Note: I'm not thoroughly satisfied with the way I wrote this. The drama is underplayed somewhat. But then again, at the same time I'm writing a paper on Shakespeare. Is it fair to compare my work with his?! My next one-shot will probably be posted soon. It was thoroughly inspired by these two hot guys who, in my opinion, are perfect for each other. Other than they're both totally straight.
Warning: Slash.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter will never be mine. Unless everyone stops it with those copyright laws.
In the Rain
He had always liked rain. Even as a child, he would always look out the window whenever it rained. His mother had said that his eyes reflected the sky, a hazy gray that conveyed all the powers of an aristocrat…and the sea-secrets of fishermen (though no one would dare compare him to the latter).
The soft pitter-patter sounds of light summer rain relaxed him. A peaceful, almost sad, melody.
He loved flying in the rain. It was a refreshing break from the world. Nothing to uphold, nothing to fulfill. Just cold wind and cool droplets of water.
In school, whenever he felt frustrated or overwhelmed, he would simply go out and drown himself in the comforting embrace of rainfall.
At home, more often than he cared to remember, he would escape the centuries-old oppression (which screamed out at him every time he passed a stuffy ancestral portrait or heirloom) and go out to Muggle London, clad in the few Muggle clothes allowed him. Now, it always rained in Muggle London.
That is why he liked the place so much.
Perhaps, one would say that he like the rain because it renewed him, as it renewed the whole earth. Angel Tears that would wash away past failures and transgressions. And from it, new life springs.
("Ha, if only it could be that easy. Nothing can ever be washed away…or forgotten.")
No. He liked it because it saved him the expense of crying.
He liked to imagine that it was him the heavens cried for.
Because Draco Malfoy never cried. Always wanted to, but never did. Never knew how.
"…dumb brat! Hurry up!" The figure clad in black robes shouted at him, voice raspy with the intent to kill. His companion, of the same Death Eater attire, stood motionless, letting the rain drench him as he looked stoically at the body of some unknown fighter.
The gloomy sky rumbled overhead, signifying that the rain wasn't gonna stop anytime soon. It was nearly midnight, enveloping the battlefield in the shadowy darkness that made it difficult to distinguish friend and foe both. The coldness was seeping through all of them as well, warming charms of no use against the gentle yet icy wind.
There weren't any stars tonight, only the grisly blurry outline of the dreaded green skull against the sky. Contrary to popular opinion, there was nothing heroic or romantic about war. It was über-politico, twisted, and sort of sad.
"Damned recruits! What are you waiting for?! Dumbledore and his lackeys are further ahead!" The first one shouted again, a dangerous edge to his voice. Still no answer.
"The Dark Lord does not tolerate incompetence," He, who had no right at all to say what the Dark Lord tolerates or not, roared maliciously and ran ahead.
As if from a trance, the other one's head jerked up at the mention of the Dark Lord.
Damnit! He had been so engrossed in watching the man's blood flow to the earth along with raindrops (leaving behind traces for his family to anguish over). Blood. This is the reason behind all this fighting. Pointless really, there's so much of it. Being wasted.
His is no less pure than mine. He stared at the crimson fluid. And the blackish mud that it mixed into. If I died, and my blood will also be spilled on the ground, will it resemble mud too?
Shaking his head clear of such morbid thoughts, he surveyed the area around him.
Where did that bastard go?! He cursed under his breath. Slytherins, impatient gits the whole lot of them – us.
It was now so dark (damn this fog!) that he couldn't see the lights of spell and curses anywhere. The pouring rain and cracked sounds of thunder made it impossible to hear anything remotely human beyond a few meters.
Impervius! Lumos! He thought fiercely. Light erupted from his wand and shone the area before him. He ran forward, quickly but stealthily. Where's the Hand of Glory when you need it?!
"Aaah!" The mud, where it wasn't mush, was slippery. Cursing the fact that he screamed not only like a girl but so loudly too, he pushed himself off the ground when a hoarse voice resounded.
"Oy! Someone's alive in there!"
It was the one he never wanted to hear again yet longing for, the one he heard in both dreams and nightmares. It was deeper now, more mature and ragged, but unmistakable.
"Neville! Contact Hermione! We've finally a survivor!" There was relief in the tone. "Didn't think they'd spare anyone, especially in a muggle community or at least that's what it used to be."
Muttering one of the more colorful phrases he picked up from his 'comrades', the Death Eater slowly pulled himself up and –
The light from Harry Potter's wand shone on his mask. Oops, too late.
"What the-" A dark shadow crossed the Boy-who-Lived's handsome face. A scowl appeared. A certain air of wariness and animosity ensued.
Lightning streaked across the sky, a sinister portrait of two enemies.
"Expelliarmus!" The Death Eater dodged the red light. Such an elementary spell. I would've used the Killing curse.
"So you never outgrew that silly spell, Potter." There was no hint of the vicious rage he felt for himself in his voice, nor of the hopelessness for his situation. It's amazing how one could control his emotions. "It's been…what, three years?"
He removed the mask, the physical manifestation of the stain of the Dark on his soul. Spider-silk blond hair against platinum skin. Stormy eyes.
"Malfoy," Eyes widened in surprise, then darkened again to something between anguish and indifference. And a certain bitter sadness that was reflected in the rain.
Harry had always been so predictable. And quite unable to lie, for his emerald eyes gave away everything even when his face was stony.
"I had hoped…to never see you in the battlefield."
"Unfortunately, you just did." The blond sneered, standing straight. "And lucky for me. It's shame that you don't really have the heart to turn me in, Potter. That's one Death Eater less…and just think, the names I could give, the people I could testify against…"
He trailed off, pale eyebrow waiting for a retort. The dark-haired boy -no, man- took a step forward (slosh in the mud)...and laughed, cold and cruel, into his face.
"And what about you? Do you have the guts to take me to your Voldemort?" Harry scoffed derisively, disgust dripping from his words. Running a hand through his soggy hair, the former Gryffindor laughed. "You could…and just imagine the absolute glory of delivering the so-called Boy-who-Lived. I bet you'd be revered in your circles."
Draco allowed a smirk of admiration rest on his lips. But his chest hurt. The old pain, the one he'd thought he'd forgotten.
"You've got me there." He said slyly, pointing his wand to Harry's heart(or the general direction of where Harry's heart was supposed to be). "But you've got me there too."
Neville would never forget what he saw when he apparated back to the spot, the same way he'd never forget what he saw in the Room of Requirement during Potions.
Two enemies locked in embrace. Sin-stained lips meeting pure ones in a kiss that eroded away the barriers of time and space, in the large gray area between good and evil, light and dark. Where nothing was sure and betrayal and deceit was omnipresent. It was full of longing but also of futility. AND spite. Another multi-flavored goodbye.
Neville decided to detain Hermione a little longer. She would sleep better not knowing this.
So he didn't see the blond run away, face soaked with raindrops from the sky…and tears from storm-colored eyes.
Since when did I learn to cry?!
He wiped his face with the sleeve of his robes and saw the Dark Mark on his porcelain arm. Pushing away a fleeting thought of cutting it off, he clenced his fests instead and hardened his resolve.
Malfoy's. DON'T. Cry. I will die first.
He replaced his Death Eater mask, thankful for the cover it gave.
Neville also didn't see Harry, his fellow Auror trainee, who had so courageously fought in many battles, collapse in a heap on the ground, clutching his wand tight.
(Well, it is now obvious where Draco learned to cry. Harry was a bloody expert at it.)
In his other hand, he held on to a piece of parchment (impervious to the rain) that displayed the location of the next four raids. He had grabbed it the first chance he got (amazingly, the timing was just right).
Predictable, am I?
End. It's just not up to scratch, is it?