Who Loves the Rain

He had been out walking when the storm broke. He liked to skirt the edges of the Forbidden Forest-he knew better than to go all the way in, of course, but the immediate outskirts were secluded, safe, and extremely silent. The trees created a nice canopy overhead that cast everything in shadow, a fact that always matched his mood quite nicely whenever he took these solitary excursions.

The rise of the Dark Lord had cast a darker shadow over everything and everyone these days, a shadow that touched, yes, even him; but his thoughts lately had not been revolving around Lord Voldemort, as he felt with a twinge of guilt that they should. He had always seen himself as faithful, loyal to the last moment-and in the depths of his thoughts there was always a quiet agony that he should betray himself now, after so many years of vowing to fight the good fight for his Pureblood rights. And yet... could he really help himself? Could he really help betraying even his own family, when every day came with the worry that this would be the morning, the morning he'd wake up, walk into the Great Hall, and know at once by the pallor on everyone's faces that it had happened?

That the Dark Lord had done it at last. Forever extinguished the impudent laughter that never failed to jolt him like a slap. Quieted the heartbeat that pounded so loudly with life and passion he could almost hear it each time they dove together striving after the little speckle of gold that always seemed to fly right into the wrong hands, leaving him inevitably enraged and lost and wanting. Snuffed the single spark of his dull gray existence: the one person on earth who could make him feel like a human being with blood pulsing through his veins, and not a perfect, ancient mold of stature and stone.

He worried. He lost himself in this worry, day after day, feeling it expand like the length of his solitary walks. And even as he lost himself completely, he was finding someone completely different.

Shrouded in the thick wall of foliage that effectively kept the daylight from distracting him while he brooded, he had no idea that the skies had clouded over until they sank under their own weight and burst abruptly into the worst shower he had ever been caught in. He didn´t mind, really. He liked rain. Its stinging force seemed to mock him now as he tilted his head back to meet it. It was late evening, and it was a rain without thunder-not even a pretense of excitement; it was purely depressive and cold. The night air thickened quickly around him as he returned to the castle. Why, he wondered, should he still enjoy the same things-still love the sensation of rain, of frigid wind cutting across his shoulders, the thrill of the dive and the thrill of the chase, of flying and falling and fucking and so many things that were innately him-how could he love all that, still, and yet have become his own opposite?

"Malfoy."

He lowered his head, still pointed up towards the sky. Potter was standing at the entrance to the castle. He hadn´t realized how fast his feet had carried him.

How far he´d come in such a short time.

"Potter." Barely a nod. The rain was soaking him, trickling down his cheeks and causing his normally unruly black hair to submit for once. It was plastered against his forehead, obscuring the scar and looking very much like an ugly wet mop. He found himself staring. "What are you doing out here?"

A shrug. "Watching the rain."

"Watching? You´re drenched."

Another shrug.

He wished he could see behind the dirty, rain-spattered glasses into those eyes. They haunted him but usually they were fiery and alert, to match the tone of the voice that was usually laced with sharp malice. Today the tone was dead, and with that worry that had become almost instinctive he suddenly feared the eyes would be too.

Guardedly, careful to keep the sneer intact: "Is something wrong, Potter?"

The gaze shifted slightly to focus on him, and he had the discomfort of being fully seen while unable to completely observe his watcher. "You weren´t at dinner. With the weather this way everyone wondered what had happened."

He didn´t see what his absence had to do with Potter standing before him getting drenched, so he kept quiet.

After a moment: "Why were you out there alone?"

"This isn´t twenty questions, Potter."

"Brushing up on a little dark magic?" A note of bitterness had entered the voice now, and he was glad the rain was so cool against the tinge he could feel slowly seeping into his face. "Practicing the curses you´ll use to torture me after you´ve handed me over to him?"

"Come off it," was the only significant retort he could muster under the weight of his own shock.

He moved past him but suddenly Potter was there beside him, gripping his shoulder, looking up at him through fierce, blazing eyes that were just as alive as always. The relief sweeping over him kept him from noticing the fact that he had gasped at the touch.

"Why don´t you just say it?" Potter´s voice was low and hard now, as though he´d been shaken out of his reverie into the familiar searing hatred. "You´re always going off about how happy you´ll be when all the Muggles are dead. Why don´t you just admit you want me dead too?"

"I-I can´t," he found himself murmuring. The momentary uncertainty he sensed in the other boy pleased him, and he shoved away from the grasp.

"What do you mean you can´t? Can´t admit it, or, or..."

He looked blindingly beautiful standing with his fists clenched like that, his shoulders back, head lifted in a posture of complete defiance. So perfectly the hero. Standing there abysmally wet and not even caring.

In a moment of truth destined to live in his memory forever he reached up, yanked a fistful of the wet black mop, and seethed, "I can´t watch you die when I live to hate you." He held shocked emerald eyes for a moment before letting go and lowering his arm. He was very aware of the rain now, how it fell onto his eyelashes and covered him with false tears.

And he was very aware of the closeness between them, of how the other boy was reaching over and returning the favor by grabbing a lock of his silver, rain-soaked hair and pulling his head down fiercely to whisper, "You and I are meant to fight. Why can´t we fight on the same side?" And even as he was reeling from the plea behind those words he was aware of an arm coming up to grip his shoulder; of the hand in his hair moving back against his neck, almost like a cradle, as lips whose redness scorched the gray all around them pressed firmly against his own, lapping up the droplets of water on his mouth, gentle and hard and sweetly bitter all at once on his tongue.

A second later he was released and stepped dizzily backwards to meet a gaze full of challenge. Potter stared at him without a word, his eyes flashing a menacing promise of-something-and then he turned and walked slowly inside.

Only then did he realize that the rain was mingling now with cool, hot tears of his own creation. He didn't blink them away as he watched Potter's figure retreat into the shadows.

The clouds were breaking overhead, and the sun was slowly seeping through, and all the while the shower continued unabated.

Yes, he loved the rain.

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