A/N: I dunno - but I liked this one. Longer, too.
Prompt #11: 7/19/17
461 words, according to Google docs.
A baby was born in a thunderstorm - a baby with red fuzz on her head, large hazelnut eyes, and a wide smile. As lightning flashed outside, she stretched her arms out to the light, starting to cry as her worn-out mother pulled her close to her bosom. But she was soon placated - a baby can't pay attention to one thing for more than a minute, after all.
A small, red-headed girl, no older than five, laughed as she twirled out in the wet streets of Diagon Alley. Rain beat down on the cobblestones and thunder crashed up above. Her face was turned up to face the relentless water, but she was quickly dragged under an awning by her mother. A blond, pointy-faced boy watched from inside an apothecary shop, wishing he could play in the rain too.
A child, wearing a hand-me-down sweater and shorts, danced outside her lopsided house under the occasional flashing of lightning and onslaught of rain. Her bare feet squelched deliciously in mud puddles, and she let her brilliant red hair fly out of its customary braid as the rain fell harder. Hair plastered to her head, she wondered why it couldn't thunder more often.
At Hogwarts, the ceiling of the Great Hall predicted thunderstorms outside. While everyone moaned about flying in the rain for Quidditch practice, a girl sitting at the Gryffindor table grinned, tossing her head at the students that thought she was crazy. Including the ferret-faced one on the other side of the hall.
As a young witch, she loved to go outside when it stormed. Forget work, forget responsibilities - the thunder called. The lake near her flat always churned up a storm, and she would sit on a bench nearby, watching the water with fascination. Of course, she was always too engrossed in that to notice the blond man under the dark green umbrella on the opposite shore of the lake, staring at her through the rain.
As a grown woman, she knew that dancing in the rain was immature, at least according to others. But when no one was around, in the middle of the night, she would sneak out of her house and splash in puddles - clothes soaked, legs plastered with mud, and lightning sometimes illuminating the bright red of her hair. She was sometimes joined by a blond man who tolerated the rain - for her.
In a quaint cottage by the woods, an old woman walked slowly outside, her husband by her side. The rain would come pouring down, and as the first clap of thunder sounded, she would laugh, letting go of her husband's hand and spreading her arms. She always felt younger when it rained. The old man smiled - an action now well-practiced - and spread his arms, too.