The Rain
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Author's Note
: This is a bit long for a short story. *cough* Who's POV this is from may surprise you, unless you are some kind of psychic freak who probably knows what I'm doing right now. *cough* No offense intended. *cough cough cough* And for you normal, un-psychic people like me ^-^ who has no idea what is going to happen in the next hour, go ahead. Please R/R. Enjoy!Disclaimer
: I don't own Harry Potter (sadly). -_-***
He sat in his study, pouring over books and reviewing old curses and hexes. His mind wasn't really on his books, however; he was thinking of his childhood, his years in Hogwarts, and his life after.
He had grown up in an old, wealthy, and respected wizarding family. Known for their unprovable deep devotion to the Dark Arts, wealth, power, social status, and the purity of their bloodline. His family's surname inspired fear and, in some cases, disgust. No one would dare wrong them, however.
His parents had spoiled him, though they were often cruel and unfeeling. He knew about his father's plans to mold him into what he was supposed to be, what his father was, and his father before that, and what the entire family line had been. This he knew, and somewhat hesitatingly accepted it. He'd followed the "plan" up till his school years, where he had been allowed to mingle with the "commonfolk", as his father so fleeringly expressed it, and see for himself what the rest of the magical world was like.
At first he had been fascinated; so many friendly people, people who radiated warmth and kindness, loyalty and everlasting friendship, generosity and courage, and love. He would have jumped into their midst and danced with joy, had he not been what he was. Years of training and childhood upbringing were grated into his mind, and he could not turn away from it all so easily.
Since most of his life then was spent away from home, the former ideas that had been pounded into his head had started to fade away. He started associating increasingly freely with Mudbloods and half-bloods, sometimes finding their company more enjoyable then his society's purebloods.
It was in his fifth year that he had fallen in love with a Mudblood.
He could still remember her, the memory still painfully fresh in his mind. Her sweet face, the sound of her voice, her intoxicating perfume. Her laugh and her smile and her eyes. He remembered their playful arguments and mock fights; warm nights curled up together in front of the fire in the Great Hall. He remembered the velvety feel of her skin underneath his fingers and lips; the silken touch of her hair; her soft, rosy lips; the warmth of her soft breathing at night.
It hadn't been puppy love; it was something much, much more than that. She was everything he had ever wanted, and more. She loved him too, he was sure of that.
The time spent together had been heaven. He should've known it had been all too good to last.
His father, of course, learned of this, and he was punished severely during winter break, on Christmas Day.
Severely.
He never forgot it.
When he returned to the school, he was changed. Never again would he veer from the paths his parents had set him on, never again would he associate with anyone with less than perfect blood. He would never again be the same; he seemed to have lost the emotion and love he had formerly possessed. If he hadn't, then how could he have hurt the one he had held in his arms only a few weeks before?
He taunted her, insulted her, hurt her. He made her believe that he didn't care at all for her and never had. He made this so apparent that soon he himself started to believe in it too, and could no longer imagine what it had been like before his father had interfered with it all.
He watched her from afar, coolly, taking note of all the tearful nights he had caused her with a calm nonchalance.
She fell in love with her best friend, the normal Mudblood cliché that seemed to happen every year. He'd heard of their wedding and attended it, secretly. Yet his heart was so effectively frozen that he still felt nothing, nothing at all.
It was only years after his marriage to a witch with the purest blood possible, complete with wealth and extremely high social status, the initiation into the Death Eaters' group and their inner circle, and the traditional birth of a solitary son, did the memory of her come back.
He wept, imagining how life would have been different had he been allowed to marry her instead of his current, cold wife. The pain he would have felt then all came back to haunt him now.
However, it was all in the past, and he couldn't do anything about it. Sighing, looking out of the large bay window in his study, he saw the rain.
It fell in a steady, pitter-patter of drops, like tears. Tears...
He had once been told an ancient Muggle saying to prove to him how irrational Muggles were. "Muggles," his father had said, nostrils flaring, "often say that when it rains, it is because of all the people up there in 'heaven' are crying for this world."
He had been notified of her death years ago. He got up from his desk and stood facing the large window, looking up at the grey, mournful sky. He imagined, for a brief, fleeting moment, of her standing up there in the cloudy sky, amongst all the other wronged beings, weeping for her life, because of him.
He stood there, gazing up at the sky. How long he stood there, he did not know. The image of her sitting next to the fire crying played over and over relentlessly in his mind. It was wrenching, heartbreaking. It seemed fitting that she would be up there in the sky, still crying, unable to rest even after death.
He whispered her name hoarsely into the mesh just outside his window, the plastic black strands so thin that they were hardly visible to the unaided eye. Again, and again, and again, her name became something like a mantra to him. Blending the name together until it was simply a blur uttered from his lips. Mixing into the incomprehensible sound an "I'm sorry" though he knew it was quite insufficient for how he had wronged her, he gasped for breath, struggling not to cry.
The truth was still there, being uncovered and unearthed from fifty years of prejudice at last.
He still loved her.
Slowly, the rain lightened. He looked up at the sky. The clouds were starting to part, and the sun shine. There was still a faint drizzle, but he supposed that there were still some wronged souls grieving. Was it mere coincidence, or...? Nevertheless, his heart lightened. Just a bit. One burden was gone.
He was eternally sorry for what he had done, but there was no way to justify it, or go back in time. A Time-Turner? He snorted. Even a Time-Turner couldn't undo what had been done for over fifty years.
It was still raining, but to him, the rain seemed to dance when it hit the pavement.
He sat down again, and tried to turn his attention back to his books. There was nothing to do, now, except to continue reading and go on as before. Someday he would die; this was assured. He could only wait for such a blissful day. And then, he would join all the lost and lonely souls in heaven, crying periodically, making it rain, hopefully allowing others who had followed his path to seek redemption in the shower of water.
An owl swooped through the entrance to his study, bearing a letter from the Ministry, requesting a loan of five thousand Galleons. He signed it idly, still thinking of his lost love.
The owl carried the letter back to the Minister almost instantaneously. The Minister opened the letter, noting that the ink of the signature was not yet completely dry, glinting in the light. He checked it, to make sure it was not a fraud, and deemed it legal. Grinning widely, he showed the others the prominent signature at the bottom of the parchment.
Lucius Malfoy
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A/N
: That was a bit of a surprise, wasn't it? I bet most of you were thinking along the lines of Draco. Well, little crickets, it wasn't. And do be a darling and review, will you? Please?***