Disclaimer: I spend my days drooling over them, but they're not for sale. Harry and Draco belong exclusively to JKR.

…

It started raining almost as soon as Harry left his apartment block. It came down in grey sheets, turning the roads into rivers and soaking Harry within no time at all. When he was streets away from his home, he realised how stupid he was being. How in the name of Godric Gryffindor – don't think, don't remember – was he going to find Draco? He had no idea where he had gone.

But he kept searching.

Harry visited all the pubs near his apartment block, in the hopes that Draco would be sheltering in one. Unsurprisingly, there was no trace. He tried the scabbiest, most criminal places close by, at least that he dared enter. Nothing. Harry eventually settled for appeasing his restless spirit by scouring the friendless streets in the pouring rain, moving in an ever-widening circle from his apartment block.

There was almost nobody on the streets. The rain was pelting down with a storm fierceness, bitingly cold, and it was the middle of the day. Businessmen and office-workers sheltered in cafés, staring dismally out into the weather. Harry felt stupid. He kept looking, nonetheless.

With every new corner turned to the sight of an empty street, Harry's heart fell further. Every time he saw someone hurrying in the rain, his pulse started to pound in his head. When he realised it wasn't Draco, he felt as if his spirits were being sucked out by a powerful tide.

Eventually, when he was almost ready to give up, a spark of hope shone briefly in the darkness.

"Mr Potter?"

Harry turned wearily to face his accoster. He was cold enough and tired enough now that he didn't care if the paparazzi had found him. They could wonder as they wished as to why the infamous Harry Potter was wandering about in the rain, soaked to the skin. He wasn't going to tell them.

But his adressor wasn't a wizarding reporter. It was a small, hunched old man, with what remained of a head of grey hair plastered to his mocha-coloured skull. He was just as wet as Harry. The old man smiled sympathetically at him, and Harry returned it. "Yes?"

"Ah, right," he smiled wider, the American accent that should've been familiar astonishing Harry without reason. "I found ya. I was told to tell ya sumtin'," he leaned towards him, "by a young English man."

Draco! "Yes?" Harry repeated eagerly, leaning forward as well to catch the news. He had finally found a lead! "What is it?"

"Well, let me see now," the old man pondered, putting a stubby finger to his lips pensively. "What was it?" Harry bit his lip impatiently, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He had to know! "I think I remember. He said to tell Mr Harry Potter – that's you," he nodded towards Harry, who clenched his jaw, "that he was sorry." The old man smiled, lips stretching to reveal perfect white teeth.

"Anything else?" Harry asked urgently. "Anything at all?"

The old man shrugged each of his shoulders in turn and frowned. "Yes, I think there was something else." He paused, picking an imaginary piece of food from his teeth with his thumbnail.

"What was it?" Harry prompted softly, almost ready to collapse with anticipation.

"He said that you were to find him at the train station if you wanted to get him back."

Harry's heart stilled within him. "He said what?"

"Find him at the train station," the man repeated gently, "before three-thirty, he said. He was taking a train to… ah, now, I forget… someplace south."

"Shit!" Harry swore, slapping a hand to his forehead in distress. "How did he know you'd find me?"

"He said you live here." The old man jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Harry looked up.

Somehow, he had wandered unknowingly back his apartment block.

He swore again, taking off his steamy glasses to wipe them. "Do you know what time it is?"

The old man shrugged and shook his head. Without thanking him for his information, Harry turned and sprinted away.

He didn't stop running until he got to the station, ten blocks away. His lungs were burning, he could hardly catch his breath, but he didn't care. There was a pounding pain in his head, bu Harry kept running, the pavement racing away underneath his squelching shoes too slowly.

But by the time he got to the train station, the platforms were deserted. The rain still poured down, hitting the muddy concrete like bullets. The train tracks were almost swimming in puddles the size of koi ponds. The dark sky grumbled above Harry. There was no one here.

Desperately praying to something, anything, he turned. A huge clock was suspended was from a wrought iron arm that curved above Platform One. Its old fashioned hands read 3.52.

When Harry's legs gave way underneath him, he was shaking violently. His hands and feet felt numb. He sunk to his knees next to a dilapitated bench.

He was gone. Harry felt like a fool. Draco Malfoy was long gone, bound for the sunny south. He tried to imagine where the delicate Draco would go. Louisiana? Texas? He burned in the sun.

Why had he been so desperate to find Malfoy? And why so keen to forget that he was still a prejudiced Slytherin like he had been back at school? He had talked to Harry the same way he used to insult his muggle-born friends.

It had never stopped stopped Harry loving him back then, though.

No! Harry struggled to his feet. He had never loved Malfoy! He had just been a foolish adolescent, wracked with lust. It had just been a stupid mistake. He leant against the wall for support, desperately trying not to recall the feel of Draco's soft skin, the feel of Harry's fingers tangled in his hair. Despite the freezing rain, he was overwhelmed with memories of the warm dark nights of passion. No!

Harry tried to run from the platform, but his legs felt like they were made of senseless lead and they tangled with each other, tripping him up. He hit the ground hard, pain shooting through his jaw as his chin smacked the concrete and he bit his tongue.

He lay still for a moment, defeated, as the rain pounded down on his prone body. His glasses were misty with condensation, and he thought he could smell Draco's scent again, so familiar even after all these years. It was like lavender and something indefinably his. Even though he was soaked through, even though his mouth was full of blood, Harry treasured the scent-memory. It made him feel warm, even just for a moment before he remembered that its owner was gone.

Harry spat blood, wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve and staining it with smears of red. He resettled his glasses on his nose after cleaning them on his shirt. And then he got up and started limping home.

Alone.

…

Author's Note:

Just another thank you to all my faithful reviewers. You guys make me feel special. :D

Jen

xox