The rain is a constant companion these days, as if Nature can feel the temperament of the wizarding world, and is trying her best to match it.

It has been literally weeks since anyone can recall seeing a bit of blue sky. It can’t be called a thunderstorm, as the thunder and lightning needed for one are absent. No, the weather simply consists of heavy, gray clouds shrouding the sun, and endless sheets of raindrops earnestly falling in a dance created by bitterly cold gales of wind.

Hogwarts, for all it’s magical protections, is unprepared for the dreary weather. Tiny rivulets of water wind their way through cracks in the windows and become puddles on the floors, causing Filch to storm about with a mop in his hand and a sneer on his lips. The courtyards, usually peaceful and quiet, are filled with the dull roar of rain hitting stone walkways. And all the fires in the school can’t keep the damp feeling out of the air.

Hermione Granger is tired of it.

She stands at one of the few windows without a leak, looking over one of the many soaked courtyards. Though in the past she would have said that she loved the rain, the feelings of melancholy that days upon days of it inspire are uncomfortable and unwanted. She can feel the depression sinking into the castle itself with each passing moment, and she somewhat despairingly wonders if it will ever end.

It doesn’t help that all the depression does is bring more thoughts of him. Of everything that can’t be while the war is going on, though the logical part of her knows it probably wouldn’t work even if circumstances were different. Of if the next meeting he attends will be his last. The fear, the worry that she feels for him grips at her chest in a moment of panic, though she knows he is currently safe inside the walls of the school.

As if on cue, the subject of her musings appears at the end of the hallway, a few feet from where she stands. He seems unsure of how to react to her presence, but settles for standing silently next to her at the window, a dark presence in the corner of her eye.

Several long minutes pass without a word spoken, though the sound of rain hitting glass keeps the moment from lapsing into silence.

“It will end,” he says softly, and she knows that he means more than the rain.

“I know,” she answers.

They don’t look at each other, but she is comforted by the small exchange. Nothing more is spoken, but words aren’t needed. After what could have been as long as years or as short as seconds, she feels his strong hand grip hers.

A gentle squeeze is given, and then her hand released.

“Soon,” he murmurs. He takes a step back almost instantly, his dark form turning the corner at the end of the hall before she can blink to leave her again to her thoughts. Soon, indeed. The chances of this ending well, of the rain stopping and a clear blue sky appearing so that they can walk in it together, are slim to none. His role as a spy is too dangerous, and her role as the best friend of The Boy Who Lived is just as precarious. One or the other will be hurt in this war, and they both know it. Soon, something will change.

He doesn’t see it, but she nods, watching a raindrop streak down the windowpane.

Had she a mirror, she would have been sadly pleased to see that it matches the tear on her cheek.


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Fin
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