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Their hands are loosely intertwined, one tugging the other forward as they traverse the moonlit streets of muggle England. The air is steadily dropping a few degrees, cold against their skin- especially when the wind whips by. It feels wet, almost like the kiss of rain through their t-shirts and pants.
It is- rain that is. A slow stream of droplets that pitter-patter against the roofs and brick pavements in a nonsensical pattern. The sky is clear, devoid of but only a few clouds scattered atop them.
The streets are empty, empty of people either stowed safely away from the rain or underneath blankets and shops closed.
It's an emptiness they want to make a home in.
There is no shouting, no scathing glares and no excessive demands. It's just them, two strangers except to each other, lost in each other.
It's quiet.
It's peaceful.
----
Harry grins, unadulterated as the rain splatters against his glasses.
He could easily cast a charm- they both could to keep them dry. Except...it's been a while since Harry has felt the rain bearing down on him in a cold embrace- hasn't really allowed himself to. It meant being vulnerable and amongst memories of 4 Privet Drive, and the war. The memories tumble forth, erupting as the events of the past few days itch underneath his skin, threatening to crawl and splay themselves into the organ, marking themselves there with permanence. The lightening bolt scarred atop his forehead throbs in phantom reminder.
Days outside with a hand cupped around the falling drops to know something different, only his hands though because those were the easiest to dry. Nights curled under the cover of his ratty clothes piled atop in a makeshift blanket, trembling as the cupboard gets colder, the thump of drops louder.
Nights clutching Ron and Hermione as they try not to sob, the rain a cover to drown their thoughts quiet and the shaky breaths when lightning flashes and news comes. Days when they're soaked to the bone and they consider, for that brief moment, to stay waterlogged and rooted.
Draco squeezes their intertwined fingers when Harry stops, and he feels the roughness of callouses rub against the flesh of his own.
Can the rain mean something different?
Harry returns the gesture, his fingers almost frozen but the warmth and blood thrumming beneath Draco's pale skin is a grounding reminder. Amongst the blood staining both their hands- each other's a stain that never truly vanishes- they've lived and they've rebuilt.
The rain begins to pour heavier.
His glasses are covered with drops of rain and foggy, seeing only the vague outline of Draco, messy blond hair plastered to his face.
Harry wonders what face he makes when Draco steps closer and tugs them off, clumsily wiping the lens with his soaked shirt. There are streaks of water remaining, and Harry can, with how close they are, see Draco biting his tongue to keep from murmuring the incantation to spell it dry.
The magic that thrums in their veins, infinite and unyielding, sometimes- sometimes, it becomes impossible for sounds to shape. When those sounds begin to mean something else, where does it put them?
He can see, as Draco wrings the edge of his shirt dry, once again wiping the glass, the swirling vines of flowers and stars stretching upwards- narcissus and holly splayed over the dark mark, almost haloed by the dim streetlights feebly shining.
They can never truly avoid it either.
There are days when Harry wonders and regrets thinking he would've liked to be a muggle.
They don't talk about those days, the past where they became mangled with the weight of who they should be, molted down and over to what they should be- days when their last names became all they were and nothing more. Not the way they'd tumble past each other, a rare moment of solidarity, for the snitch, nor the frustrated harrumphs at homework and the lingering scent of potions. Not the warmth of the fireplaces or the view of the Great Squid flopping back and forth on a warm day.
Perhaps sensing his thoughts, Draco looks at Harry, piercing grey eyes, once harsh and stony, softer and with care, reflecting the orange of the streetlamp like the setting sun breaking through the clouds. They're past the violate days where they couldn't look at each other, unless an apology sat, heavy and lingering. Now, there's something of belonging, of acceptance to who they were, who they are and who they will be in the unknown future.
They're perhaps the only ones to bear witness to the worst parts of each other and also the best parts.
Draco's hands, forcefully steady against the slight shivers, slide the glasses gently behind Harry's ears, brushing stray strands away and out from his eyes.
Harry wonders how much Draco knows about him... how much he knows about Draco.
And Harry wonders and wonders, mind lost and swirling when Draco tugs him closer, his sneakers scraping against the uneven bricks slicked wet and presses a chaste kiss against his lips, tastes the hint of lemon and rain.
The rain continues, pouring now, and they stay, lost in each other, on the empty streets of muggle England, just Harry and Draco, two men who've lived.
We lived, Harry thinks, sniffling as tears and rain color his cheeks, clutching Draco closer to him.
And when Draco pulls him closer and then steps away, hand intertwined with Harry's and another settling onto his hip, Harry's fall into place onto Draco's waist.
They dance, movements soft and slow as the rain soaks them, the inkiness of night dotted with stars stretching even larger than they could ever be.
In that moment, they are insignificant- just two people waltzing in the rain with the sound of raindrops and the splash of their feet disrupting as their music.
We live, Harry thinks, tugging Draco closer and chasing his lips, smiling against quirked ones as they spin, water splashing against their pants. Laughter bubbles and there's a comfortable permanence that settles against Harry's skin when Draco continues to spin him, laughing and slipping alongside. It feels like home.
Harry desperately wants it etched to his being.
With Draco Lucius Malfoy, the insufferable git and horrible small talker who knows that he prefers the left side of the bed and hogs all blankets, by his side, conscious of him, Harry James Potter, who ends up spread starfish, blankets wounding haphazardly across his body, in the whole with no expectations to be The Boy Who Lived and Master of Death, Harry thinks of home, together.
In tandem with his musings, a huff of amusement breaths past Draco's lips as gentle, slightly pruned fingers brush wet and wayward strands away from his eyes.
"Let's go home."
----
In a lone England street, the rain continues pouring, beating against the cobblestones as the moon hesitantly peaks through the clouds, full bellied laughter ringing through the empty, haloed space.