You Take Me Over, You're the Magic in My Veins

chapter 6

"Zayn," Harry groans, throwing himself face-down onto the bed in his chambers. Zayn is stretched out on the other end, Harry's torn shirt from the fall last week puddled in his lap and a needle and thread in hand. "Zaaaaaaayn," Harry repeats, drawing it out this time.

Zayn doesn't respond, just concentrates on threading the needle and waits for Harry to continue, as he always does. Harry doesn't feel like opening up immediately this time, though, so he props his chin up on his arm and turns his right hand over, closes it into a fist and focuses his energy. Within moments, his palm heats up and begins to tingle, warmth radiating up his arm and blooming in his chest. When he opens his hand, there is a flower sitting in the center of his palm, small and perfect and strikingly pink. He focuses more energy on it, watches it grow and bloom before his very eyes while Zayn just sews his shirt together quietly.

"You know," Zayn comments mildly, finally deigning to speak, "most people in the throes of angst would destroy, not create."

Staring down at the peony, now the size of his palm, Harry shrugs and says, "What satisfaction is there in destroying something when you could be giving something life?"

There's a long stretch of silence, and Harry wrenches his attention off the flower and looks up at Zayn. Zayn is staring at him, eyebrows raised in wonder.

"What," Harry mutters defensively. His vision from the previous week pops suddenly back into his head, and he's not entirely sure he's speaking of flowers anymore when he says, "I like giving things life. I want to create a lot of life."

"Harry," Zayn sighs, his voice immeasurably fond. "We're not talking about babies again, are we?"

Biting his lip, Harry drops his gaze back to the flower, strokes a finger across the top, and watches the curling petals ripple. "Maybe," he mumbles, cheeks heating up a bit under Zayn's stare.

He hears a rustle of fabric, feels the bed shift, and then Zayn is draping himself along Harry's side and cuddling in close, whispering, "You're not expecting, are you? I'll kill Louis, I don't care if he's royalty."

Harry bursts into surprised laughter, rolls onto his side so that he can look Zayn in the eye, and say, "Zayn Malik, please tell me you are not being serious right now." At Zayn's blank look, Harry says, "We have been here less than two weeks, how could I possibly be pregnant already."

Zayn raises an eyebrow and Harry rolls his eyes, says, "Alright, fine, how could I possibly know if I was pregnant already? Not that I am," he hastens to add. "That's actually quite impossible."

Any amusement Zayn's question had brought him fades when he remembers why being pregnant at the moment is impossible, and he rolls back onto his belly and resumes fussing with the peony. Its sweet scent is a comfort, as is the weight and warmth of Zayn at his side, but Harry still wants.

"You know," Zayn sighs, breath ruffling Harry's hair where his chin is resting on his shoulder. "I don't know why Louis is still betrothed to Gemma."

Harry frowns. "Why?"

He can feel Zayn's shrug against his side, feel the vibrations when Zayn says, "He doesn't want to marry her. They will never make a good match when his interest clearly lies with you."

Harry scoffs and pushes the flower aside so that he can roll onto his back, arms and legs spread, and stare moodily up at the ceiling. He likes the ceilings here, lined with heavy wooden beams that criss-cross in fascinating patterns. He's fairly certain that there's a cat living on one of the beams in his room. He wishes it would come down and let him pet it, he could use another friend in this castle.

"Louis only enjoys my company," Harry laments, lacing his fingers across his stomach. "In a few weeks, he's going to announce his engagement to Gemma and I'll see them married, then we'll travel back home and hardly see them again. She'll be happy here."