Chapter 1

Why does the rain make things look darker?

Brown turns to black; red to burgundy.

She opened and closed her palm. The wetness of the downpour was two-faced: it made her want the droplets to stay against her skin, but it was all so cold.

Her Gryffindor colors were dreary looking. She looked out at the sodden terrain. The grass was heavy with wetness. She could feel her foot sink under the earth's crust each step she took. Why does the grass have to be green, she wondered. Why does everything have look like him?

Yellow turns to a muddy gold; whiteblonde to gray-brown.

The rain makes everything darker. Including Ron's voice.

"I don't like the way he looks at you."

"Ronald, you're making something out of nothing."

"No, Hermione, I'm not. That's my look he gives you."

"Ron, you don't have a look. You look at me like any male Weasley looks after he's had a large supper."

"Don't jest, Hermione!"

"Don't jest? What is it you're doing, then; a recounting of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them for educational progress?"

"That book is bollocks!"

"As are your bull remarks! Draco—"

"Malfoy is a git! When did you even start calling him by 'Draco'?"

"I can call him by whatever I like, Ronald…"

The clouds above gloated with white light. Thunder followed soon after. The voices in her mind dissipated as she moved onward, like they couldn't bear to be relived. She hated arguing with Ron over Draco. It was as if she wasn't even allowed to be seen by him. So what if Draco occasionally looked at her with not as much malice curving around his smile? She wasn't one to begrudge anybody a bit of decency, especially if it's a first in public. Let him be nicer. It sure would make her life easier. The days were getting longer anyhow, with Harry feeling pressed to face an imminent war. Voldemort was becoming potent with fear. No one was certain what lay ahead the next day, because everyone was too fearful of what would be waiting, or what would not be there anymore.

People drew closer. It summoned the need to be near those that made them feel most alive. Hermione, at the moment, knew she felt the most distant from life as possible. Her heart was so far away, and she couldn't recognize its desires anymore. Why does whiteblonde look mousier than anything when it gets wet? Why can't it be more clear-cut than that? Like the black of nighttime, and the white of a moon—or the grey of a downpour? Anything but a no-name color.

She opened her arms, her robe having been discarded back at the school, and lifted her face towards her rainstorm, wondering what she was trying to find by being soaked with cold and rain. She wanted her feelings for the enemy to be washed away with the rivulets crying down her cheeks. She didn't want the burden of her secret anymore.

She could hear her name being called faintly in the distance.

A white shirt and a mousy head were making their way towards her. They were plastered to the body of someone—obviously male by the looks of the longer legs and flat chest. Flat stomach. Sculpted stomach. He ran to her, opening his arms and taking her to his body. She encircled his neck with deadened arms, feeling him lift her legs around his waist. She realized after the roll of thunder melted away that she was sobbing into his neck, and she felt comforted by his irregular breaths, still trying to calm after running so quickly to get to her. He held her tightly to him, not letting the slippery rain loosen the friction between their heaving chests. She had never felt so far away than at that moment.

"Hermione," he choked. "Hermione," he said again into her sopping wet hair. "I couldn't find you." His breaths continued to find a rhythm. "You weren't where you usually are. I had to find you." Breathe. "Why are you out here? Where's your wand?" He inhaled her scent. "Why are you out here?"

She let one arm fall from his neck and crawl to reach behind her. He felt her wand being tugged from under his locked arms. She had put it in her jeans, partially hidden by her shirt. She pulled it out and wrapped her arm back around him. He felt so complete with her around his form. They should be melted together, and never come apart again.

She turned her head and kissed his earlobe, and then his jaw. They never did anything this blatant outside their regular corners. It was positively freeing, and fleeting.

They had to return to the school.

At first, they held hands after she slinked down from his hold and wiped her eyes. He could hardly move his arm from brushing against hers as they walked. But as the building came into full view they disengaged their palms, and then they slowly began to part from each other's side. Finally, they entered at different entryways, with the rainclouds rolling outwards from behind them. Fragments of thunder continued to growl above their heads even as a misty sky now opened up, promising blue for the hours to come. But the young man soon began to mutter something as he past some unsuspecting Hufflepuffs, causing them to just glimpse a drip from Hermione's disappearing pant leg. Hermione put on a scowl as she entered a nearly empty hallway, as if saying: "Blasted Malfoy; always raining on my holiday." She hoped people could infer her loathing for the Slytherin Prince, because it was dangerous that there actually was none.

She hoped Ron wasn't wandering around looking for her, too. That was an argument she didn't want to confront right now.

Her wand dripped the last of the rain onto the uncarpeted stone below. Each drip came more slowly than the last, until the final one fell onto her bedroom carpet, making her wish she had placed that one onto her lips so that she could rub them together and pretend that the burn wasn't because she kissed the skin of Draco Malfoy, her second pulse.