The next morning, a shirt is laid out upon the dresser within what has become 'his' room. Rhaegar considers the fabric, considers the design upon it. The shirt itself is of a similar material to the ones that already reside within his wardrobe, though this is the only one in a fetching dark green. The golden talon design upon the front is surrounded by the words 'Holyhead Harpies', yet another phrase that Rhaegar is unfamiliar with. That Hariel's servant has ensured the garment is within his room, it is clear that it is expected of him to wear it. Perhaps it is a requirement for this 'quidditch' that Hariel plans for them to go and witness today, Rhaegar cannot say for sure. He will, however, take with him one of the shirts in his wardrobe, stash it in the bottomless pouch that will forever reside at his hip. Just in case this is some form of joke upon his person. Even if he does not get that impression from Hariel.
Gathering up the shirt and selecting a pair of the coarse pants (jeans, Hariel had called them), Rhaegar makes for the washroom. Today he shall explore that tall cubical, the one that he assumes replicates a waterfall. The piping seems to indicate that is the design purpose and, given that his own people have access to rudimentary piping, it shouldn't be too hard to recreate if he can puzzle out the basics. With that thought in mind, Rhaegar closes the bathroom door behind him and begins to undress. As with the majority of things he has found within this land, their washroom is far superior to that of his own.
With the required shirt on and a towel hanging around his shoulders, Rhaegar makes with way down the stairs, doing his upmost best to muffle all sound. The curtains that cover the screaming portrait remain in place as Rhaegar passes by them, boots in hand and sock clad feet gracing the wooden flooring. Ducking into the kitchen, he closes the door quietly behind him before turning his gaze upon Hariel Potter. Unlike the previous day, she is dressed for an outing, wearing a matching shirt to the one that had been laid out for him this morning. She too has teamed it up with a pair of 'jeans', though her own are cut short halfway down the thigh. Instead of the cooked meats and accompaniments that they had broken their fast with yesterday, a tray of fruits, some familiar and some foreign, lays upon the table. There are two other bowls, barring the one Hariel is eating from, one containing flakes in a tan colour and the other housing what appears to be some form of thick, white… gloop. There's really no other word for it.
"Morning, Rhaegar. We've got about an hour before the match is due to start. Our seats are prebooked, so there won't be any jostling in the crowds, but it'd probably still be a good idea to set off in half an hour." with that said, Hariel spears a slice of white-covered strawberry and takes a bite, gesturing with her free arm for him to pull up a chair. Rhaegar does so, inspecting the array of fruits with curious eyes. There is something that looks remarkably similar to blood oranges, but the yellow cubes are anyone's guess. The strawberries are familiar, as are the apple slices. He takes a little of everything, helping himself to some of the mystery white gloop but avoiding the tan flakes. He does take a moment to swirl the thick substance about in his bowl, watching it stick to the collection of fruit within.
"You were looking confused," Hariel murmurs, popping one of the yellow chunks into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. "The white stuff, it's yogurt. Made from milk, but I couldn't tell you how exactly. I'm assuming you've not got it wherever you come from?"
"No, we have nothing quite like this," Rhaegar murmurs, stilling his inspection of the substance to instead begin eating it. It's strange, remarkably cool and it goes well with the strawberry and orange segment he bites into first. Certainly, it would make a pleasant treat on a summer's day back home. Mother would enjoy it, Rhaegar realises, silently deciding to acquire the method of its creation the moment he can.
"I'll see about getting you a recipe book or something to take back," Hariel murmurs, the same glass plates held by golden wires on her face again. She rubs at her chin, the motion knocking free the few strands of dark hair she'd managed to tuck behind one ear. "In fact, if there's anything that tickles your fancy, let me know. It's the least I can do, considering I'm at fault for your holiday here." With a tired smile, Hariel turns back to her own breakfast, scooping up the last of her food.
"How long will this 'Quidditch match' be expected to last?" Will he have time later in the day to raid the library that Hariel's home boasts? There'd been a vast selection of books when he'd last looked and Rhaegar would bet his inheritance that the vast majority are all about magic. Knowing he can perform the most mystical art has lit a fire within his gut, leaving him a desperate wish to master it. Hariel, after all, uses it for the most mundane things, for household upkeep or for travelling. But war has been mentioned, he sits across from a woman who wears the title 'Woman-who-Conquered'. That in itself implies magical warfare; it could be the very thing that would save his land from that was threatens it. And something must threaten it; the prophecy has all but implied it so.
"It depends. The longest match ever was three months, but ones like that are rare. Usually, they're a few hours at most, though the quickest was three and a half seconds. We won't stick around more than an hour or two though. Unless you want to."
"I haven't the slightest idea what this Quidditch entails, so perhaps we may take it as the day comes?" Rhaegar offers, even as his mind whirls with the concept of a sport that could last three seconds to three months. Who would have the time to be able to watch a sport for three months straight? The very concept is mind-boggling. This land truly is a strange place, as if constant access to magic has resulted in a thought process of 'can we do that' instead of 'should we do that'.
"Sounds like a plan. Thank you for putting on the shirt; Ginny'll be pleased with the support." So, this is perhaps a show of house colours, or team colours. Hariel has said Quidditch is played within teams, but there had been no explanation of a family restriction. Perhaps it is similar to the Kingsguard, people selected for their ability at the task to hand. Then, supporters are a result of connections to the players, perhaps?
"Come on then, we should probably get going."
The 'Quidditch Pitch' somewhat resembles a jousting tournament. If it were stretched as tall as a keep and had what he can only assume to be goal posts planted at opposing ends, as ridiculously high as everything else. Hariel and he are shown to a set of seats within a segregated little box; the sheer amount of people who greet Hariel with a 'thank you' or 'Merlin bless you', or even a 'by Merlin's beard, it's Harrie Potter' is a bit astounding. The woman of the hour looks remarkably uncomfortable throughout it all, stuffing one hand into her short breeches as the other comes up to ruffle her hair nervously. Before they had left Grimmauld Place, Hariel had removed the not-sunglasses and cast some form of magic upon her eyes, wand pointed towards her face so that the lilac energy could take effect. He assumes it is something to aid her sight, perhaps the gold-wire-glass are an enchanted item, but unsuitable for day-to-day living.
"Merlin, I forgot how… nosy people are," Hariel mutters beneath her breath, offering a bright smile to the latest little child to stumble over and offer up a most heartfelt thank you. Evidentially, Hariel hasn't just won a war. She's part of something bigger, that's for sure.
As they arrive at what Rhaegar can only assume is a viewing box, the red-robed guard at the door grants them passage with a shallow nod of his head. Rhaegar doesn't miss the soft 'thank you' that is directed to his companion.
"Harrie!" The overly loud voice thunders through the viewing box, yet this is the first time that Hariel responds in kind.
"Oh, Harrie. I've told you, it's Molly." The woman that wraps Hariel up in her arms is shorter than his companion and… pleasantly plump. With wild ginger hair and a warm smile, she's another example of just how far this culture is from his own.
"Hey there, Harrie." The man who says this is clearly of a relation to this 'Mrs Weasley'; the same ginger hair and same warm smile. Upon first glance, Rhaegar assumes him tanned, but a closer inspection proves his face is simply overrun with freckles. His arms are muscular, the kind that comes from more than just swinging a sword around. Based upon the man's build, Rhaegar would bet blacksmith as the man's trade however, given the magic that these people wield, there is every chance this man is a Maester equivalent. On one arm, a large, shiny burn resides; why it has not been magically healed, Rhaegar cannot begin to guess.
"Hi Charlie. This is Rhaegar Targaryen, my guest for the next ten days. Rhaegar, this is Molly Weasley and one of her many sons, Charlie."
Stepping forwards, Rhaegar offers a shallow bow of greeting to these people that Hariel so clearly holds in high esteem, flicking a glance up from beneath his lashes at the duo as he drums up a polite smile.
"A pleasure," he says, just as his brain makes a leap in logic, "would you perhaps be Ginny's mother?"
"Oh! Yes! Ginny is my only daughter; this is her first professional match. Though I do wish she'd picked something a little safer to do with her life." At this, Molly Weasley's lips twist down in a frown, arms folding across her ample bosom as she seats herself again. Charlie Weasley had taken his seat just after greeting Hariel, leaving only two open. Rhaegar allows Hariel to make her choice first, taking the seat upon the isle as Hariel plants herself besides Molly Weasley.
"Don't worry too much, Mrs Weasley. Ginny's a natural at flying and she's an excellent chaser." Mrs Weasley hums, though makes no verbal agreement. So, Mrs Weasley does not agree with her daughter's choices, but has not stopped her from pursuing her ambitions; if he's reading the conversation correctly.
"Oh, but enough about that. Rhaegar, was it?"
"Yes, Lady Weasley."
At that, the woman does fluster, cheeks reddening and she fans herself with one hand, shooting a sharp glance towards Hariel. The dark-haired woman just grins, sending back an amused look of her own.
"Don't even try," she mutters, waving down one of the attendants and offering them a few silver coins, "he still calls me Lady Potter every so often. He's just being polite."
"It is customary where I come from to address a woman as such, Hariel," Rhaegar murmurs.
"I see. Well, Harrie is treating you right, isn't she? That girl doesn't eat enough, make sure you both get enough food. I keep telling her, but she keeps forgetting." At this, Hariel huffs, proceeding to descend into several (failed) attempts to reassure Molly Weasley that she is, in fact, eating enough and that Rhaegar is not going short in her care. It is a bit startling, to watch the woman he has spent the previous two days with seemingly come to life within new company. It is understandable that she's a bit… subdued on her lonesome, or with a stranger such as he. She has, in her own words, won a war; who knows what kind of damage to the mind that causes?
Turning his gaze upon the pitch, Rhaegar finds himself frowning when he has to stretch his back and neck to even catch a glimpse of the green. How on earth is he supposed to observe this sport if they are seated so high up? Are these large stands just a show of status, a boast of magical prowess?
"Rhaegar, mate, what's up?"
At the address, Rhaegar turns his attentions upon Charlie Weasley, taking note of the man's almost weathered face. Perhaps he spends a great deal of time outdoors?
"Quidditch is non-existent in my own lands, I truly have little idea what I am about to witness." If anything at all. It would be rude to comment on their problematic seating arrangements, after all.
"Well, you're in for a treat then. The players'll be coming out soon enough. Just remember, we're rooting for dark green, not light green."
When the players do come out a mere handful of breaths later, Rhaegar is speechless.
Flying. When Hariel had been explaining the sport, she had never once proclaimed it was played on anything other than the ground. Soaring through the air on highly polished, well-made broomsticks had been the very last thing Rhaegar had been expecting. He's quite sure his lips are parted in shock, his eyes wide as all of the players, both women and men, fly through the air in a dazzling arrangement of green. Dark green and light green, each as graceful as the other. He barely registers it when Hariel elbows him, professing 'Ginny' to be number three in dark green; he's far too intrigued by the sight before him. A sport played in the air, huge leather balls rocketing about the place and threatening to unseat riders, another ball passed expertly between three of the team, two armed with bats to ward off those threatening leather bludgers. Finally, there is a single player from each side of this conflict on the look out for what has only been described as 'the golden snitch'.
Rhaegar has little idea what he is supposed to be looking for when these two players suddenly began descending at outrageous speeds towards the ground, but he shoots to his feet like every other person in the box, a startled gasp leaving his lips. It turns out to be a feint, but he's enthralled all the same.
In the first half hour, several players have to take temporary level of the field, from broken arms to bloodied noses; they are all present and yet, they are all playing again within the next five minutes. And he had been under the impression jousting was violent.
"The snitch is in in the Harpies' middle goal," Hariel whispers beside him and Rhaegar looks over in the aforementioned direction, eyes widening when he does indeed spot something glittering in the light. It appears to be a small, golden orb, fluttering in place. As soon as he lays eyes upon it, what must be the golden snitch is zipping away; Rhaegar is hard-pressed to keep up with its movements. It would seem that the seekers of each team have spotted the elusive glitter of gold also, for they dive with the same shocking speed, weaving through a trio of chasers that have to scatter in the face of their downwards charge. One of the sportsmen, yielding a wooden bat, hammers the large leather ball after the duo, though which he is trying to hit, Rhaegar cannot recall. He's still a bit hazy on the rules. Nonetheless, he's enjoying himself immensely.
Once again, he finds himself on his feet, neck craning to follow the headlong dive of the two seekers, breath caught somewhere in his throat. They both correct themselves just in time, skimming across the ground with their hands reaching out. The crowd roar as the one in light green hefts their arm high, cheering louder than any crowd ever has for a joust. Rhaegar… were he a little less himself, then perhaps he would be upon his feet and cheering with them. A part of him longs for Arthur, for Jon, both of whom he knows would have enjoyed this showing immensely.
Unbidden, his eyes flicker to Hariel, who's still on her feet but no longer hollering at the seekers. Her eyes are still alight with joy, cheeks flushed as she too turns to look at him.
"Well, it's a shame the Harpies didn't win on Ginny's debut, but it was a damn good showing. What'd you think?"
"Yes, it was very impressive indeed," Rhaegar agrees, tucking one strand of hair behind his ear. He probably should have braided it back before coming out into public, as he would have done in his own homeland. However, he has not yet seen a male wearing braids in Hariel's country and, as such, he has chosen to forgo his usual style in favour of blending in that little bit more. Now that he has a set date for his return to Westeros, there is no desperate drive to cling to his own ways. For the next few days, with the assurance that he will be upon his own soil soon enough, he can embrace the ways of this land. He can learn, can experience, can just… exist. It shall be a very pleasant change indeed.
"Come on. I'd have liked to congratulate Ginny, but if I go over there the reporters'll want me, not her. I won't steal the limelight on her big day."
Hariel leaves him to the library for the majority of the day, though she does ask that he dress nicely to go out for dinner. He's not quite sure what that implies; are they visiting the house of another for their evening meal? Surely, she does not mean to dine upon the road while travelling. Firstly, the woman can transport them seemingly anywhere across her country, given her magical abilities. Secondly, eating in the open air where there are all manner of insects around (not to mention the horse-less carriages and their strange smell) hardly seems like an activity to which he would have to dress nice. Regardless, Rhaegar is not about to insult the woman whose goodwill he relies upon.
As such, he dresses in a pair of black trousers made of fine cotton and a button up shirt that he guesses is silk. With its dark crimson shades, Rhaegar is once again in his house colours and feels all the better for it, even if it is clothes styled native to this land.
Upon descending the stairs (and mind spinning with the vast array of information he has managed to pluck from 'Wizarding History: A Short Summary'), Rhaegar finds Hariel at the bottom, sporting a Tyrell-green dress. The style is far simpler than anything that would be in Westeros, lacking in any kind of embroidery as it is, but the cut of the fabric is superior. He's never seen anything like it.
Upon reaching their destination, Rhaegar can now confidently say he has seen a multiple of dresses just like the one Hariel sports. It would seem that female fashion in England is not about the amount of embroidery upon a dress, nor the quality of it. Female clothing within this land seems to focus solely upon the shape and fall of the fabric. Strange, but nothing he cannot accept. Rhaegar does his best not to stare as they pass a woman whose top is almost transparent.
The building within which Hariel has brought him to his furnished with a collection of circular tables, two to four chairs tucked neatly beneath each one. Candleholders of various designs reside within the middle, while a great chandelier, with its glass teardrops and metalwork far more intricate than anything within his homeland, hangs overhead.
"It's a restaurant, an Italian one," Hariel explains, holding out a slip of paper to one of the women dressed in a uniform, "Hermione recommended it to me, said she came with her parents for a pre-sixteenth birthday party."
How frustrating it is, to accept the fact that almost every bit of conversation he shares in this land is one he shall have to spend a fair portion of his time deducing. The word 'birthday' is easy enough, the date of a person's birth. As such, a 'birthday party' is obviously a celebration held upon that day, though why it would be held in a place as public as this, as opposed to a family event as it would be in his homeland, then Rhaegar is unsure. Discounting celebrations of a Lord's birthday, a King's or even his own; people throw him celebrations in an attempt to win his father's favour.
"I've never had Italian before," continues Hariel, following after what Rhaegar can only assume is a servant, "but I hear it's good."
"Might I enquire just what 'Italian' is, Hariel?" Rhaegar speaks in a soft tone, low enough that the servant will not hear his words, only the low muffle of his voice. She's perhaps ten years older than him and the look she graces him with is plenty familiar, has been since he began that transition from boy to man. He has long since mastered allowing the discomfort to show on his face and instead waits patiently for Hariel to answer.
"Food from a country called Italy; it's popular stuff." She turns to the servant at this point, holding up a sheet of shiny parchment. Rhaegar doesn't catch what she orders for them, the words too foreign. He does hear her decline the option of wine, stating that he's not yet 'eighteen'. It doesn't take a great leap in logic to conclude that this 'eighteen' is, in fact, ten and eight. His replacement is to be a 'coke', whatever that is.
As the servant leaves their proximity, Rhaegar focuses his gaze on Hariel, drinking in her features once again. Her eyes are vivid, despite the glass and gold that frame them, dark hair brushing up against her shoulders. "You have an age restriction on wine?" he asks, voice low and soft. He does not know how others would take his situation, but the fact that Hariel has kept it relatively quiet, speaking only to her friend Luna, it is probably not something that would be well received.
"For health reasons; I'm not completely sure, but I think too much of it destroys some organ or another, according to research. Obviously, that's not good for children that're still growing." Rhaegar doesn't bristle at the implication that he is a child, for he is well aware he is not. By the standards of his own land, he is a man grown. What age a man is considered grown in Hariel's world is of no consequence to him.
"I see. Lady Hariel, did you attend Hogwarts?"
"It's just Harrie," Hariel murmurs again, eyes rolling but her expression is almost fond, as if the constant attempts to exert her nickname upon his tongue have become something of a game to her now, one she does not mind partaking in. "But yeah, I went to Hogwarts. You got questions about it?"
Their meal arrives as he is halfway through extracting information about this school of witchcraft that Hariel attended. Hogwarts, for all that its name is peculiar and outlandish, is the only institute within which students learn magic. In England, that is. According to the books he has sped through in Hariel's library, there are others, though they implied to be both foreign and inferior. Careful with his words, he has managed to get Hariel to speak of her education and she shares it as if it is not a coveted thing, something she has had to pay for in gold in order to obtain (though, for all he knows, that may very well be the case here in this wondrously advanced land). She speaks of classes in which the proper technique was demonstrated to her, of a qualified instructor who aided a class of students that usually numbered no more than twenty at a time. A greater number of students than what the Maesters of Westeros teach, but magic would be in high demand. Were magic taught within his own lands, then Rhaegar doesn't doubt the demand would exceed the number of tutors available.
He chews over these ideas as he works the foreign food about in his mouth; pasta, is what Hariel had called it. It's strange, the texture different than what he is used to. But the flavouring is fantastic. Another recipe book he shall seek to acquire before he departs for his homeland, if only for something new to penetrate the petulant people who surround his family. Distractions are key.
The evening rolls on, a steady stream of conversation as Hariel continues to discuss her schooling, erecting magical shields that prevent their conversation from spilling over into the ears of other patrons. She paints a vivid picture of Hogwarts, the love she holds for the castle where she spent years of her life evident in the tone of her voice, in the deliberate selection of her words. In order to keep the flames of conversation flowing, Rhaegar stokes the kindling with his own tales, explaining his study of the sword, his love of reading prior to that. Hariel had listened as he explained the different manoeuvres he'd come to learn, all warm smiles and free laughs as he narrated Arthur's infuriating ability to best him whenever Rhaegar believed he had the man squarely beat. He is soft-spoken as he shares parts of his own history, whereas Hariel remains confident in her magic, never once lowering her voice to a whisper.
Desert is presented before them, some kind of frozen cream that's sweet flavouring brings a cool relief to his tongue, and Hariel is halfway through a tale of her youth. It turns out his companion had played quidditch during her school days, a Seeker. Rhaegar listens, engrossed in how she speaks, of the sensations she weaves. He wonders if his ancestors had felt the same as she did, such freedom in the air upon dragon-back? To have the wind race through their hair, to feel as if they have left half of their innards behind them as they dived back to the earth; to have caught a bug in their eye as Hariel is now describing. Rhaegar cannot help but to hide a laugh, muffle and genuine, in the amused curve of his lips. His companion finishes her anecdote, placing thin sheets of paper upon the table, decorated in different shades with people upon their surface. The numbers printed upon the corners indicate this is some form of currency, though why the people of this land trade in paper, Rhaegar could not begin to guess.
"Come on, it's late but I'm pretty sure we could go sneak into Hogwarts."
At that, Rhaegar does startle, glancing up to his companion as she grins. There's a merry wild look in her eyes, one reminiscent of Oberyn Martell, the playful rascal of Dorne, before his guardians had come to find him that day when they'd first met, near ten years past.
"Sneak in? Is Hogwarts not a castle?" Rhaegar questions, relatively certain the school had been described as such within the books he has read. Castle implies defences and, while he is relatively certain magic could overcome the defences he knows of, there's every chance this place is guarded with magic. And Hariel Potter, a woman referred to by her people as the 'Woman-Who-Conquered' is attempting to entice him into trespassing upon this land?
"Don't worry about it; Hogwarts recognises former students and their guests. It all goes by intent."
This is how Rhaegar finds himself within a tatterdemalion building, one left to wither away under the watchful eye of the elements and creatures of the land. He traces the deep gouges within the walls with wary eyes, following after Hariel's determined strides. The whole building is not one he would have willingly stepped foot in prior to this, not without reassurances that it shall not crumble upon his head from hardy gust of wind. Rhaegar is, after all, no stranger to ruin. One only needs to account for his visits to Summerhall to know that as truth.
It only proceeds to get shadier as Hariel leads him into a winding tunnel, one hand trailing across the stone walls, the other holding her wand aloft, tip glowing with a soft, warm light. Rhaegar had been quick to follow suit, a soft "Lumos," whispered beneath his breath. Any excuse to check, to reassure himself that magic not only exists, but that he is capable of it. That, upon his return to Westeros, he shall be returning with something that will allow him to complete his destiny as the Prince that was Promised. He cannot afford to let the realm down. Though the soft glow at the tip of his wand is not as steady as Hariel's, it remains there, bright and pure. Magic. Magic he is capable of wielding. For now, that shall have to do.
"Okay, we're gonna have to move quick if you don't want the Whomping Willow to knock you out."
Did they need to break into Hogwarts to use the Quidditch grounds? No. Did they need to borrow brooms from the broom cupboard to fly around as the sun was setting? No. Did Harrie regret any of her actions today? No. Well, not right now, anyway. Perhaps she should have paid a little more attention to Madam Hooch when she was teaching them flying but, in Harrie's defence, that was more than five years ago. With everything that has gone on in her life, well, it's only natural that she'll forget the little stuff. Like how to instruct someone on how to start flying. Harrie hadn't had an issue with it; she'd just got straight on the broom and that'd been it. She'd been born for it, had instinctively know exactly what she needed to do in order to achieve what she wanted. It had been her one selling point back in First Year (discounting the whole 'Girl-Who-Lived' thing). She'd been a natural born flier. Oliver Wood had wept upon seeing her fly during that first practice.
So, it is difficult, instructing Rhaegar. Luckily, of all the princes she could have accidentally kidnapped, she managed to hook a smart one. Probably Hermione-level intelligence (there's one more person that Harrie knows who was very, very smart but she determinedly stays away from that thought. It doesn't help that, in his youth, he was as pretty as Rhaegar is). He picks it up quickly and, soon enough, they're making a tentative lap of the Quidditch Pitch.
The only person who should be in the castle will be McGonagall; while she'll undoubtedly give Harrie the disappointed frown for sneaking onto the grounds, she had extended Harrie an open invitation to visit. Only, she'd probably meant at a reasonable hour. And she'd have liked Harrie to announce herself as well, she guesses. Oh well, they're here now and they'll either get caught or they won't. Today has been a relatively long day and, if she's being completely honest, Harrie's jealous. Jealous of Ginny and her ability to play professional quidditch. It's something Harrie would have done (it was her dream job before she decided on Auror, but then the war happened and becoming an Auror hadn't been so appealing anymore). But… but having the Girl-Who-Lived, the Woman-Who-Conquered on one team, it'd be unfair. No one has said it to her face, but Harrie knows, can see it in the lines of their eyes and hear it in the hesitation of their words.
So no, she won't beg, won't plead to join up on something she once adored. She'll settle for the Weasley family games, fro watching Ginny and flying alone. For teaching a foreign prince how to soar through the air like a falcon.
Rhaegar's… not unsteady on a broom, but it's clear his confidence in the thin stick of wood is not where it should be, despite the sure set of his shoulders. He's good at putting on a determined face, that much is clear.
Twisting her own broom around, Harrie settles for going backwards nice and slow in front of the silver-haired prince, meeting his eyes when he glances up. The dark indigo is black as the setting sun continues to descend, casting a shallow glow of orange across his silvery blond hair.
"I'll catch you if you fall," Harrie teases, leaning forwards to rest one elbow on her broom, feeling her bones come alive with the challenge of navigating while facing the wrong way, while travelling backwards. Her inner thighs burn at the hold she forces them to keep on the broom; how many weeks has it been since she flew for something other than sheer speed? "Let loose and trust your magic to keep you safe." That'd been Neville's problem. Harrie would love to say she'd figured it out, but that was a Hermione conclusion, through and through.
Waiting no longer for Rhaegar Targaryen to find his Gryffindor courage, Harrie flips her own broom, twisting so that she's facing forwards again before she rises, aiming for the darkening sky. The wind whistles through her hair, cuts at her cheeks as her speed increases. For a moment, the empty stands overlap with ones filled in abundance, an array of colours, reds and blues and yellows and greens. The cheers of her classmates, Oliver's roar for her to keep focused on the snitch, Lee Jordan's oh so terribly biased commentary. It's all there and then gone in an instant, just like what little childhood she'd had.
Harrie glances down in time to see Rhaegar dive, his grip white knuckled but the set of his shoulders strong. He gets nowhere close to her usual Wronski Feint, but it's not bad for a first-time flier. She hates to admit it, but he's not like Hermione at all. He's just as smart, that's evident from how he speaks, how he articulates his thoughts. How he'd spoken about learning the sword, how he'd taken the piano so easily… how pretty he is. He's like Tom Riddle; naturally good at everything and anything he puts his mind to. She can only hope they're as different in personality as they are in colouring.
Shaking the thoughts free (he'll be back in his own land soon enough and she can get on with finding out what she wants to do with her life after that's sorted), Harrie dives.
The least she can do is show her visitor how it's done.
*sweats* Here's an update of something?