See It in a Boy's Eyes

I often wondered about the rain, like then, as I snatched through it, my feet barely touching the ground. It fell heavily, great fat pearls of it, warm in this unusually tropical weather, and it tasted sweet on the tip of my tongue. It soaked my blonde hair until it was a dirty dishwater colour, and slid to the ends of my eyelashes before falling as I blinked. I was clad in my school clothes, my jumper lost at some point between the Slytherin dungeons and the pathway towards the Forbidden Forest. The white fabric of my shirt had become sheer from the water and stuck to my skin, enunciating everything I'd worked so hard to get rid of, but had crept up on me in the past few months like a python to its prey or the sun to the night. I hated it almost as much as I hated her.

When it rains, well it rains. And my heart doesn't feel the same. It seems to be that with the coming of the wet weather, my heart feels so heavy, that I sometimes cannot fathom the thought of ever being happy again. It aches, dully, making it harder for me to actually breathe at the best of times. It's at times like these that I would turn to you. I often wonder about the rain, how it can change with one's attitude and mood; sometimes slight and cold and indecisive, while at other times, like that day, heavy and sickly warm and so thick that it's almost impossible to imagine another bright day.

Puddles drenched my socks and the insides of my shoes as I hurried past, rather immune to the outside world. The grass was slippery underneath the soles of my shoes, and I skidded every so often, undoubtedly scared that I was going to fall, but continuously driven by the sound of your voice in my head. I knew what it was about but I ran anyway, wanting to get there as soon as possible. To see you as soon as possible. It's important.

It rang through my head, and pounded in my ears, in perfect harmony with my erratic heartbeat, almost deafening, through the noise of the lashing rain and the louder silence behind it.

Weeks ago, when you told me about her, you said, nothing will change, nothing will change.

Comrade, I don't feel the same.

Things changed, and we both knew it was going to happen. And it was a sad thing, because you didn't even possess the courage to admit this to yourself, never mind to me. The change came in a few different ways; firstly, the way you stopped looking at me, and started looking at her. Your eyes followed her every move, drinking it all in hungrily. It made me sick.

She changed the way you thought. You'd come back every night, when things were still new and fresh and I figured this was just a passing phase, with all these new ideas and theories about anything and everything under the sun, all bright-eyed and energetic and so disgustingly Gryffindor like. You would challenge everything we were ever taught, everything we grew up around, everything we ever knew and damn it, you brushed all of our morals away like Hufflepuffs in your way.

We looked up to you, as the general, unspoken, unofficial but very much-feared leader. We looked up to you and expected you to guide us as those before us, and those before them. You broke generations of tradition in the blink of an eye and the whisper of two pairs of lips.

But most importantly, she taught you how to let go, and I think that this is what ruined you. You'd fallen in love, as simple as that, and it was so much more complicated underneath. You refused to see it, and now here I was, running to find you, in the pouring rain, scared, beyond any fear that I've ever felt, of what I would see when I found what my heart yearned for, but my brain begged for me to stay away from.

You.

She changed you, slowly, so that no one would notice, moulding you into her own idea of what you should be. You were unsure, but were enthralled and hypnotised by her abstract beauty and let the pull of that other side of you that told you to go for it, because love can survive everything, bring you towards her. Get a grip.

Holding back what's in store when a girl wants a little bit more. Yes, I bit my tongue and said nothing, and wore a strained smile every time you talked of her. Of what you talked about. Of what you did. Of what you were going to do. I tried to talk to you, on multiple occasions, and it ended in flames and tears and sometimes flaming tears, and nothing productive ever came out of it.

So I settled for this status of being on standby, for when things went pear-shaped and you called for me.

I knew it was coming.

I can see it in a boy's eyes.

What's a girl like me supposed to do? I couldn't force you to do anything. We both knew it. And it was a disheartening thing because you needed help. I could see.

It had started out as a scandal of sorts, you coming in late at night, breezing right past the sofa I had fallen asleep on waiting for you, probably all bruised red lips and tousled hair and her creeping back to her dorm, the maiden blush of a virgin touched for the very first time painted on her cheeks. You had told me and no other, and I was slightly incredulous at first, but then allowed you a little time to come to terms with the huge mistake you were making. I wanted you to figure it out on your own.

Then, when things progressed, and there didn't seem to be any sign of you finishing this nonsense, we began to fight. You acted as though you didn't care. I did, right from the beginning, when I don't even remember. When we came out of the maternity ward of St. Mungo's on the very same day, our mothers chatting and laughing. I cared for you even then, when I didn't realise.

The rain was getting heavier, if at all possible, and I took off my shoes as I reached a set of old cobblestones covered in slick moss that I would surely have slipped on at that speed and with those weather conditions had I still been wearing the high, toe pinching heels. They were supposed to be shaping my feet, so they'd look petite and feminine.

I want to go where you're going to. We used to talk of where we would live once we left school, after the war, when our side had prevailed, and we lived free to do what we pleased. We used to talk, and laugh, and imagine and grin and beneath it all, I wondered whether you were being serious, or just imagining.

Just imagine.

We could be happy, together. Or as close to happy as this world would let us.

Could.

I wanted to go away with you, where the fruit grows ripe, and the sky is always blue, without a misplaced snake-tongued skull that brought fear into the hearts of men, light and dark alike. I wanted to go away with you to a place where there are never any people to be taken care of, or loyalties to keep.

I wanted this simple love you had, with the complex touch, this rose-tinted love.

What's a girl supposed to try, when all you do is criticise. I shouted, I compromised, I screamed, I threatened, and in the end, I just despaired. I could do nothing but despair as you walked into the trap that calls itself love. She was pushing you into the snake pit and you refused to believe it, instead rebuking me, accusing me of doing this for my own selfish reasons.

Perhaps I was.

I slowed down slightly as I reached the bottom of the staircase. The soft ground was water logged, and I could feel the filthy mud seep through my socks, and it was horrifically unsanitary and dirty, but it was for you.

Maybe, after this is all finished, and her essence has vacated that private little spot in your heart, you'll see sense in everything I tried to tell you. Her influence scares you, I know. Pretty soon you'll realise, I can see it in a boy's eyes.

My breath was coming short. I'm unfit, and payback is turning out to be a bitch. I've discovered that just because you don't eat doesn't mean you're instantly fit. I had stop momentarily to hold a hand to my chest and take a few deep breaths. My lungs were blazing. Perhaps those cigarettes weren't a good idea, either. I coughed thickly, and watched as the raindrops washed away the blood on my hand. No, definitely not a good idea.

When it rains, well it rains.

I often wonder about the rain, how it still manages to fall at least once a week here in Scotland, without fail. How it roars in my ears, and blurs everything in my view, like tears. I wonder how countries half across the world cry out and pray for the stuff, while we sit here, up to our armpits in it, miserable. How can something so seemingly insignificant make two different nations miserable in completely different ways?

There's a sun in my sky. It's like the winter sun. Always there, bearing down on my back hot, but in an icy sky. It's far away, so remote in the distance, giving no welcoming heat whatsoever, serving only to take me out of the night for a few hours, before setting again to leave me in darkness. Sometimes, the sun never comes out.

You don't see it, you don't even try. I have hope. To be a Slytherin without hope is to be a muggle in a lion's den fifty feet deep. You won't get out alive. I have every hope for our side every hope for my struggles, and every hope for you. It used to be that my hope stretched enough for both of us, and it was enough. You don't seem to need it anymore. To need me. In more recent days, things had become more and more strained. I know it's probably mostly my fault. Had I not...

No, it's not good to dwell on these things.

The light in Hagrid's cabin was on, and I had to slow down again, and creep past, hoping he didn't see the shadow outside the window. The ground I walked on was soft, having been dug up for the pumpkin crop. I hated pumpkins. And I hated pumpkin pies even more. It was a waste, really. Besides, they clashed with almost everything. I reached the edge of the forest, and scanned the first few trees, even though I knew you were going to be a lot deeper. Deep enough to be comfortably away from prying eyes, but not deep enough to run into trouble.

I hesitated. I didn't want to go in; I didn't want to go back to where I experienced my least fond memories. This was the place I had to apparate from to get my Dark Mark. This is where I killed my first muggle. This is where I lost my virginity, sloppy and painful as it was. And this is where you were.

I called your name softly, hoping you'd answer, but I knew it wasn't going to be that easy.

It was quieter inside the forest, where the topmost canopy of the trees acted as an umbrella and the rain didn't fall nearly as heavy. I brushed the hair out of my eyes. I called again, louder, and this time I heard shuffling. I found you resting against a large tree with a body so dark, I almost couldn't tell it apart from the rest of the enclosing night and I wondered what exactly it was you were leaning on.

I sat beside you, and for a long moment, we were quiet. I concentrated on slowing my heart rate and not coughing again and on the quiet rustling noises about the leaves. You and I, we hadn't talked in nearly two weeks, and I didn't intend to be the first to speak, even though I had almost given myself a heart attack just to get down here and be close to you again. Finally you spoke, quietly. So quiet, that it was almost lost in the sounds of the forest and the rain pitter-pattering on the leaves.

"I should have listened to you." Your eyes were dull, but at my angle they shone with tears that weren't going to be shed. You'll die, before you cry. I've never seen you cry, and I possibly never will. Whether you do it in the privacy of your own room, or whether Lucius beat it into you, I don't know. It's one of those awkward, slightly random and never mentioned topics in our house. We were brought up to be strong and strong is what we'll be. We never cry, or show emotion. She broke down that wall in you, or at least carved a hole in it. We do what we have to.

I did what I had to.

The letter said everything I expected it to have. Lucius had been true to his word and made it kinder than one would expect, and I masked my delight.

Your face was set hard, the tears still brimming. Your nostrils were flared and your firsts were balled at your side. The rain had washed away the gel in your hair and it fell into your eyes, partly obscuring the view of your misty eyes, and I hated it. I wanted you back in your tiptop form; the one Lucius had whipped you into.

He'd done a lot of things to you. Taught you to fly the best, think the best, be the best. He taught you to be able to smell trouble from a mile away, to dodge raindrops as they fell, to be him in every way right down to the last moisturised hand . He'd taught you to depend on yourself and no one else. Solitude is where you fly.

"Draco, I'm sorry." You didn't move or say anything or acknowledge that I had said anything. I didn't expect you to, really.

You don't say this isn't right. I think it was denial of sorts that stopped you from holding back. You knew it was wrong but you wouldn't say anything. Ever.

Even now, as I watched you coming to terms with this new development, I could see you retreating back into the body of the old Draco Malfoy. Stony faced, impassive, unjust, unfair and sadistically funny. You flexed your hands but the tears were still there.

Wounds heal over time. I see it in your eyes.

I often wonder about the rain. How it cleanses. How one can stand in it for a prolonged amount of time and just feel refreshed. How it washes away months worth of excess baggage like grime washed away in the shower. How is it that it falls so abundantly and yet, it comes back? Where does it go, what else does it touch, cleanse, hinder?

We walked back to the Slytherin dungeons in relative silence, although I knew it was more because you didn't know what to say next, and not because you were angry. The sadness and loss reflected in your eyes but I was prepared to undergo the task of seeing that you recovered.

The next morning, I sat beside you, there for support more than anything else. You didn't need it, though. Lucius' teaching was coming in handy, and you had gone to bed the night before only a slight wreck, but nothing that couldn't be fixed. This morning, you had walked into the common room, your arm held out for me, and nothing amiss. You were back, and all it had taken was a little...well.

There was a slight ripple of surprise that we seemed to be on speaking terms, but it was pushed to the side with the black drapes and morbid muttering from the other three houses. Dumbledore stood up before we ate, and I could see your jaw working, although your face stayed exactly the same.

I kept reminding myself that I did what I had to do.

"Last night, as some of you may know, a horrific thing happened. Everyone has a place on earth, they have a reason. Some fulfill their purpose quicker than others, and they can be taken in the cruelest of ways..."

I tuned him out and turned to you. Your face was gaunt, but had the expression of one who was really quite bored. Your eyes were dry, but your hand was squeezing mine tightly under the table.

"...And so, let us raise our glasses, to a brave and fine girl, who was taken away from us, before she had a chance to live life to her full potential. To Hermione Granger."

I squeezed your hand back, just so you knew I was there, and at that moment right there I knew that you were going to be ok, even if I'm not.

I can see it in a boy's eyes.