Warning(s): Present tense.
Disclaimer: JKR owns. I only play. You do not sue.
Length: 579 words
Summary: Somewhere behind Potter, the rain stops. A light begins to filter through clouds, and Draco would like to think it's his now-brighter future.
Note: Originally written for a contest at hogsmeade_elite; the prompt was to write a fic based on the song Caught in the Rain by Jay Clifford.
Concrit: Always welcome and appreciated.
The world seems different from the roof of Gryffindor tower, though Draco supposes that it would seem just as different from inside the Gryffindor common room, seeing as he has never set foot in there before. Or anywhere near Ravenclaw tower, for that matter. A Slytherin's place is in the dungeons, out of sight. Not seven stories high above the ground.
Draco stands and waits for the morning to come. It's been a year since the war ended, a year since a flash of bright emerald light destroyed his future. He watches the lake in the distance as its brooding surface turns pale with the first glimmer of dawn's light. There's birdsong in the air, or maybe it's just Draco's imagination, echoes of a memory of a better, happier place than this.
When Draco was small, his father used to tell him that the future of a Malfoy must always be bright, and if it isn't looking too bright, a Malfoy has to ensure that he makes it brighter with every endeavour. With time, Draco has learned the hard way that ensuring a bright future is not always accomplished in a linear way. Sometimes you have to turn into a few dark alleys and shadowed corners before you find your way back to the right path.
Draco has also learned that other people often stand between you and your future. Some of them are wilful, reckless Gryffindors with fire in their eyes and a love affair with death.
The morning comes, grey and wet, and soon Draco's hair sticks to his face in stringy clumps. He waits, silent and still, on the highest tower of the safest place on Earth. A ripple of magic rends the soaked air, and Draco's wait is over.
The rain isn't over, though, and Potter's hair is instantly wet. Seeing him like this makes Draco ache with something dark, unnameable and dangerous. How long has it been since that time at the lake, when they were both so very drunk on their mutual loathing and so very desperate? Potter's skin was a stark white stain on the night's shroud... Draco takes a step backwards, forcing himself into the present. That was one night, one fuck, one memory. He can't come apart every time he thinks of it, he simply can't. He's a Malfoy.
"Malfoy," Potter says. Guarded, wand out, green eyes glinting with suspicion, greener with every drop that falls from the sky.
"I didn't think you were coming," says Draco.
"Bullshit. You knew I'd come." Potter's shoulders tense and the grip on his wand strengthens just a little more.
"Our agreement still stands?" Draco asks. It's not really a question -- what self-righteous Gryffindor would ever break his word? -- but certain proprieties must be observed.
Potter nods -- a slight inclination of his head, as if to one unworthy of more effort. But there's a flicker in the green eyes behind the spectacles, a flicker of a sort that Draco has forgotten. He still wants me.
Suddenly, it's plain to him -- the too-casual manner, the overly vigilant stance. Potter's last battle rages inside him, not outside.
A Malfoy never looks a gift opportunity in the mouth.
Somewhere behind Potter, the rain stops. A light begins to filter through clouds, and Draco would like to think it's his now-brighter future.
No matter what the weather's like tomorrow or five years from now, Potter will always be here, in the rain, with Draco.