AUTHOR'S NOTE (PLEASE READ ME FIRST!)

This is a re-conceptualization of the fic "If in the Twilight," of which I've written four chapters before I decided to discontinue it. I sincerely apologize to those who have been reading it thus far, but it really wasn't working for me and I as the author was very dissatisfied with it. So I sat down with my rough outline and decided to change somethings to make the writing more decisive and the characters more consistent. I hope you'll forgive me! Anyway, this is hopefully better written.

This is a Drastoria fic, exploring how a character such as Draco Malfoy, who's got quite a history, manages to find love. I find it really curious, and so tried to come up with my own answers. Happy reading. :)

DISCLAIMER: Jo Rowling owns Harry Potter.

PROLOGUE

Rain is angrily pounding the pavement when he finally opens the door. For a second, he hesitates, and almost gives in to the temptation of slipping back inside the warm comfort of her apartment. But then he crushes the impulse with considerable resolve and closes the door behind him. He feels a painful squeeze in his chest when he hears it click shut, a reminder that it is the last time he will hear it. More than that, he will never again see her bright, welcoming smile as she opens her door to him. He stands on her doorstep for a moment, wondering if he had done the right thing. He feels his hand still tingling from the spell he has just cast, although perhaps it is merely the effect of a new and heightened awareness of his own self, because he is now very truly alone.

And then he lets go of the doorknob and almost dazedly makes his way down the flight of steps, water mercilessly beating him down like punishment from the heavens. He feels like letting the heavens do so, like spreading his arms and screaming a challenge to the skies - Is that all you've got? I'm still standing! Water quickly seeps through his robes, and he thinks he ought to apparate, but realizes that he will likely to get splinched with his mind on her bedside than anywhere else in the world. So instead, he pushes soaked blonde hair away from his eyes and starts to trudge along, grateful for the rain and the darkness that served well to hide his anguish. His vision is a blur - mostly because of the downpour, but also because of the tears that had treacherously welled out of his eyes.

His mind's eye, however, is torturously clear. He could readily see her sleeping form as her bare back rises and falls gently in time with her breathing. It's an unconscious habit of hers, sleeping with her back to the ceiling instead of against the mattress of her bed. Her long, dark locks seemed to have a life of their own tonight, spreading all over her pillow and partly covering her face. He remembers how it felt to brush the stray tendrils away, ever so tenderly, afraid she would wake. He could clearly see her face - as for the last time tonight he had been memorizing every detail - the curve of her cheek, the plane of her forehead, the angles of her jaw, the softly sloping lines of her lips… not that he hadn't yet. The first time he had seen her, he knew then that he would never forget.

Just as well, because as of the moment, it's all he has. He clings to it as a man would a piece of driftwood as he is tossed at sea, in the middle of a storm.

He has walked quite a distance before he musters the courage to look back, half-hoping, half-dreading seeing her figure standing by her front porch, calling him. But he could barely make out anything, the weeping night sky successfully obliterating any shadow of her that he had hoped to glimpse.

And so he turns once more to face the empty road before him, and risks a small, strangled sob and a swipe of his arm across his eyes to wipe away the water and the tears. But the rain rapidly flows onto his face once more, and he walks on, finally embracing the desperate, drowning feeling of the water washing away everything, every lingering scent of her - but never, ever her memory.

When she wakes up at dawn, she wonders at the water-stained pavement, not quite remembering the rain, not quite remembering that the sky had at least looked cloudy the night before.