It's Hard to Live in the City
He grabs my hand. "I'm bored. Let's go puddle-jumping." His green eyes have that gleam in them and I know he's not kidding.
I glance outside; sure enough, it's pouring. By the time I focus my attention inside again, he's stepping into sunny yellow rain boots and clicking open a cheery red umbrella.
The thing about being with Harry is that you can do something completely, utterly crazy and it just feels right. You never doubt it, not even afterwards.
The sky is gray when we get outside, me without shoes, wearing one of those garbage-bag turned tourist rain ponchos that the drugstores bring out when it's raining. "I don't think rain is very romantic," I say.
"It's not. It's refreshing, renewing." But he straightens up to kiss me anyway, cold lips meeting cold lips.
His hair is wet already, the rain morphs it into thin strips, and I reach out and touch it. Smooth and cold and jet black. I shiver. "You're beautiful. Even when your hair is wet."
"Oh, that was romantic," he says in the monotone that is his sarcastic voice.
While I study his hair, we walk down the wet street, and the rain splatters onto pavement. I hold his hand in mine-it's bigger, but not by much.
"I know where the biggest puddles are," he says, sounding like a kid in a candy shop. We turn through deserted urban areas. We twirl through streets of abandoned buildings and sidewalks and cloudy gray skies.
Finally, we reach our destination. What looks like just a black sheet of shiny water riddled with edges, outlines of puddles. "C'mon!"
He pulls me across the abandoned parking lot. My feet pound the puddles, splashing droplets of water on my ankles. I look up and see a streetlamp. You can see individual raindrops when you look at the tall lanterns, and I think it's beautiful. I tell him this. "Oh, Draco. Always thinking."
He laughs, little button nose wrinkling, and I bop him gently on the nose as he turns to look at the rain against light, light against rain, light against dark. "It's so beautiful," he agrees. "It really is."
Just like this love, I think, but that would be cheesy. Too cheesy, especially for me. So instead I grab his hand and we run again through the deserted parking lot to the middle, where a giant puddle holds enough water to reach up past our ankles. I'm barefoot, the gravel sediment below sharp on my heels, not complaining even though it hurts. Instead I say, "You do know where the biggest puddles are."
He beams, a smile shinier and happier than the sun, which isn't out anyway, so it doesn't have any competition-but if it was, the better would still be Harry, no contest. And I bend down to kiss him again, because I'm six inches taller, and he stands on tiptoe to reach my lips. It's quite romantic; I almost wish someone had taken a picture to prove our existence at that moment. Not just the existence of us as a couple. The existence of young love, sweet nothings, and spontaneous walks in the rain.
"I love you," I whisper, "I really do."
"I love you too," he whispers, "I really do, Draco."
The End