Summer Rain

Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.

Summer Rain

It's six o'clock, and his workday is finally over. He stands up at the last stroke of the clock and tidies his desk with deliberate movements: he doesn't want to reveal how much he loathes his job, though he suspects it is no secret to anybody. When every item has been placed on its designated spot, he fastens his grey pinstriped jacket and heads toward the door. There isn't any sense in saying 'Good-bye', because no one ever answers, but he says it anyway. He hopes that his incessant politeness irritates the hell out of his coworkers. That thought amuses him; those halfwits deserve to be annoyed. It's his little payback for almost two years of being ignored.

The shadow of a smirk is still on his lips when he steps outside. Surprisingly, it's raining, even though the afternoon sun is still shining brightly through a cluster of white clouds. He hesitates on the granite stairs, watching the heavy drops bombarding the pavement. Judging by the number of puddles, it has been raining for quite some time. Fuck! He has just realised that he hasn't brought an umbrella.

Drawing a sigh, he wonders whether he should cast a shielding charm. Then he remembers that there are still three days until the end of the month, and he's still on the limited magic program. He doesn't want to violate his parole. Ire clasps his throat, but he calms himself. It'll be over soon, after all. Two more months are nothing by comparison with what he's been through already.

He unbuttons his jacket, carefully folds it over his arm, and steps onto the pavement. The streets aren't very crowded, and he makes his way easily. Soon, his white shirt and his shoes are drenched, but he doesn't mind because the rain is warm and the sensation is oddly soothing. Childishly, he sticks out his tongue and catches one of the raindrops. The sweet taste pleases him, and he does it again and again, paying no attention to where he's going.

Eventually, the inevitable happens—he collides with someone, who falls with a splash and a muffled yelp. He looks down, his apology already on the tip of his tongue, and freezes. It's her—the witch he knows so well, too well. Brilliant, he thinks. He's managed to land the war heroine in the deepest puddle in the alley. Simply fantastic! For Merlin's sake, can't he catch a fucking break for once?

She sits on the pavement, amid the running water, and stares at him with wide-open eyes. He notices that she's barefoot, and her white feet look unusually small against the black stone. Muttering an apology, he extends a hand towards her, but she just keeps staring at him, without moving a muscle. She doesn't trust him, of course. Why on earth should she trust a former Death Eater on parole? He should be thankful that she hasn't called for the Aurors. To be fair, though, he doubts that she will set the Aurors on him. She's one of the people who are nice to him. No, that's not right. Who does he think he's kidding? She's the only one who tolerates his presence and treats him with courtesy, the only one who actually talks to him.

His thoughts interrupted by a splash, and he's suddenly much wetter than before. She seems to have gone bonkers and splashed him with water from the puddle. His eyes bulge with surprise as he gapes at her smiling face.

"What the hell, Granger?" he hears himself saying, and cringes. He doesn't want to sound rude—it just somehow always happens when she's around. But she looks unruffled by his words. Instead of answering, she laughs and splashes him again.

Bonkers, absolutely bonkers! Or drunk! "Stop it, Granger!" he says. "Here, take my hand. I haven't got all day."

At last, still giggling, she comes to her senses, says, "All right, Malfoy!" and takes his hand. He pulls her upward, but something goes very wrong: he loses his footing and ends up in the same puddle, on top of her. By now, she's laughing hysterically. He ought to feel annoyed, but she's so close to him, too close for him to be anything but super-aware of her. Her curls tickle his nose, her wet dress clings to her, just like his shirt to him, and there is barely anything between their bodies. She feels so warm and soft beneath him—it's maddening, really. Then her laughter suddenly stops, and he notices that she's staring at him again, though with something different glowing in her eyes.

Alarmed by his reaction, he scrambles to his feet with a grunt, tugging her along. After a few awkward acrobatics, both of them are upright, though they are still standing in the puddle, in the middle of the deserted alley. For a while, they gaze at each other in silence.

"I think your shoes are goners, Malfoy," she says abruptly. "Take them off: it's nice and warm."

"You are mad! It's wet and dirty. And you've ruined my suit!" he says, but he takes his shoes off, though it's against his better judgement. As it happens, though, she's right—his shoes are goners, and the stone under his feet really is nice and warm. Why is she always right?

"Walk with me, Malfoy," she says and takes his hand.

"I'd better go home," he says, but he follows her. They walk for hours, and he doesn't notice when his hand snakes itself around her waist. But he notices when her lips press themselves against his, and he kisses her back, sensing a slight taste of wine on her tongue. Drunk and bonkers, he thinks, but he doesn't stop. He wants everything she's offering, whether she's drunk and bonkers or not.

Her madness seems to be contagious, and soon she makes him go berserk as well. He Apparates them to the Manor, parole status be damned. It's all her fault anyway, and perhaps the rain's, as well. His eyes register the silhouette of his mother in a dim corner of the living room, and he knows that there will be talk in the morning. He doesn't care.

The morning sun wakes him, and he finds her still asleep in his bed. Quietly sneaking from under the covers, he grabs his trousers and makes it to the corridor. The breakfast room is bright, and his mother is already there, her morning cup of tea in her hand. "How long is Miss Granger going to stay?" she says, spreading marmalade on her toast.

"Forever, I hope," he says. He picks up a few slices of toast and hurries back to his bedroom. The sound of a stifled gasp and the crash of breaking china reach his ears. Mum's just broken her favourite cup, he thinks. Pity.