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Draco was like the rain. When it rained Draco would leave the house with no coat, and he would always sit cross-legged on the furthest bench in the rain, not caring that it soaked his clothes and sank right through his skin. Not caring if it was bitter or warm, like bullets or feathers, just as long as no one could see him cry. Just as long as no one could see the little brooks and creeks that formed in his eyes and ran their course down his cheeks. Just as long as no one saw the salt water droplets as they dripped from his chin and soaked his hands just that little bit more. Just as long as no one saw him dissolve, blur in between the raindrops and become no more than a haze. Become a blot on the landscape, sitting alone with nothing to keep him company, but the ever-present falling of the rain. The rain was a comfort when there was no one else, it held his hands when no one would, stroked his hair, and touched his face, kept him safe, and made him feel as though something loved him when it felt like no one else could stand him. It let him be young, with no responsibilities and no memories, for just a moment he could be without a past and without a future, suspended in a single moment that they called the present. For just a few hours he could be a child, and cry in the rain; cry for his mother and his father, cry for past and his future, cry simply because he didn’t know what else to do. It gave him a space to try and find out what he was and what he wanted to be, with nothing to keep him company, but the ever-present falling of the rain. As the rain ran down, saturating every crease and every curve of his skin, he felt as though his troubles were washing away, that with the water all his problems could percolate out through his skin, that every weakness and every sin was vanishing into the soil, and once again he could be cleansed. It was easier to let out all the emotions that built up inside him when no one could see. Far easier to cry alone in the rain than to sob in his room and have to listen to his mother listening in. Out here when the rain was pouring, he could cry as loudly and as hopelessly as he liked, because no one would ever hear him. Out here there was nothing to be scared of, and no one to fear because he sat alone with nothing to keep him company, but the ever-present falling of the rain. Draco also liked the world when it rained for different reasons. There was a beauty to it that seemed to be so rarely appreciated, and that thought alone resonated with something deep inside him. This side of nature knew what it was like to be ignored. So, he appreciated it, appreciated it more than most people. In particular, he liked how the flowers drooped and the leaves on the trees sank deeper in the air. He liked how the world seemed to sag under the weight of the clouds, because then when the sun returned from its sojourn behind the grey, everything would lift its head to bask in the yellow glow. That was what Draco thought was beautiful, seeing the dampened colours return to the world, the droplets of water starting to shine and become a glaze on the petals. To hear the animals that had hidden slowly return to the world. The chirps of small birds as they pecked the ground, eating all the insects that had emerged when they heard the telling pitter-patter on the ground. Draco just sat and watched nature take its course, with nothing to keep him company, but the ever-present falling of the rain. Perhaps the best part though was the butterflies. Draco had always liked to watch the butterflies. When he was young and his grandfather had still been alive, they’d sat together for hours here, just watching. He’d sit and point out every butterfly that he saw, and his grandfather would smile and say its name. There was so many. Always flittering about, landing on the flowers that bowed under their weight, then flying off again, freeing themselves of the world. Draco would have been lying if he said he hadn’t, and he didn’t still, want to be a common blue. To hover on the daisies and dance on the daffodils and then disappear to wherever butterflies went. He’d always wanted his own pair of silver-blue wings, and maybe he’d had them once, but if he had, they’d been pulled off a long time ago. So, he sat alone in the drizzle with nothing to keep him company, but the ever-present falling of the rain. Harry was like the sun. When the sun shone Harry would leave the house with no coat, and he would sit cross-legged on the grass, staring at the sky. The yellow rays were so soothing on his face, like a balm of honey, it smoothed over the wounds made by memories. Harry liked the sun because it brought back happy memories, it let him think of a time when he was too young to know of all the bad things in the world, when he was too young to be scared and too innocent to understand. He liked the sun because it reminded him that there was goodness left somewhere in humanity’s twisted heart, that beneath all the grey sickness, there was something warm and safe; a sweetness that drifted through the air and lingered at the end of every thread of light. Harry really could sit for hours on the grass with nothing to keep him company, but the ever-present glow of the sun.The sun was a comfort when there was no one else in the world. The sun was the one to hold his hand, to paint the world a thousand ways, each more beautiful than the last. There were so many ways the sun could be, hot on his face in the mid-afternoon, or cool and quiet like a shy lover in the morning. When that yellow radiance was heavy on his face he felt as though he didn’t need a past, and that his future could be of his own making. In those moments he no longer believed he had to be defined by what had been, and by what he had done. Then, when the sun was low, he genuinely felt like his future was his, to forge and that he could really do whatever he liked with his life. It was one of the lies he wished was true. But instead he sat with his fingers twisted in the grass, with nothing to keep him company, but the ever-present glow of the sun.As the sun slid down, staining balmy streaks down his cheeks, Harry felt happy. For the sun let him be alone, gave him an excuse to leave his life and just lie by himself. Everyone thought that being the hero was the end of it, that winning could somehow undo all the pain that he experienced along the way. It wasn’t that people were intentionally ignorant, it was just they didn’t understand. They wanted to forget the past, to dance under the sun because finally the equilibrium of the world had been restored, the rain that had blurring the surface of the lakes had stopped, and finally, reality’s true reflection could be seen. Harry sighed. He didn’t want the world to go back to what it had been, but neither did he want to see the world move on, not when wasn’t ready for it to yet. So, Harry just sat under the sky, hoping, with nothing to keep him company, but the ever-present glow of the sun.Harry also liked the world dipped in sun for different reasons. The sun made the world beautiful, especially at dawn. As the sun slid into the world, it thawed through the moon’s cool gaze, set everything ablaze in the best of ways. The sun encouraged all animals equally, invited everyone to sit and play, to simply lie there under the rays and enjoy the present. There was not a thing in the world that didn’t look better slicked with the sun, the beams curling into highlights and shadows, a thousand more colours than anyone could imagine. For in the sun’s light there was not just yellow, but also traces of pink, and cream, and orange and every shade of gold. Under the sun the world glistened and glittered and gleamed, and Harry was reminded that there were still good things here. Good things that he could enjoy when he stood watching the horizon alone, with nothing to keep him company, but the ever-present glow of the sun.Perhaps the best part though was the butterflies. As the sun peaked through the clouds, the butterflies came out from their hiding places, appeared from under the leaves and between the bark of the tallest trees. Harry had always loved the butterflies, loved them ever since he was little. He’d always imagined being a small tortoiseshell butterfly with rusty wings that had blue lacing at the edges. He’d always dreamed of having those delicate wings attached to his back so that he could fly away from responsibilities, hide from the reality of what the world needed him to be. Butterflies had no obligations, no duties, no expectations that had to be fulfilled. Butterflies could do as they liked, be as they liked, and no one would ever say otherwise. That was why Harry liked to watch them flutter so freely, with nothing to keep him company, but the ever-present glow of the sun. Between them, there was something beautiful.They found each other between the rain and the sun. When there was enough warmth to tempt Harry from his solitude, and enough water to drag Draco from his silence, and they met on the path to nowhere in particular. A simple trail through the fields and trees marked only by well-trodden grass and arrows carved into the bark. There had been no one else, no one at all, each was accompanied by an empty companion made of nothing tangible. The rain held Draco’s hand and seemed to walk by his side as a friend to quell the loneliness. The sun wrapped a gentle beam around Harry’s waist and seemed to lean on his shoulder, being the person, he didn’t know he needed. They met in the middle of the trail and Harry sat on the grass, not caring that it was damp, and Draco sat on the bench, not caring that the sun warmed it. Sitting there, they listened to the rain and the birds and the breeze sliding through the wildflowers, and the world seemed calmer than it had before. Each of them was contented in the quiet, simply because they now had more than the rain, and more than the sun; they now had one another to keep them company.They met again on that trail and Draco introduced Harry to the rain. Taught him to sit and just feel it washing over him, cleansing from the inside out, finally allowing him to let go of all those things that knotted themselves together in his stomach. Together they would stare into the endless ashen sky and feel the pattering of raindrops, reminding them that they were alive, that they were living breathing beings that had pasts and had futures, but most importantly had the present. Harry learnt to understand the rain, the way it could pull the deepest darkest emotions from the back his throat, how, the heavier the rain was, the easier it dislodged all the terrible feelings that had slowly built up inside him. He learnt that Draco had found such a sweet solace under the water, such a peace of mind, an outlet for everything he couldn’t show anyone. He recognised much of himself in Draco then, the same sadness but for different things, the same fear of expectations, but at the same time, they were different in the best ways. Even soaked by the rain, Draco looked composed, serene if only tainted by sadness. Nonetheless, it was under the rain that they first smiled at each other and meant it, for they now had more than the rain, and more than the sun; they now had one another to keep them company.When they met again, Harry brought Draco out into the sun. Pulled him down onto the grass by the pond and showed him all the colours the water could become when a single ray of sunlight glimmered over the surface. Showed him that the sun was a kaleidoscope through which to view the world, it made it more vivid, more vibrant, more visual. Together they would look out and see the horizon haze under the glare, see the trees and the flower flush as though they were complimented on their natural beauty by a hundred suitors. Draco learnt, under Harry’s careful guidance, that the sun could hold him, could warm him, could keep him safe, just as well as the rain. The rays could stroke his cheek and somehow tell him that he was doing fine, that he needn’t worry for the world’s future, only for himself. Draco admired what Harry had found lying in plain sight, the soothing simplicity of the golden glow of his back was ineffable, an indefinably wonder that he would be forever grateful for. He understood then, that they were similarities between them that he had never seen before: they both found support in nature and sought out the weather to solve their deepest problems. They both trusted some greater power with their lives; and wished for both more and less than what they had been given. But under the sun he no longer had to worry so much, only appreciate Harry, only hold his hand and smile, knowing they now had more than the rain, and more than the sun; they now had one another to keep them company.As much as they loved each other’s weather though, there was never a better time to be sitting together, hands entangled, than when they were sitting under the trees, with a gentle haze of water spreading over the horizon, and the beams of gold shining down from above. For it was then that light refracted, split itself open on the pretty droplets and spread out through the world. Harry said it was physics, but Draco still believed it was magical. A precious moment where light proved that it was not afraid of what it was, that it was not afraid of the past or the future, and that only thing that mattered was the present. Between the sun and the rain, a rainbow hung in the sky, framing the forests and trees and all the nature in the world. A bright reminder, a symbol of hope, of the current, of the things that could be. When the rainbow stood intense against the gloom, their hands had squeezed a little tighter, reminded themselves that this was the equipoise of their existence, the perfect balance between the sun and the rain. This was how it was meant to be. Neither stopped the other from pressing their lips together because neither of them wanted to. Both were content to kiss under the sun and the rain and the refracted light; tasting each other’s mouths, feeling the rain-damp lips, and sun-washed skin. Clunking their teeth together, and laughing at their own clumsiness, not worrying for once about the future because they now had more than the rain, and more than the sun; they now had one another to keep them company.Together they would sit and watch the butterflies as they flew under the grey-gold sky. They could watch for hours their delicate wings, that they both understood they didn’t need for themselves anymore, as long as they had each other. Once a pretty little butterfly had landed between them once, hiding under the umbrella from the gentle drizzle of rain. That became their butterfly, the speckled wood. Unassuming when its wings were closed, but every so pretty when it deigned to show its true colours. When it felt safe enough to show the world who it was, and who it could be. Perhaps they took it to mean more than it was, a signal and a sign of what they wanted to be true, but that didn’t stop them. Holding hands under the trees watching their butterfly skimming just above the grass, wet with the haze but glowing under the sun, they knew that they now had more than the rain, and more than the sun; they now had one another to keep them company.