In London, coming up the steps from the Picadilly Line, rain hits sideways with a vicious slur of sleet. Commuters wear black. Umbrellas jostle over dirty, oil-rainbowed puddles.
Draco's hair is dark, smooth to the fine bones of his skull, and clasped under the shelter of Harry's overcoat his hand is wet and cold. Rain washes away betrayal without stain, a stinging vow of temporary anonymity. Harry, reckless, says, "Come home with me."
Sideways under the arch curve of his eyelashes, Draco glances back.
"Don't make promises you can't keep," he says.
Blue sky above the clouds. Nothing lasts forever.