Little Raindrops

Little Raindrops

He walked inside and shut the door.

The room was tainted in splotches of colour and the walls seemed to have erratically mixed together. He crouched down to the floor and buried himself in his arms desperately because the world was suddenly closing down on him and it was getting harder to breathe. His limbs were tired, his knees impossibly weak. He could feel his head carefully being pierced and the pain was overwhelming. He wanted to scream. Scream at the world, about how unfair it has been to him, about how stupid it was, how he hated it for taking everything away, and all of that clichéd nonsense, but his voice wouldn't give it away. All he could hear was the heavy trickling of the rain against the windowsill.

Drip, drop, drip, drop.

Thin and slightly calloused fingers ghost across his pristine face as soft lips part a warm breath through his silver blond hair. Coarse dry hands spread fleetingly over his lithe figure, and the warm breath tickles his eyelids to flutter. This goes on for forever, and with each evanescent touch lies a sweep of the wind that makes him fade along and shiver.

The first touch is always the best one, a jolt of pleasure so intense it can take one's breath away. And Draco moans lovingly into the delightful pressure. It's amazing how those hands, awkwardly rough before, turn caressingly soft as they lay slowly upon his skin. One hand presses with intensifying need, and it wanders, explores the body beneath it. And as it goes lower, lower, lower, Draco arches toward it, pleading for more, more, more.

Drip, drip, drip, drop.

And Harry wasn't supposed to die. He wasn't supposed to fend off being victorious and purposely stumble upon the brass of defeat, wasn't supposed to crumble into terror's hands and kiss death's fingers despairingly. He was supposed to come back to Draco, just like his smile had promised he would be. He was supposed to be cradling himself in Draco's arms right now and wiping away all their worries with his soft gentle lips, just like his eyes had so assured him to be, not hidden inside a glass frame and withering into ashes, leaving Draco without a trace of whether it was his name the beloved had spoken in the last breath he breathed.

Drop, drip, drip, drip.

"I can't promise anything. There's no telling what could happen after I leave," Harry says, his eyes intent on Draco's, trying to avoid them at the same time.

"Don't say anything then," Draco replies, trailing a path of kisses along the other boy's jaw. He says this because he does not want to burden Harry by making him worry about returning. No, he says this because he is afraid that Harry might not be able to keep it if he promised. He does not want to push Harry into making him believe things that he does not believe himself. He does not allow him self to be fooled by expectations of Harry's coming back to him.

He at least tries.

Months pass, grueling moments go by, and Draco loses hope, though there is no hope at all to be lost. He paces the grounds of Hogwarts, having - or maybe, wanting nothing else to do. There is no need for him to bother about his services to the Intelligence since the Intelligence no longer has any need for them. He is able have more time for himself, more time to think, and he hates it. He sits him self down on the treads outside one part of the castle where he can clearly see the lake. A sudden surge of pain grinds through his head, and he has to rest his head on his hands and close his eyes. He reminds himself not to think of Harry and wills his mind to stop wishing him to be here with him.

But the silence breaks at Hogwarts, and when Draco, disturbed from his sleep, looks around, he sees students running towards the castle's main entrance. And it isn't in panic that they are running. There is a wisp of elation, of victory, of... of happiness in them all. Draco jumps from his seat and dashes along with the crowd; he runs swiftly but hesitantly, unsure of what to think, of what to expect. Hope rises in one part of him, fear in another, and he almost stumbles when he reaches the mark.

The crowd is in augmentation, the people in great life. Draco is unable to see what they are fussing about. Or who. He stays in his place, unwilling to join them, unwilling to find out. He continues to stand just there, staring, and waiting...waiting...waiting...

The crowd stops. And Harry is right there, in the midst of all these people, now slowly walking towards him. The crowd parts to form a path, just like the Red Sea in Exodus (Funny how he knows that, Draco thinks to himself), and he sees Harry coming closer, closer, closer. His feet start to move with the enticing rhythm, his heart racing out of it. Then everything again comes to a halt. Just like that. All he can see now are Harry's eyes.

Yet, he is not given forever to gaze into those eyes. Because before he even gets a chance to do just that, Harry closes his eyes, raises his hands to cup Draco's face, and he lowers his body closer to Draco and kisses him.

Draco feels his mouth in flames, and he parts it willingly, welcoming Harry inside. He kisses Harry back in desperation, flinging his arms around him, holding on to him, tighter and tighter. They grasp at each other's bodies frantically, and kiss hungrily, never wanting to let go, never once letting go.

When they do, the crowd is in even deeper silence, stunned at the sight of their hero with this once-lost little lamb, or whatever it is Draco was. Several girls start to fumble with themselves, tears almost staining their eyes in fierce disappointment. Some others exalt huge sighs instead, putting on dream-woven faces.

And Harry's friends: Weasley, no doubt, carries with him the worst-case scenario, with his jaws pummeled deep into the ground, and his face slowly - excruciatingly fallen into shambles. Longbottom, Thomas, and Finnigan are but looks of dire hilarity and amusement. The twins, still posing bandages and casts, cannot be controlled of their fits. Granger, though, has a knowing smile on her face that tells Draco to be thankful for having been assigned her partner in the Intelligence, and for reminding himself not to piss her off during those times they've worked together.

Professor McGonagall raises an eyebrow disapprovingly, yet the upward twitching of her lips proclaims otherwise. Draco blushes faintly upon seeing Dumbledore's twinkling eyes. Severus only shakes his head in exasperation.

He smirks lovingly at the crowd before giving the boy beside him another kiss. Harry grins at him.

And the dream ends.

Drip, drop, drip, drip. Drop.

Slowly, Draco sank into the floor, his body trembling uncontrollably. He felt his face tingling, while his eyes had lost all sense of things surrounding him. Draco's face burrowed aimlessly through the floorings of the room and he felt that the carpet was soaked with... something... it was wet with something, he didn't know what. The rain must have seeped through the ceiling.

Because Draco Malfoy did not allow himself to cry. And Draco Malfoy did not cry. But then again, he wasn't Draco Malfoy anymore anyway, because as far as he understood it, Draco Malfoy died the day Harry Potter had left him. And that was the end of it.

Outside, sparkles of water crashed through the windowpane, as two lovers rushed to find safety from the rain.