Marcus and Harry often went flying at night, they liked to shoot up into the sky and lounge around on their brooms just looking up at the stars and holding hands across the 250-foot drop between their broomsticks. Harry liked the fragility of it all: two boys, one so very big and one so very small, supported in the air on just two pieces of wood above a deadly drop, holding on to each other tighter than they did to the only things keeping them alive in that moment.
He also liked the freedom it gave them. Up there under the stars there was no need for all the subterfuge, the kisses behind tapestries, the subtle gropes in the hallways, the secret smiles across the great hall. Up there under the stars it was just Harry and Marcus and the gentle wind blowing through their hair. He liked that when they were up there together, they could do whatever they wanted without having to wait for privacy, they could get however close they wanted and Harry could rest his head on Marcus' shoulder and curl up into his warmth, Marcus could gently press his lips to Harry's forehead and look down at him and just smile and if it was needed then they could reverse that by something as simple as Harry just hovering a bit higher.
And so, there they were, lying back on their brooms just looking at the stars lighting up the night sky, not saying anything, not daring to break the calm silence that they can never achieve in any other place, just basking in each other's presence before they have to go back to pretending to glare and hate and taunt in the harsh light of tomorrow.
But all good things come to an end and every night they say goodbye and part ways, with Harry flying straight up to the window of his dorm in Gryffindor tower, Marcus utilising the fear he strikes into the hearts of all students but one to trudge down to the dungeons without fear of detention and the unspoken promise of doing it all again tomorrow. And each night as Harry finally climbs into bed he asks himself what it would be like to fall asleep with a hard chest behind him instead of just a spare pillow, what it would be like to wake up with a heavy arm around his waist instead of just the part of the duvet he had bunched up, what it would be like to curl into Marcus instead of the poor imitation he has created in this place.
He longs for summer when he can find out the answers to all his burning questions, when he can stay in the little flat Marcus had bought himself last year just before he was supposed to graduate like he was promised he could. When his silver knight could save him from his relatives and his mass murdering godfather and the well-meaning headmaster whom Harry knows is just trying to do what's best but doesn't always quite manage.
He waits for, longs for, dreams for better times to come quicker. For a time when the freedom the night grants them isn't chased away by the sun. For Marcus.