He dreamed he was flying without the aid of broom or winged creature. Below him, surrounding him, a city passed, unrecognizable in the darkness. His heart thudded in his chest, his legs dangled limply, loosely, his arms stiff, his whole body useless. There was nothing to grip, to hold onto. He was on his own. He was out of his own control. A few more buildings he passed by, a few more rooftops his bare toes skimmed, and Milo began to test his flight, leaning a little to the side, his body curving to the right. So much wind as he plummeted, his body rushing through the night, punished for trying to exert minimal control. He couldn’t form a scream, his eyes widening, blending with the darkness, his mouth sealed tightly in a line, his arms and legs motioning wildly as he fell... fell... fell...

He woke suddenly, but absolutely quiet, his body giving into a slight spasm in his muscles. He was slow to register where he was, understanding it had been a dream, but not understanding why now he didn’t feel the softness of the mattress beneath his stomach, the familiar clench in his hand as he gripped the pillow by his side. His head began to rise, and an ache made itself known in his neck, his cheek felt as if it was being peeled off something. ‘Library.’ Milo slowly straightened up in the seat he’d fallen asleep in last night, his body melding into one of the wooden desks in Draco’s private library. Where his head used to be was the book on animagi he’d pulled out late last night, following Nahuel’s instructions to use all his resources at school to form his own independent idea of what it meant to be an animagus. The page on Falco Aesalon was crumpled, indented with the rough outline of Milo’s left side of his face.

Rolling his head, stretching out his neck, feeling some of the cracks and knots make themselves known to him, he debated whether or not to slip into bed (the bed that resided in the room that Andersson currently occupied) or just take a quick shower to wake up further, and then just continue on with his private studying. Shower won out, and Milo took the book with him, folding the top corner of the page to remember his place. Steam, soap, and shampoo cloaked his body. Milo tilted his face up, greeting the hot water, letting the dream slip away, down the drain, the tension in his lower back, shoulders, arms, calves, and neck easing with the dream’s departure. He blinked in between downpours, letting his head fall down again, the water grazing the sides of his face, running across his jaw, waking up even more and running through whatever facts he could remember that he learned about animagi last night.

He threw on a simple t-shirt and slacks, slipping in and out of the room he shared with Andersson, glancing at the clock before he left. A little before six am was good, it meant that most of the school wouldn’t be around. He took his book with him and left the commons, padding silently toward the kitchens to grab a goblet of pumpkin juice and sidestepped the annoying elves to pile strips of bacon, strawberries, and buttered toast on his plate. He left to go to the Reference Center. He didn’t want to stay up in Draco, forced to listen to his fellow students begin to wake up, their inevitable disturbance of the morning silence. He’d buy himself a little more time for peaceful study in the library.

Two hours of bliss later...

He didn’t even sense her coming toward him, his hand lowering with another book on magical transformation from one of the top shelves, flipping it open, smoothing out the page to skim the first three paragraphs, trying to decide how useful this would be to him. His skimming soon slowed, caught by his own interest, absorbed in the descriptive words of how painful the transformation could be. ... like a knife, except it doesn’t sink into you, it’s boiled in your own blood, emerging from fresh splinters of your crumbling bones, pushing at every point in your skin until you split open, releasing the jagged... The words were suddenly gone, and Milo looked up confused, blinking at the owner of the hand that had just ripped the book from his hold. “Brae - ”

A sudden barrage of whispered nonsensical words and any calm Milo had felt during the midterm, during the few weeks at school where Braelyn hadn’t spoken a word to hm, had avoided him, where he’d avoided her, waiting for something to happen but not knowing what he wished to happen, all of that calm seemed suddenly set aflame by Braelyn. Cold, dispassionate Braelyn who was in his face, gripping his book, and whipping words that made no sense against his ears, stinging his head. Her words suddenly halted, and an apology soon followed, but her previous words held more resonance, mounting higher and higher in his mind, his mind that was now colored in red, tension returning to his body, waiting to be unleashed, waiting for that climax that had been avoided and avoided and avoided with every interaction he’d had with Braelyn so far.

“You - ” He interrupted himself, both hands lunging out, gripping Braelyn’s shoulders, pulling her closer, his expression murderous, dark glittering eyes that bore into her own. “You don’t know what’s wrong with you?” His fingers tightened into her flesh. “Does the word mudblood ring a bell, blood traitor?” She had the gall to accuse him of snitching on her mother, of not caring about her, and the gall to be so stupid and so ignorant as to believe that Andersson was the one person who cared about her. “You think I have no honor? You think I would go to your mother with that information without giving you any warning? You think I even care that you’re betraying your family, betraying your own self by being with that filthy creature?” His voice rose from its low tenor, the hardness in his eyes cracking, magma simmering just beneath the surface. “Get this in your mind - ” His gaze was lowering, his face nearing, inching closer to hers. “I. Don’t. Care.”

His mind seemed to be wiped clean, all the words washed away, until there was only an image of Braelyn; her face twisted in anger, her lips dipping in an angry frown, her eyes flashing with a rage he’d doubted she’d even been capable of. Her eyes were the last he saw before his own closed, still gripping hard to her shoulders, his lips rough as they descended on her own, not even comprehending what he was doing, never suspecting he was going to do it. His own anger poured through, his face curving into hers, pushing against hers as he pulled her in. There was desperation coating his lips as well, the kiss begging as much as it was demanding; ‘Stop shaming yourself. Stop doing this to yourself. Listen to your family, listen to me. Listen to me, follow me, understand me.’