Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.


THE SONG OF SOLOMON

Chapter 1: The Parting

Madame Pomfrey always followed the same routine before retiring for the night.

That evening was no different; she had recorded in her diary the day's events in the hospital wing - who was admitted and why, immediate measures taken to relieve the ailment, longterm treatments planned for full recovery. It didn't take long. She had only one patient under her care, and his wounds had been mostly healed before arriving at the hospital wing.

She whispered a Nox and headed out of her office. The silverware that had accumulated during the day sat by the wash basin, and after placing them in what was once a pewter cauldron, she conjured a fire that blanketed the contents in blue shimmering flames.

As she waited for the purge to complete, her ears seemed to catch a hushed conversation. It was difficult to tell, the raindrops chiming a boisterous symphony against the windows. She crooked her neck and peered between the privacy screens that cast a long shadow from the nightlight of the only occupant.

Draco Malfoy indeed had company. Madame Pomfrey stood and was about to request the visitor to leave, wondering why she had not heard him enter in the first place. Must be the storm, she thought, but from Draco's quiet composure he didn't seem bothered. For once she considered letting it be; she had seen the young man once or twice during the school year and he seemed ill and distressed. Companionship and well wishes would surely boost his spirits.

Yet, when she squinted her eyes and saw the shock of black hair and clothes that were sizes too big for the lean frame below, she hesitated. The rivalry between these two were infamous, and she had, even in the quiet corners of the hospital wing, heard the rumors that Harry Potter was the reason why her patient was here in the first place.

Perhaps he was here to apologize, she thought. It could be her wishful thinking, but the world could certainly appreciate more reconciliation. Schoolyard rivalry might seem laughably trivial, but so were the rationale behind most wars - such as the one raging outside the gates of Hogwarts. Arguments regarding bloodlines, eloquent and pompous they might be, crumble to pettiness in the pain of death and separation. The suffering was no less for the defeated than the victor, for the lone soldier than the commander. She had been a Healer long enough to understand that.

Her mind made a decision as she tiptoed towards the screen; years of working among patients had taught her stealth worthy of a black cat. She had no intention to eavesdrop, only a desire to observe and appease should a fight break out.

Draco was quiet, his eyes flickering on pale fingers twisting among the white sheets. His jaw was clenched nevertheless, betraying an effort to hold off, to resist. Harry stood at the other end of the bed, his face out of view; an outpour of emotions was nevertheless evident from his uncharacteristically animated arm movements and hurried, forceful whispers.

Moments later the hushed talking stopped and Harry stepped closer, his legs half leaning against the nightstand. Draco's head had bowed even lower, his features faded into obscurity among the shadows of the dim lamplight.

Madame Pomfrey took a silent breath as she watched Harry stretching out a hand to brush the pointed chin, surprised by the gentleness of the touch.

Draco, however, didn't seem to appreciate the gesture; his hand released the fabric of his bedcover and pushed away the offered. The head sunk further, the hair falling to form a curtain that masked his face.

Persistent, Harry's fingers reached back for a touch on the cheek, only to be shoved away with greater force. He proceeded to settle on the bedside, supporting his weight on his elbows as he bent and tried to meet the eyes of the other man.

The blond jerked his head sideways, desperate to escape the intense scrutiny. A silk sleeve, emerald-colored adorned with an intricate knot woven by a silver ribbon, made a quick, forceful horizontal sprint behind the blond strands still concealing the face, the soft fabric wavering in sync with the heaving of his chest.

Harry finally seemed to recognize the source of Draco's turmoil; he rummaged a piece of tissue from his jean pocket and gently set it on the bedcover. Brief silence ensued before his lips moved in a low whisper. A gentle reassurance perhaps? A promise? No matter, for it failed to achieve the desired effect; the blond turned further and shook his head.

Harry exhaled and said something more. The blond hair swayed more vigorously, the pajama sleeves making such frequent trips to the flesh below that eventually they stayed there, their hem clutched in whitened knuckles. The exchange repeated, each more curt and aggressive than the last.

Then it all happened, faster than the blink of an eye.

Harry rose, strode to the other side of the bed, and yanked the blanket away. His right arm, lean yet muscular, stretched and caught both of Draco's wrists in a tight grip and dragged the injured man out of bed to the window.

Madame Pomfrey let out a silent gasp as she fumbled for her wand.

With his free hand Harry charmed the glass pane, which swung on the hinges and hit its limit with a bang; Draco's face remained resolutely downturned as the rain sputtered into the room, fine and glistening like a cascade of shooting stars. Harry closed into him, two bodies melted into one as the soaked fabric adhered to the skins underneath; the captive wrists remained held between them, pressed against Harry's chest, rising and falling with every erratic breath they shared.

Harry removed his spectacles and dropped them on the floor; his green eyes, ever more brilliant against the wet gleam on his face, searched the man in front of him as his grip finally loosened. He whispered again, his chin tilted towards the rain as he spoke, lips curled into an almost shy smile; the words ended with a gentle hand combing through the blond tresses, tucking them behind the ear.

The motion was only reciprocated by the slow blossoming of slender fingers. Freed from all constraints, the hem of the emerald sleeves, heavy with the burden of rain, slid downwards. Harry's eyes followed the retreat of dark fabric, then, as if blinded by the paleness underneath, a hand returned with violent swiftness to press the fabric firmly against Draco's left arm, to stop it from falling further. All that remained visible between the taut fingers was the silver knot, delicate and ethereal, its two long trains draping across pale knuckles, fluttering gently as if ready to take flight into the storm.

Harry's jaws clenched shut and his throat throbbed hysterically; he must have let out a strange sound, for Draco finally looked up, his drenched face twisted in what could be a smile or a grimace, the grey in his eyes an unreadable mix of sorrow and irony. He raised his free but trembling hand to the face in front of him, a tender brush under the dark eyelashes before lost among the locks that raged defiantly in the rain.

A flash of lightning slashed across the sky, rendering the scar on Harry's forehead and the freshly healed gash on Draco's cheek a fierce scarlet. Droplets of water followed their trail in their descent, racing down to the chin where they leapt and landed on the half concealed forearm trapped between the two men.

Like rain. Like tears.

Which one it was, Madame Pomfrey could not tell.

For at that moment, Harry leaned forward, and their lips locked. The kiss was passionate, their silent yet rapid breaths diffusing into the heat of touching skin, their tongues seeking to taste one other, to unlock the truth behind words and promises that had been drowned by the rain. Draco liberated his arms and braced the neck of his lover, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss while Harry's hands brushed against his hips and up the waist, pushing the wet fabric to expose pale flesh underneath. They then ghosted sideways until they reached Draco's heart; the palm blossomed against the flesh to feel the heartbeat.

Draco drew himself closer, offering the source of his life to his lover's touch. At the same time, his lips left Harry's and his head fell to nest against the crook of the neck, his fingers demurely feeling the fabric of Harry's jeans as one by one the clasps of his pajama top gave way to gentle twists of fingers. The pressed collar collapsed in its moisture, the emerald silk trailing its fall and collected below the elbows; the chill that followed was chased away by hands that caressed every inch of the exposed skin. He found the finest source of warmth as his head tilted to reclaim the kiss.

With a soft nudge on the dip below the spine, Harry repositioned the pair such that Draco was caught between his lover and the open window. The brunette's hands sank to the hips and in one clean motion, the silk bottom laid in a rumpled pile on the floor. A soft clang of the release of a belt buckle followed.

Draco let out a gasp as Harry lifted his waist and settled him against the window sill. He was almost completely under the rain, and his hand rose to push his hair backwards. His eyes locked in a gaze to those in front of him, then they shuttered close as his thighs slowly parted into a welcoming V.

Harry pressed his hips snugly against the blond and began to, ever so slowly, roll against Draco's most sensitive skin. Draco threw his arms around the man before him, as soft soothing kisses showered his forehead. He relaxed and responded to the motion; Harry leaned further in desperate attempt to move even closer, his arms encircled around Draco, who arched back even more with the added weight; he was almost facing the night sky, his resumed tears cleansed by the rain that fell from the heavens.

Then, with a sudden tightening of his arms, Harry pulled the hips of the blond forward as he pressed in. Draco moaned at the intrusion, in hurt and pleasure, and the muscles on his legs contracted, causing his feet to lose contact from the carpet below. Harry remained as his only balance point and Draco held on as tightly as he could, one arm clutching the soft cotton of the worn T shirt while the other cupped the head, his fingers clutching and releasing the dark hair to the rhythm of thrusts deep inside him. The pace soon hastened to a frenzy, the motion furious with desperate love and unspeakable pain as Harry's mouth attacked the smooth line of Draco's neck and Draco screamed into the crying skies.

Time froze as Draco's muscles pulsated at the release, both his and Harry's. As his energy drained away, his fingers slackened in exhaustion and in the daze he felt himself skidding from a lifeline; his near fall was caught by Harry, who tightened his embrace and held him closer, the two bodies pressed so close that nothing could pass between them. The two breathed in silence for a moment, before Harry separated from Draco and pulled him inward.

The rain had stopped, and the sudden stillness was overbearing. The blond's head was once again bowed low, its fallen tresses limp and dripping, and Harry released his arms when the other man had regained sufficient strength to support himself. It was then when the fabric of the pajama top made its last fall, and the shadow on the forearm morphed into reality. A snake entwined in a skull, etched deep in the pale skin. The Dark Mark.

Harry stepped back to adjust his cloths and slip on his glasses. Green eyes then returned to the man who he had so much wanted to mark as his own, whose shoulders, like his, was heaving in violent but quiet sobs. He reached out, held the marked arm that had been resting on the sill, and pressed his lips once at the pulse point just above where the ink began.

Then he let go. He turned towards the privacy screen, his feet dragging on the carpet that stained dark with dripping water. The spectacles were fogged, and the face behind it fell deep into a trance. As he exited, he didn't even notice a completely stunned Madame Pomphrey; he pushed her out of way and left the hospital wing.

Draco remained seated on the sill, his legs spread like the wings of a butterfly whose flight had been hindered by an unexpected storm. As the footsteps faded, his shoulders folded in, his arms pressed against his face as pale fingers knotted through the hair.

Finally, he let his tears flow freely.