Title: "Icarus V 2.0"
Author: Hecate
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG 13
Pairing, Character: Draco Malfoy
Summary: Freedom is a word with wings and you can only reach it through growing a pair yourself.
Disclaimer: Not mine. No money made.
Note: Unbetaed.

Freedom is a word with wings and you can only reach it through
growing a pair yourself.

He learned that as a child, watching the birds fly by. He wanted to
follow them, wanted be free like them, free to go wherever he
wanted to. But the birds just laughed down at him, laughed at
the foolish boy staring after them, envying their careless
flight.

But he couldn´t. He tried as hard as he could, climbing up to the
window, standing in its frame, spreading his arms, his
fingertips the only thing that kept him from falling. And he
waited for his wings to break through the skin of his back and
unfold. He could feel them resting under the cage of skin and
flesh and bones. He could feel them vibrate, a whisper of power
in his small body.

But they never came through. And so he tried to forget about them
and learned to fly with a broom instead. Soaring up into the
sky, higher and higher until the air turned to living ice and
his hands nearly lost their grip on his artificial wings.

He could taste freedom then, a taste like sunshine on his tongue.
But he could never reach it. It didn´t matter how high he flew.
It didn´t matter that he was faster than the birds now, shooting
through them gracefully, laughing while they fled from the manic
creature with a face of a child. It didn´t matter that he spent
hours after hours in the air, the cold nearly freezing him to
his broom. Freedom was always there, like his own shadow, and
like a shadow it was always just a moment out of touch.

Potter could fly, too. And he wasn´t bound like he was. Potter was
free. He hated him for it, hated him with all that was inside of
him. A Mudblood lover, a boy who rejected his friendship could
fly freely, could unfold his wings and taint the sky with his
presence.

He wanted to get him out of the air, wanted to break his wings. So
he did what he always did, insulted his friends and family
during a Quidditch game, pushed it, pushed him. And suddenly
they were speeding up into the sky, chasing and cutting through
the air. They flew higher than they ever did before.

The sun blinded them and he closed his eyes, the light still searing
through them, right into him. He could hear Potter shout behind
him, heard him scream that he should come back, that they were
too high.

He didn´t care. He kept on flying, right to the sun. Somewhere
inside of him he wondered if he could reach it when he just flew
long enough.

Soon he couldn´t hear Potter anymore. Turning around he saw that he
had left him behind, the Boy Who Lived turning into an anonymous
dot far under him. And then he understood. He started to laugh.
This, Potter, is flying. This and nothing else.

Potter didn´t matter anymore, he just flew on.

He didn´t notice his body getting weaker, his hands starting to
shake. He didn´t feel the crisp air anymore, his breath turning
white and then stuttering. He didn´t feel that he had stopped
moving in mid air, because his broom had turned into a block of
ice unable to stay up in the sky.

He flew.