It is raining. You like the rain; it makes everything clean and sparkly…even if it isn't. You like the rain because hides the imperfections. The rain is an illusion.
You are sitting cross legged on the black-white tiles of the ball-room. You love to sit there, staring out through the French windows and into the garden, especially when it is raining, The sky-water falls in sharp, almost needle like, streams. It makes patterns on the stone platform outside your window. Everything is wet. Everything is beautiful. Everything is perfect.
It is dark, also. The sky is a dark blue, it reminds you of the ink that sits in your desk and the rain is the slow drip…drip…when you accidentally take too much on your quill and it spills, leaving tiny spots of sky behind on your work. And when it lands, it spreads. Long tentacles of pure blue-ness creep out across the page and when that happens, there is no removing the mistake. No going back. So, you have to start again, from the beginning…
But rain isn't ink. Rain is water and water cleans things, it makes things right.
Suddenly, you desperately want to be out there, you want to be in the rain whilst it cleans you and lets you have your illusion of perfection. But, on the other hand, you don't want to go out alone. If you have nothing to hold onto, the water will wash you away and then you'll die. You don't want to die.
Slowly, you get back up onto your feet and pad across the empty hall, your bare feet making no noise on the tile. But even if you were wearing shoes, you'd probably still make no sound. The art of silence has been perfected ever since you learned to walk, silence is vital if you want to hide, if you want listen and if you don't want to be seen. Before, it took effort not to make a sound but now you have practised so much, your feet wouldn't make a sound even if you tried. So small and quiet for your age, you are like a shadow. A shadow child.
You creep across the entrance hall, over to the door way of the room exactly opposite. The drawing room, where you will find your parents. And, sure enough, they are there. Your mother is lying on the sofa, a book held up with one delicate hand whilst in the other, she clutches a cup. There is no doubt in your mind what is in it. You father is in his chair across the room from her, reading the newspaper. Your heart sinks when you see that he is not wearing his glasses. That means that he might not be in the mood to entertain your foolish wishes, he might push you away and tell you to stop being so ridiculous…
But you decide that you'll take that risk none the less….just in case…on the off chance that you are wrong and he'll take you out in your rain…
"Papa?" You whisper, reaching out tentatively. Your papa looks down and regards you coolly,
"What?" His tone suggests impatience and irritation. You lick your lips and continue, despite the heavy feeling in your stomach,
"It's raining, Papa." He sneers at you,
"Very observant, Draco. I hope you have some other reason for disturbing me other than to tell me, so cleverly, that it's raining."
"Will you go with me outside, Papa?" You ask, although you know the answer already, "I want to be in the rain but I don't want to be alone." The contempt in your father's eyes could almost be physical it was so strong,
"So you're scared of the rain as well now, are you?" You frown,
"No Papa. I like the rain. That's why I want to go out in it." You explain, "But I want you to go with me." Your father pauses and you can hardly believe your luck, he's actually considering!
"Fine." He sighs, easing himself out of his chair, "Come on then." You could almost jump for joy as you following him back into the ball-room. Once again, you reach your window, but now you don't need to sit before it- longing to go outside, now you can. Your father takes a key from his pocket and unlocks the door pushing it easily open, then he turns to you,
"Do you want me to carry you?" He asks, "You might become ill if you get your feet wet." You nod silently and allow him to swing you up into his arms. These moments are the best, without a doubt. Even though it could end at any second and he could turn on you. Your father is unpredictable like that. You snake your arms around his neck and rest your head against his shoulder.
"You're so light, Draco." He murmurs, "And small…so very small…" You say nothing in reply, what can you say to that, anyway? You do not know, even, if it's a criticism or a compliment. Maybe neither? Maybe it was simply a statement, for your fathers benefit only…
"Come on then." He says, adjusting you on his arm. He walks out and stands on the patio. The rain is still falling hard and it is making your hair drip down your face. But it doesn't bother you. It's nice and it makes you feel happy and calm.
"You like the rain, don't you my little dragon?" Your father whispers as he starts walking again,
"Yes Papa, it's clean and nice." You reply. He smiles at the simplicity of your childish answer and sets you down on the bench under the tree. The seat his wet despite the shelter from the leaves and you can feel the damp seeping into the back of your trousers. Your father doesn't sit down, instead, he leans down, his face right up close to yours,
"Well, considering you like it so much, why don't you stay here for a couple of hours?" You look up at him, full of confusion. "Maybe that will teach you not to bother me with your stupid fantasies." He hisses, eyes cold and contemptuous. And with that, he turns and walks back into the house, leaving you alone on the bench. You sit there, not moving, still not sure what just happened. Only when you see him turning the key in the door, locking you out, does it hit you. It was all a trick.
You shiver and pull your thin cloak tighter around you. Your feet are cold and wet. So cold in fact, that they are completely numb and you can hardly feel them at all. Rain drips freely down your face, pressing your hair flat to your head, which just makes you all the colder.
You feel silly and stupid to even have thought that you would get away with this. You should've have know that it was too good to be true.
Maybe next time…when he's wearing his glasses…
Suddenly the rain isn't so nice, it isn't cooling or refreshing. It's needles, piercing your skin, making you hurt all over. You can feel tears prickle your eyes. Or maybe that's just more rain. You wipe your wet face with an equally damp sleeve, as a bubble of misery rises painfully in your chest and you cannot help but let out a choking sob…and then another and another until you are weeping openly from coldness and disappointment and resentment.
But you know that there's nothing you can do about it, you made a mistake but you can't go back and change it so you'll have to put up with the rain and the tears until your father relents and lets you in.
Merlin knows when that will be…