A/N: Written for Taragh McCarthy 's Rain Rain... Challenge/Competition.
I'm sorry for the shortness of the fic but my muse abandoned me halfway through :(
Astoria hated the rain.
Pressing her face to the windowpane she inhaled sharply, creating a fog. It obscured her view but she remained in place, frozen to the spot. Rain pattered against the glass and slid along its length. The effect was beautiful, but it didn't warm the resolve in Astoria's chest.
Rain generally meant damp and dark days, filling hours of sunlessness into days better spent otherwise. In London, when the rain began, so did the decay and the death. Flora died, as did the fauna. Winter was supposed to be the ending of the cycle, the step before starting anew. Astoria hated all mention of moving on, she hated being reminded her days were numbered.
Sincerely she hoped to die in spring, if at all. Upset the balance of all natural things.
The little garden Draco had built for her strayed into sight. White. Everything was white. White roses and orchids, stepping stones and even a few sun-tanned parasols. All were wet with the continuing rain. Astoria wanted to run out and protect her precious flowers. To stop the harm that so much water could cause. People drowned in water.
But she still had to acknowledge that water, in the form of rain, helped as much as hurt. It refurbished life as well as took it away. THEY at least liked it.
She ran her polished fingers against the windows edges, pressing each finger against the glass in turn. The warmth her body produced disagreed with the cold. It was unnatural.
Keeping one eye on the withered and closed buds, she gazed at the horizon. Right about now the sun would be setting in a beautiful pink-lilac. It always reminded her of Scorpius. Now the skylight didn't even show, only gray clouds could be spotted.
Astoria still despised that.
The cold against her face was almost sobering, refreshing- like a wake-up call. But it could never replace the light that the sun filled her with.
And Draco.
The pale man was just as bright, contrasting only by the moonlight glow he perceived. He held out one long fingered hand to her, a smile on his face. He knew her exact thoughts, probably hoping to distract her mind.
She was reluctant nevertheless to leave her perch. It wasn't glue that kept her to the seat, it was defiance. She was better than this. She almost felt like it was her duty to keep a watch, a glare, at the act she so disliked.
Yet Draco's hand was right there, warm and not dead, nor dying. Alive. Not coarse like the sand paper rubbing her insides raw.
Pushing aside the internal battle, she reached out her hand to grasp his, getting to her feet but regretting the decision.
Rain continued to shimmer.
Life moved on.