as it drew him to follow her, like those foolish lemmings to the tune of a pipe. Would he fall over the edge of a cliff? Coward. His teeth gritted even as he ran after her to follow her into the skies. Once hesitant, the Slytherin pushed forward. Crispin ran the length of the bleachers, his trainers slapping solidly against the hard wood. It was now. It was in his blood, the run, the fight, the flight. He lunged, yelling, his feet pushed off the edge of wood and for one glorious moment he was air born, he could fly. Then gravity pulled him down, he shoved the broom under him and suddenly he was reborn.
For years he had been held back, kept in the dark. Trodden on, beaten down, kept in the dark until the boy he once had been had become shrouded in blackness. His blossoming soul had shriveled until all he fed upon was bitterness and what ifs. Today, as a spirited girl led him, he cracked through. The Crispin he'd once been, the fierce young boy who had cried out in his cage, rattling it for years, broke free. He yelled hoarsely as he kept going up, up, up, impossibly higher, tears streaming down his face.
Crispin slowed, the air thinned, and the seventh year hovered, limbs shaking. He threw his head back and felt again that glorious feeling of absolute freedom. Of love. Of wanting being fulfilled. The sky was a fiery red haired girl, the wind her kiss, the weightless beauty of flying her embrace.
