After the Rain
By arca
“If there’s a cloud up above us
go on and let it rain
I’m sure our love together
would endure a hurricane”
Harry
could not remember the last time he was eyed with such contempt. That
Saturday afternoon, when the Great Hall was almost empty, Draco Malfoy had
purposely walked across the room to stand before Harry and glare. Harry
looked nervously at the silver watch Sirius had given him for his seventeenth
birthday. Now it lay defenceless on top of his
table, gleaming under the fake sunlight that fell from the hall’s
ceiling. Draco was so close Harry decided he had picked the worst time to
leave it unattended.
"What
do you want Malf--" Harry was about to finish
the salute he reserved exclusively for Draco Malfoy when the other boy took a
sudden step closer. Harry saw in horror how in a single movement the hand grabbed
his watch from the table. The next thing he knew Malfoy had made a run
for it and was soon out the doors of the Great Hall.
"Malfoy,
you--" Harry snapped out of the shock that immobilised
him, and his steps became strides as he found himself running after the
thief. He caught a glimpse of Malfoy's figure
before it disappeared behind the castle's entrance doors. Harry followed.
Outside
the sun was shining bright and the light entered through his eyes, blinding
him. He searched around, narrowing his eyes to focus his poor sight on
anything resembling an over-grown conceited brat. Harry was about to
abandon the pursuit when he saw a blot of black move between trees in the
He
came to a halt and looked around breathing heavily. The space was
surrounded with tall and thick trees that rose dominant to a clear blue
sky. The afternoon sunlight shone fiercely through the opening and pushed
its way around the branches and leaves that dared obstruct its intended
course. The result was an artwork of sunbeams that hit the ground from
different angles, much like Harry's hair was hitting the air every other
way. Harry was amazed at how the scenery could be violent and beautiful
at the same time.
His
sour mood was back as soon as a boy appeared from behind the thinnest tree,
with a trunk so slim it seemed impossible for anyone to hide behind. The
boy before him played lazily with an object in his hands so that it reflected
the sun directly on Harry's pupils.
"Malfoy,"
Harry stopped the light with the palm of his hand "give that back."
"Well,
Potter," Malfoy's voice was hard, "I wasn't
planning on doing anything else."
He
threw the watch in the air towards Harry, with more strength than was
necessary. But catching it was naturally easy for the Gryffindor
seeker. Harry clasped it on and observed Malfoy's dark look.
"You
have what you want” he continued, “I’ll take what’s mine." And
without giving Harry a second to think he punched him across the jaw.
Harry
didn’t even see it coming, lost balance and landed flat on his back. When
he opened his eyes the world seemed darker, but it was really the sunlight that
had turned dim. He tasted his own blood and with a swift flick of his
tongue made sure all teeth were in place. His glasses were intact, but he
couldn’t say the same about his face. The pain on the right side of his
jaw spread to his neck and behind his ear. He groaned in complaint.
Malfoy
seemed to ignore this and instead walked to stand at Harry's feet. He
looked down on him in rage; "that was for Cynthia," he said with
passion.
A
thick cloud took residence over the sky opening. Harry gasped at seeing a
drop find its way down Malfoy's cheek, but understood
when something cold and wet dropped on his own nose. It was raining;
seconds later, pouring.
Harry
noticed the other boy looking up to where the drops were coming from. "Oh, really?" Harry said as he took the
advantage to kick hard on the back of the other boy's knees. Malfoy fell
on his back and Harry was quickly on top of him.
He
nailed his right fist into Malfoy's left cheek,
"then that's for Ron." He then swung his left across the other
cheek, "and that's for Hermione." Harry was glad to see bright
red coming from the other boy's mouth, but the rain spoiled the moment by
washing away all signs of blood. He thought Draco deserved more than a
cut lip for all the hard times he had given him, Ron and Hermione. Once
again he closed his hands into fists and prepared for another round.
But within a second Malfoy rolled on top of Harry with ease. The rain had soaked his hair and
it dripped white-blond down his pale forehead and cheeks. His robes were
covered in mud. It was the most untidy Harry had ever seen him. It
was also the one time Malfoy didn't look like he cared.
Malfoy
grabbed the front of Harry's robes and pulled him up on his feet. He
slammed Harry against the nearest tree and fixed him there, not letting
go. The Water-Repelling Spell on Harry's glasses wouldn't spare him the
sight before him. Malfoy's eyes had turned to
glossy ice; pinned on Harry they froze his own. Lightning illuminated the
scene and painted dangerous shadows in the depths of his features. When
Malfoy spoke his voice was ear splitting and he did so very slowly as if to
make the message very clear.
"At
least your friends are still alive, are they not?"
His
words hit Harry in the chest. Death hadn’t been a stranger since the day
he was born, but the affliction he heard in Malfoy’s
broken voice awoke a sympathy for him that he wasn’t
aware he owned. A vague image of Harry’s parents flashed in his
mind. A new heat of anger grew from within, warming his limbs. It travelled up his neck and temples, and burned the back of
his eyes.
“You
think you are the only one who’s lost someone?“
Harry forcefully unclenched the hands holding his robe, “I never knew my
own parents, you self-centred cretin.” Shortly,
one of his knees shot forward with strength and collided with Malfoy’s abdomen. Harry shoved him away with disgust.
Malfoy
bent over rubbing his stomach. His vengeful expression took over that one
of pain. “I don’t think I’ve made myself clear, Potter,” his discourse
came sharp even after he turned his back to Harry, “rest assured that will not
happen again.” His figure straightened with an even greater air of
self-sufficiency than before, an action Harry thought with certainty was almost
impossible.
A
cold blast blew around the clearing, animating Malfoy’s
cloak to create the illusion of a living creature, like a compliant vulture,
hovering, guarding, lurking. A shout caught in the wind became a whisper,
but despite being oblivious to what it meant Harry held his breath in fear when
the sounds reached his eardrums.
“Communionis Recordatio.”
Before
the spell hit him, Harry was able to see Malfoy’s
wand, entangled in dusky cloth, pointing at him, and bitter lips closing after
having spoken, giving away their fault. Harry’s vision
blurred in a cloud of white smoke. He fainted.
The
visions and feelings that followed passed in a rushed succession. A small
hand brushed the dewy grass in a wild field. A
contagious giggle and someone who looked like but surely wasn’t Malfoy laughed
happily along. Contentment.
Not-Malfoy was spread on a couch by the fire, a little girl no more than two
years old snoozed in his arms. Her black hair short
just under the chin. Tranquillity. The girl was now around four, she held that blond
boy’s hand. They walked to the end of a pier and looked at the rainbow
displayed in the horizon. The boy picked her up in his arms. She
looked at him with gorgeous black eyes, smiled and hugged him tight. Love. Then, suddenly, there was darkness, long faces,
worried glances. Fear. The Dark Mark over
a white-fenced house. An owl flew in the Great Hall carrying a black
scroll. Malfoy read it. Pain.
When
the images stopped Harry was still enveloped in white smoke. He could not
believe what he had seen and felt. His mind was racing. Malfoy’s little sister, or cousin, was this
Cynthia? He loved her dearly, Harry himself had felt it. But she
was…dead? She couldn’t be, why would Voldemort kill a child? Although,
he had tried to kill him when he was one
year old. In a way all this time he had wanted to believe children
were immune to the killing curse. But… why?
She was just a little girl. Just a little girl…
Harry
came to lying on the muddy ground, the rain no longer falling on his face but
he could still hear it. He reasoned he must not be in the clearing
anymore. He opened his eyes. Blinked once, blond
hair. Twice, grey eyes. The third time he could make out
disdain in pressed lips. Again he was pulled up on his feet and held
against a hard surface with little care. Only this time he didn’t
mind. Just a little girl…
“Potter!” Malfoy pressured, “Potter, do you hear me?” Harry slowly
nodded. “Do you understand, Potter?” Harry recalled his painful
visions, and he gave a more mournful nod. “Then bring her back,” Malfoy
demanded, “do your magic, touch your scar, be Harry Potter,” he voiced
this request as an only possibility, a last resort, “just bring her back,” a Malfoy’s plea, if there can be such a thing.
Harry
startled. All was there in Malfoy’s face.
The reminiscence of a boy at the end of a lost battle, his whole faith gambled
on his enemy’s mercy, his weakness revealed for the sake of a purer
resolve. It was very distressing. With an image of young black eyes
full of life imprinted in his mind, Harry stuttered silently,
“Malfoy,
I can’t…” tears sprouted, the product of his despairing feeling of impotence
over everything, “I mean… my parents… Cedric… I tried… I try every day… I
wish…” He looked into Malfoy’s eyes, giving in
to his own tears, “I can’t bring her back.”
Confusion
was the only feeling that could be read in Malfoy’s
gaze at first. Soon it turned into realisation,
and then into a sentiment so vivid Harry could only describe as the very
essence of sorrow. His expression had shattered like thin ice under
pressure. Malfoy’s eyebrows were frowning, lips
trembling, but he held his watery stare on Harry, maybe looking for an answer
he already knew wasn’t there.
Suddenly,
he drifted away. He was still standing there, his hands always pushing
Harry against the tree, now doing it more as a support than a deliberate
offensive. But he was staring at some point in space. Gone, unresponsive.
“Malfoy…
Malfoy!,” Harry panicked as he yelled with no
use. He tried to be more drastic, grabbed the lost boy’s head with both
hands and shook it, “Draco!” Malfoy snapped out of his trance and focused
his gaze on Harry’s. Then he laid all the weight of his head in Harry’s
hands. His legs failed and his whole body collapsed into Harry, dragging
him along to the ground.
Harry
instinctively embraced Malfoy in protection. Once sitting, he turned to
look at his face, expecting to see him unconscious. Instead he saw his
narrowly opened eyes, avoiding him, looking like they were trying to work out
what was going on. Malfoy seemed to hush his internal conflict and hid
his head under Harry’s arm.
Malfoy,
still broken, tried to curl closer to him. He took a deep breath with his
mouth wide open, much like a drowned person would if a
second chance was given. Then he finally let go and started to cry, in
the most heart-breaking way Harry had seen. His quiet sobs, muffled
against Harry’s chest, emerged from within, stealing the little breath he
managed to take during the brief breaks.
Harry
held him tighter and he felt Malfoy’s body shake in
grief. He was not sure what to do, and he really wanted to do
something. So he began rocking him, back and forth, very slowly.
After a long time Malfoy evened his breathing with Harry’s movements.
Backward, inhale. Forward, exhale. Time passed, and then he wasn’t
crying anymore, only looking flushed and tired, but tranquil.
“It
stopped raining,” Harry whispered.
He
took a moment to examine Malfoy. The boy in his arms had damped hair
pulled over his face. Harry occupied himself taking the hairs out of the
way. The pale skin felt cold under his fingers so he took out his wand
and cast a Drying Charm, which blew warm air from the tip. He dried some
of Malfoy’s hair around the face, and was pleased to
see Malfoy wrinkle his nose and then give him a lopsided grin. He smiled
back.
“Cynthia
loved the after-rain,” Malfoy confided without expression, and continued after
Harry raised his eyebrows, “The jumping on puddles, the playing with mud, the
dew, the rainbows – they were all her favourites.”
He didn’t look sad, only immersed in memories.
“I
know,” Harry said. Malfoy didn’t look surprised. “What was that
spell you used on me?”
Malfoy
looked like he was expecting this question. “It’s a Memory-Sharing
Spell,” he explained, “it works like a Pensieve, only
with less accuracy. The caster has limited control on what memories he
wants to share, and the one cast-upon sees only a flash of those
memories. Except he can experience what the caster felt at that
particular moment in his life.” He paused for a moment, then he finished, “That’s why you understand now.” He
shifted in discomfort and Harry quickly loosened his grip. But Malfoy
didn’t move away, and Harry felt confident enough to rest his hand on the other
boy’s chest.
Harry
understood very well. What was still unclear was why Voldemort
would kill someone that was probably on his side. Before he had decided
if it was appropriate to ask, the words formed out of his mouth. “Why
would Voldemort want to… do that to Cynthia?
Isn’t she a pure-blood?” And just a little
girl…
A
smile spread across Malfoy’s face, so cold a shiver
in the spine made Harry shake his shoulders. “Oh yes, she was very
pure-blooded, direct descendant of the grand Malfoy family,” he worded in
mockery. Only then did Harry notice Malfoy had very pink lips, when all the colour faded away from
them before he said, “Cynthia had no magic in her. She was what the less
polite would call a Squib.”
Malfoy
closed his eyes as he increasingly seemed to lose his composure. He
added, “it seems these days the Dark Lord doesn’t find
Muggles, Mudbloods or even
grown-ups, for that matter, good enough to satisfy his blood-thirsty
self. These days it has to be a little girl.” Malfoy opened his
eyes, “Potter,” he looked at Harry with eyes full of melancholy edged with
desolation and whispered, “just a little girl.”
Harry
felt a pang in his heart at hearing his own words been given a new meaning in Malfoy’s voice. He felt the sides of his mouth begin
curling downwards, even when he tried to smile. Harry unlocked his eyes
from Malfoy’s and looked elsewhere trying to avoid
the pain. He wasn’t sure if it was intentional, but he felt Malfoy’s hand come up to tuck his white-blond hair behind
his ear. Malfoy left his hand there, touching Harry’s chest, right on the
spot where his aching heart was. Harry felt warmer in an instant.
“Malfoy,
why did you come to me?” Harry finally asked. His back was still
sore from the two times he was thrown against trees. He remembered the
creepy words after the punch that started it all: “That was for Cynthia,”
then the spell, and finally the impossible plea.
Malfoy
placed his hand on his own chest, on top of Harry’s. If Harry hadn’t
known better the gesture would’ve been one of reassurance. But coming
from him it could mean anything at all. Malfoy pondered, and then
answered.
“As
soon as I got the letter I knew I had to talk to you.” Malfoy appeared
unable to explain it himself, “I was positively angry at Harry Potter for
bringing the Dark Lord back to life.” Harry was surprised at how
different his tone of voice was than before. It was still firm, but it
lacked the former tone of supreme self-confidence. “But at the same time
I hoped that you, of all wizards, would be able to make it right again.”
Harry
wished he could have. Throughout the years so many had come to him with
blind faith, asking impossible favours, seeking the
great Harry Potter, expecting a hero, a saviour and
even an almighty god. He let them down every time. All indicated he
had made no difference with Malfoy. Only this time he
wanted it as much as the other party, and still he hadn’t made anything better.
Malfoy
retrieved his hand and stood up. “We should get back to the castle.”
Harry
was disappointed, but he promptly stood up in front of him. He felt his
stomach lurch and knew it wasn’t hunger. He let his sight wander around
the ground but looked up when Malfoy spoke.
“I’d
appreciate if you didn’t mention this to anyone.”
Even
though Harry had expected this, he wished he had made a difference to
Malfoy. He felt warm of embarrassment for being so naive.
“Yes,
of course,” there was nothing else Harry could say.
Malfoy
lowered his head to one side. He looked confident reading Harry’s
expression, studying feelings, inferring meanings. He then stepped closer
and raised a hand to his face. Harry didn’t move, curious as he was about
his intentions. Malfoy stretched his index and brushed it against the tip
of his nose. His touch was movingly gentle.
Malfoy’s
voice was low and challenging, “I’ll have to tell you all about Cynthia.”
He stared at Harry grinning slightly, so long he made
Harry blush. Then he stepped back, turned around and walked back to the
castle.
Harry
looked back at the clearing. Something was different. The water had
washed all things clean. Dew shone brightly under the afternoon
light. The battling sunbeams were there again, no longer aggressive but
almost agreeably creating the artwork of before. The whole atmosphere had
a certain shade of green that was almost optimistic. A
promise of change. All looked better after the rain.
Author
notes:
Dedicated to Ricardo, who introduced me to the rain.
-
The quote from the beginning is part of ‘Moody’s Mood For
Love’ by James Moody, lyrics by Eddie Jefferson.
-
Whenever it rained my best friend Ricardo always said “rain washes all things
clean.”
-
“A Certain Shade of Green” is a song by Incubus, which is indisputably the best
band out there.
I
took some literary licence on the weather. It
could happen…
Beta
Credits: Thanks to the lovely and watchful LadyKate,
the ever-demanding Yuki (love ya), brit-picker Aleph for a scarily accurate beta, Jenny for
her to-the-point comments and pre-beta giggles, lostgrl
for putting up with AOL to beta me :P and Nanashi for her wonderful enthusiasm. Special Thanks
to Michael for the awesome summary. But most especially to (my)
The_Chap656, who is not into slash but still nit-picked every single word from
the beginning and then spent a late evening brain-storming with me.
Without your support I would still be moping over my mistakes.