Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.
A/N: A belated Happy Birthday to Draco.
Through the Rain-Coloured Lens
Rain splattered against the window and disrupted the listless mood in the loft. Sitting on the floor by the window, Harry looked up from the book he was reading. The city beyond the glass was filtered through a watery lens. Raindrops glided down the window and merged into little streams not unlike the lines on his palm. With his finger he traced the water trail down to the window sill, the glass as cold as the tip of a certain someone's nose during wintertime.
Everything in the loft looked no different from the last time he came over. Floor-to-ceiling ebony book shelves dominated one end of the room. The navy blue sofa in the middle looked inviting enough to recline on. Black-and-white photographs shared wall space with abstract artwork. The building's original brickwork framed several large arched windows and lent an industrial air to the place. The only thing missing was the owner of the loft, who was abroad on an assignment.
Harry tried not to think about how many days had gone by since he last kissed Draco. Unlike one of his best friends, he did not mind being alone. If nothing else, his lonely childhood had taught him to be independent, while his hectic adolescent years had taught him not to demand more affection than he could reciprocate. Nevertheless, there was a persistent pang inside him, a reminder that somewhere deep inside him, he was missing something.
Heaving a sigh, Harry picked up his cup from the window sill: a handmade ceramic mug Draco brought back from one of his trips. Somehow, it became the cup he used whenever he came over, and without thinking he had grabbed this cup when he wanted to make tea.
His designated cup, his designated chair, his designated space in the wardrobe, his designated side of the bed—he was still adjusting to this literal intrusion into someone else's life. Draco, on the other hand, had no problem with claiming a spot in Harry's life or shelf space at Harry's place.
"It's more convenient this way. I don't have to bring extra clothes every time I stay over. Besides, your pants are a size too small for me." When Harry shot him a look in annoyance, Draco laughed a little and handed him the creamer. "I've already cleared some space for you at my place. You are welcome to use it."
His lips curving into a wry smile, Harry stared into his cup: a pool of maroon reflecting his face upon its surface. The rising steam carried a faint tang of citrus, a familiar scent that drew out of him a sigh of contentment. In the past, he was not particular about the tea he drank. Ever since he started going out with Draco, however, he began to buy tea from the same shops Draco frequented. People had a tendency to imitate the habits of the one they loved; he wondered if that was so in his case.
He brought the cup to his lips and drank a mouthful, letting the liquid soothe his dry throat. The tea tasted just as good as when it was brewed by Draco. Then again, he had followed Draco's instructions line by line, right down to using the same hourglass as a timer. If only the man in question was with him right now...
Harry grimaced. His train of thought was going in circles again. After picking himself up off the ground, he dropped the book on the sofa, wandered over to the work table, and turned on the wireless. Through the loudspeaker, the singer asked her lover to run away with her to a city that had neither summer nor stars.
Sipping his tea, Harry looked at the photographs on the wall. Through the eyes of Draco Malfoy the photographer, architecture were distilled to their essence; landscapes became foreign and strange; everyday scenes took on a cinematic quality. Draco was not in the habit of putting up photos of his family and friends, and yet there was one particular photo on the wall that seemed more personal than the rest: a photo of Harry taking pictures with his camera by the river.
"I like how this one turns out." That was Draco's response regarding the photo in question, and it gave Harry no insight into what really went on in his lover's head. In spite of his open-minded attitude towards relationships, Draco could be as secretive as Harry himself was at times.
As the radio host introduced the next song, Harry thought about a certain photo of Draco he had stowed away at his house. It was almost like a mirror image to the one hanging on the wall in front of him right now, though the setting was different—and Draco was the subject.
While he was not the kind of person who obsessed over capturing every instant of his lover's life on film, he wanted to capture that moment when Draco was focused on his craft. Photography was their common language. It seemed fitting that they should have a photo of each other doing what they liked best: searching for images and meanings in the confines of the viewfinder.
But we still haven't taken a picture together.
The tea had gone cold; Harry finished what little remained of the tea and brought the cup back to the kitchen. After washing the cup, he returned to the living room, sat down on the sofa, and resumed his reading. Nevertheless, the story no longer had a hold over his mind. Instead, he found himself picking apart the instrumental layers of the song playing on the wireless: vocal, guitar, bass, piano, drums.
Harry almost expected to find Draco sitting at the work table as usual, his head moving slightly to the music. As soon as he saw the empty chair in front of the table, he chided himself for being silly. Draco was not here with him; he was a time zone away from this rain-soaked metropolis. Letting out a sigh in resignation, Harry lay down on the sofa and stared at the ceiling, wondering what Draco was doing right now.
It was not the first time Draco travelled abroad because of work. Although he respected Draco's career choice, he could not help feeling a little lonely at times, as if he was left behind at home while his lover roamed about the world, chasing stories and visions he was not a part of. It was unfair of him to think like that, of course.
Draco once asked him if he would like to travel with him, going so far as to suggest he would pay for Harry's travel expenses. "You'll be working, right? I don't want to bother you while you work." That was the excuse Harry used when he declined the offer, though in truth he was glad Draco had asked.
There was a hint of scrutiny in Draco's gaze, but when he spoke again, his tone could not be more casual. "In that case, we'll go on a trip when both of us are able to get some time off. Where do you want to go?"
Several months later, they spent one frigid winter night at the northernmost edge of Scotland to photograph the northern lights. Neither the vastness of the clear night sky nor the stretch of uninhabited land around them managed to hold Harry's attention the way Draco's figure did. On that night, what he wanted to photograph most was not the light show in the sky: it was that certain someone who was sitting by his side.
A pang of loneliness jolted Harry awake from his reminiscence. "I'm hopeless," he muttered to himself as he ran a hand through his hair. After casting a glance at the clock, he returned to the book he had abandoned and waited impatiently for night to fall.
The rain tapered off into a drizzle when Harry finished his dinner, and it turned into a downpour once more by the time he came out of the shower. Drying his hair with a towel, he went to the window and surveyed the street below. The wet pavement gleamed with the watery reflection of golden streetlight. A pedestrian or two passed by. Against the backdrop of the pavement, the pedestrians' umbrellas seemed to hover in the air as though weightless.
Turning away from the window, Harry sat down on the bed and ran his hand over the grey linen bedspread. The first time he slept on this bed, Draco had divulged its history to him. "I bought it after I broke up with my previous boyfriend. This is the first time I've tried this bed with anyone. I'm quite satisfied with it. How about you?"
When the image of Draco's teasing smile surfaced from the depth of his memory, Harry checked the time. The hour was late; Draco should be back in his hotel room by now. After grabbing the slim leather case he had left on the table, he took out the two-way mirror from within: a gift from Draco some months ago.
"You probably won't keep in touch with me on your own, but just in case," Draco said as he gave Harry the mirror. "I'll take the other mirror with me when I have to go overseas."
Returning to the present, Harry held up the mirror and stared at his reflection. Green eyes stared back at him in bewilderment; unruly dark hair resembled the aftermath of a windstorm; the brow wrinkled in a frown. Once he had fixed his messy hair to a more presentable state, he called out Draco's name.
In the mirror, his reflection melted into black, and for several heartbeats, nothing happened. In a louder voice he called out Draco's name again, but there was no reply. Perhaps Draco was not back yet; perhaps he was busy with something else; perhaps he could not hear Harry's voice. With countless thoughts swirling in his head, he was about to call out for the third time when he heard Draco's voice. Like a shutter snapping open, darkness gave way to light, and Harry found himself beholding Draco's face in the looking glass.
There was a shadow of weariness in Draco's countenance, but a faint smile was playing about his lips. "You don't often call me like this," he said in that mellow voice of his. "Did something happen? Or are you feeling lonely tonight?"
Harry's heart skipped a beat, and his body grew warm. No matter how much he wanted to touch Draco right now, he did not want to appear like a child pleading for attention. "Nothing happened," he heard himself say. "I just want to hear your voice and see how you are doing. You should get some sleep. You look tired."
From the other side of the mirror, grey eyes contemplated Harry for a beat or two. The curve on Draco's lips became a little wry. "I miss you too. I'll go to sleep after we talk for a bit."
Raindrops drummed on the roof and the window as Harry chatted with Draco. The air around him smelled of green apple shower gel and fresh linen. Were he to close his eyes, he could almost believe Draco was sitting in front of him. Nevertheless, there was no human warmth on the bed other than his own. However convenient an artefact it might be, the two-way mirror could not transmit the warmth of Draco's hand to his palm.
The image in the mirror shook. It seemed Draco had laid down on his hotel bed, and his head was tilted slightly to one side on the pillow. "Do you want me to bring back something for you? Liqueur or chocolates or something more permanent? An entire vineyard is out of the question though."
There were many things Harry could have asked for; Draco was a generous lover in that regard. What he wanted most, however, was not listed on any travel guide. As Harry gazed at the visage of the man he craved for above all else, he smiled a playful smile.
"I'm fine with just you and your photos."
Finis.
A/N: I haven't written a story like this in a while: a piece that is somewhat light-hearted and not too sweet. Thank you very much for reading.