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In a lush field in a remote corner of Europe, the end of fall rained down a lazy carousel of dried leaves, as the last of their hues were enhanced by the warm glow of the setting sun. In the middle of this field, a ways from a large stony castle in the distance, magical folk donning robes, hats, and scarves gathered in a round stadium, which was decorated in the various colors of the Houses of Hogwarts. All around the wooden stands, people chattered in anticipatory voices, the excitement of the final game for their academic year creating a fiery atmosphere despite the chill of the season. In the stands, the hubbub suddenly rose to a deafening roar: Cheers, pounding feet, and the sound of the old, creaking wood of the stands erupted as Quidditch players emerged below from the field den. Pivoting this way and that on their brooms, they greeted the rest of the school and waved their arms, inciting a wave of cries from amongst the of sea friends, classmates, and eager student fanatics.
The magically-enhanced speaker boomed the voice of fourth-year Slytherin George Wickham throughout the arena as he jump-started the customary introductions. “Welcome, witches, wizards, and all magical folk, to the final Quidditch match of the season! It’s been an interesting few months, but now the scores will be counted for the last time. Let’s cheer on today’s teams as they work to win the match for their house: Ravenclaw aaand Slytherin!”
The overconfidence in Wickham's voice, coupled with the emphasis on 'Slytherin' at the end caused Fitzwilliam Darcy a wince, expression twisting under a thick woolen a scarf. Beneath the black brim of his sturdy winter tophat, his eyebrows twitched as George continued on his duties, overconfidence dripping over of any guise of professionalism. The Slytherins may have been leading the majority of the season, but sportsmanship was a must to keep the often teetering civility throughout the school during the game's season. The smirk from the George grew more pronounced as he ended his segment, looking down to meet Darcy's stare and provoked by the dismissive ire he found in dark eyes.
Darcy looked away from his obnoxious attempts at leering almost instantaneously. Though the misplaced arrogance of the boy in the high rise announcing box of the podium irked him, it only served as a reminder of why he stayed as far as possible from the juvenile company George Wickham at all times, especially now that they were aging out of any boyhood pretenses.
The clapping and whooping started up again from the Slytherins in the crowd, spurred on by Wickham's self-satisfied show of premature congratulations, though not without a number of raucous boos from the Ravenclaws next to him- including one particularly keen 'BOO' from the infamous Henry Higgins, who had accompanied him to the mandatory outing and was, in rather unfortunate happenstance, a daily annoyance within the castle as well.
“Now, Captains- are we ready?” Both Captains turned and gave affirmative nods. “Alright then! On your marks, get set… May the best team win! The match of the century is officially underway!” With that, the teams ascended, and those in the crowd were yelling encouragements for their friends and favorites (and attempting to distract the members of the opposing team).
The final match was deemed the greatest every single year without fail, but that was the spirit of it, and everyone accepted the slight stretch of imagination. Except, of course, for the ever precise, NEVER faulty, God-forbid-anyone-ever-recuse-me-of-my-legendary-merits-how-dare-you-question-my-scholarship-and-inherently-superior-range-of-sequiters Henry.
Darcy heard mutterings beside him and mentally prepared as the tell-tale sign of what he liked to call the “the Higgins Hissy Fit” appeared with no delay: A long, drawn-out sigh of exasperation, followed by several varying noises of discontent. He held his mild exasperation, as he’d been subjected to so many of these vigorous monologues over the past four years he found the ritualistic explosions of behavior oddly nondeterrent now. He personally associated them with the numbing sensation of anesthetic, though the people around him usually seemed to feel otherwise as was currently indicated by the glances of surprise and various titterings.
“They say the same exact damn thing every year, no matter who plays or what the score is, bloody useless promotion- it's an academic game for Gods sakes- I bet Wickham couldn’t tell a real match from a children’s street game if the Quaffle hit him upside the head. False advertising at its finest. One would think the professors would get bored of hearing these preposterous statements- ‘match of the century’- it’s not as though people come because they were expecting to see a decent play, this crowd was going to come either way. Nothing to do except study for O.W.L.s this time of year, and of course no one wants to bother with that. I certainly don’t need to, but if they don’t hurry this bloody match up and gain some points alread-
-william. Fitzwilliam! Are you listening to a word I said? Aren’t you appalled at this, absolute! Ridiculosity!!”
Darcy calmly stared down the now red-faced Higgins, composing his features to hide the twitching of his lips. Never the one for a social gathering, Henry tended to be put off by Hogwarts’ spirit events (not that he really cared for them much either). Today, he seemed particularly riled up in tandem with the rousing nature of the match, and he had more than an inkling as to why.
“Fine. I see you’re too busy watching your seeker- go on, then. Who knows,” Henry exclaimed, his haughty facade obstructed by the red splotches now spreading to his ears. “Maybe the charming Elizabeth will win the match this year, and then you can go to the Yule Ball with the Quidditch champion. Maybe then you won’t be ashamed to have a half-blood on your arm, you-”
He never found out what expletive Henry had chosen to bestow upon him, for at that moment a rogue Bludger flew into the stands and attempted to smash its way into Henry Higgins’ thick skull.
In a rush of adrenaline, Darcy forcibly grabbed Henry’s upper arms with both hands and unceremoniously threw them both down onto the floor. The crowd screamed and darted as the magical ball crashed its way through several seats at random, leaving holes in the long rows of wood and reducing some to piles of splinterings.
The rows above them ducked as the Bludger continued upward in a jagged rhythm, the Ravenclaws Chasers following urgently behind as the ball's journey ended suddenly at the edge of the arena, flying past the goal posts to swing around and strike it high into the air with an earsplitting CRACK! of their broomsticks, followed by a strategic group pummel that sent it straight back down into the lower center of the field.
As the pair reached for the limbs of the other, struggling for balance, they stumbled back up to their feet; seeing stars, Darcy managed to grasp that this haphazard series of events might just be his luck. Taking a deep breathe, he grasped his wobbly insides for just enough courage to take advantage of this chance moment.
Without wasting time, he turned and murmured assertively into the ear of a still-dazed Henry. “I might have had my opinions about half-bloods before, but it was all the arrogance of an ignorant child. And when it comes down to the truth, Elizabeth wasn't the one to change my mind.”
And there it was. The boy he had once despised with everything he had slowly raised his head, one hand clutching the side for support, the other fallen limp at his side.
Henry, the only bastard of a boy who could match his madness in equal measure; Henry, the boy who became his best friend through a series of tongue lashings transformed into a never ending game of wits where neither would admit defeat nor delight; Henry, the boy who never, EVER stopped talking, and how had he beared the unbearable for so long?
Because Henry Higgins... Henry Higgins was his first love.
Fitzwilliam Darcy watched as what had only been a whisper of a secret in his heart, this previously hidden, quiet revelation now spelled itself out loudly across each one of Henry's incredulously widening features.
Shock and awe bloomed beneath the surface of his best friend's face. He felt the impact of his decision awaken something then, a force stranger and more powerful than even a glorified flying rock hurtling towards the two at the speed of death.
In some petty and yet equally incredulous corner of Darcy's remaining faculties, he realized that Henry had unwittingly brought him another first, an unprecedented victory:
The master orator, phoneme extraordinaire, was wordless.
“I had a whole speech planned,” Darcy admitted, growing pink and shy now in the face of their sudden, shared, pubescent vulnerability, “...seeing as I, how- however, DID just about save your life. I think. You owe me at least one dance.” He worked to steady his voice, making the effort to display his unwavering resoluteness.
The depth of the uncharacteristic display, further tossed Henry's own semblance of adolescent revelation. Opening and closed his mouth repeatedly, his retorts and his previous understanding of the boy he knew to be Darcy were lost to the gentle breezes that wound their way through the high benches and cooled their various layers of sweat and exertion.
That he might have actually misunderstood Fitzwilliam’s feelings towards him, and his intentions towards their tenuous relationship, was flipping his currently wobbly view of the world upside down, and his own feelings that had long grown past admiration were pouring out like fresh ink on new parchment.
Even before the day they'd met, he knew, as the rest of the student body informed each other in unsurprising teenage fashion, of the upper crust Fitzwilliam Darcy who made no attempts to begrudge his social status. "Pureblood clear as day, look at the way he's posturing! Thinks he knows it all, he doesn't even know what the bottom of his cauldron looks like." "Anyone can steal answers from a top shelf textbook, stop acting like you care to study what you can just buy your way through."
Their unlikely pairing flourished with starts and bangs, and he was too properly astounded himself at the development of their bruising banter into an actuality of potential that he didn't dare try to ask how and why Darcy had at some point let Henry through his mask. Never once did he, too stubborn, proud, and yes, a little insecure of his lack of friendships- mostly of course of his own design thank you and Very much!- stop with surety to consider the possibility that he was projecting his own insecurities even on top of the other's false egoic persona.
Lacking honest confidence, Henry could not draw the conclusion that the he sparks in Darcy's eyes were a reflection of how enlightening and complimentary Darcy found his innate qualities; That brooding acts and sniping looks from Darcy to the outside world were indeed methods of protection, shield and sword to society's constant probing assumptions and boring attitudes. When did he fail to see, how should Henry have come to discover what was so cleverly hidden in plain sight just for Henry to see? With whatever brain he thought he possessed, clearly not, Henry now relayed to himself with forlorn, though the other parts of him we're now being now overtaken by a shining dawn of understanding.
Darcy's most private and sensitive sensibilities, the harsh, brazen, and quixotic manners and moods of this- he hadn't dare say so bold even alone- closest companionship, all of this time, were actually the attempts of an inexperienced young man to disclose the passion of excitement and growing hope neither had allowed into their awareness before meeting the other, unbidden desires in human form.
So discreet and obscured from both parts was this simple fact; that each friend did view him as even more than an equal. To one another, each one was a precious gift, a once in a lifetime gift of a soul.
In the aftermath , both boys come to terms with this reset to their young and naive narratives. “But she- I thought you and her-”
“We have a lot in common. Elizabeth and I, our tempers, it’s true. But she is in her own league, and rightfully so. She defines her own charms and cares not for the missteps of the less sturdy or faint of spirit. I respect her natural bluntness- but I am the same. Higgins. You do see what I am speaking of. What follows is, I require quite the opposite. To alter my.. Perspectives. If you will. After all,” and here his eyes twinkled in another rare moment of sincerity, though his voice dripped with sarcasm, “who would be there to righteously- ahem, thoroughly, inform with unheeded preciseness of such fascinating travesty as- what was it- the 'absolute ridiculosity’ of the grand Yule Ball?”
Their gazes met, and for a brief minute, Henry Higgins wondered at the full depth of emotions that finally, at last, washed through his misconceptions and cleared the way for a complete acceptance and fertile new reality.
Then, their silent exchange was broken by the cry everyone had been waiting for.
“She’s got the Snitch!!! Doolittle has- ! Incredible, what a move there- Absolutely incredible, that classic Seeker sweep of the game- everyone, THE RAVENCLAW SEEKER HAS CAUGHT THE SNITCH!!” The crowd exploded from all directions with the loudest cheers yet, throwing their hats upwards in emphasis and triumph of the unprecedented victory.
“And would you look, Ravenclaws did manage to found their glory within the century. Of all things, the thanks goes to the ace in a sleeve,” Fitzwilliam Darcy commented, casual as he does, but his hidden mischief was not lost on Henry Higgins. It only took a brief glance between the two of them, before both broke out into joyous laughter, the release of their mutual relief rising high into the cleansing and beautiful celebratory air. In their newfound togetherness, love filled voices open a new book of life, and of two, one movement that births a bright and neverending symphony of happiness.
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