tw: This chapter has mentions of abuse and emotional trauma, as well as sexual content. Read with caution.
Rain. Just like the gloomy weather that almost nobody seemed to care for. The murky, cold, dreadful precipitation that dragged down moods and made you feel like the greatest depression of your life was weighing down on your shoulders when you saw a glimpse of it.
There are a few positives to rain. It is essential for life. It provides us with hydration and proper nutrients, because everything that lives and breathes on this planet needed water to stay alive— even Muggles.
But it's very rare that rain only comes and goes in showers. Most of the time it's just the annoying storm that just won't go away. It doesn't know when to stop or give it up. It can't leave if it isn't finished emptying itself on to other people... And an excessive amount of it just leaves you with risks and damage. Flooding, leaks, accidents, landslides...
No one in their right mind really likes rain. The few people that do love it— like genuinely, whole heartedly love it— are just as fucked up as the world we have been forced to live in. Those people are convinced it brings them peace because of the rhythm it patters the ground with. Some people claim it's lucky— ha! I pity the fools... They say they like the fresh smell and how the sensation of it touching their soft skin feels...
"Fuck, Rain-"
I suppose that is a statement I can't argue with. Some people thoroughly enjoy the sensation...
"Keep going, love. Just like that." His head fell back against the wooden door with a thud— just like it had every other time he was shoving his dick so far down my throat, tears would stream down my face and my throat would contract to try and rid itself of the unaccustomed feeling.
But, from my own personal experience—those are the only real positives that anyone can ever list. I have lived with the hatred that everyone feels towards rain every day. Nothing but anger, sadness, a sense of disappointment, a longing for something brighter and less depressing, and if you stay out in it for too long, you get sick.
People curse at the rain for how much it ruins their lives— ruins their plans. It brings nothing but negativity anywhere it goes.
My mother was too optimistic for the rest of the world. She saw the positive sides of anything. Maybe that's why they killed her as a punishment for her actions— because she really was a beacon of light that hateful people sought to destroy.
She was one of few people that believed in rain having a better meaning than anyone gave it credit for. She thought by naming me after it, she could help people realize the beauty of the dangerous and hideous form of weather.
Physically, she did. I grew into a beautiful girl that should be grateful for my stunning features. My father had reminded me of that every fucking time I could smell his bourbon breath from a hallways length away.
Now, before you jump to that conclusion, the answer is no. No, my father never raped me or was the kind of guy that "played games" with me when the drinking consumed him. He abused me in any way that you could imagine, but thank God sexually was where he drew the line. (Unfortunately, I tend to only be so sarcastic in my head. I learned to "shut my fucking mouth" about 6 years ago when my jaw was slapped so hard that the portraits in the hall of our manor even gasped at the noise.)
Don't worry about it though, because while growing up I fell under the basic description of beauty and brains, so that meant that I could feel like I was worth something in this world. The brains portion was something my father used as a tool in his handbag. "You think your kid is smart? Wait 'til you hear about the marks my little Raindrop received last term." Just another trophy in his case that he polishes to show off to those around him.
Until the doors shut and the candles and lanterns blew out, then the brains were suddenly a problem. "I was a smartass." He would say. "Someone who thought they knew more than him," and in his mind, no one knew more than he did— except for the Dark Lord who he held a shrine for in what I always assumed was supposed to be a chapel in our ancient home. A home that had been around for too many generations and was up-kept by so many wards and house-elves.
The other half of the brains could be used to his advantage— it was the elephant memory that I was blessed with. "Well, if you'd rather bitch about all the things I require of you than actually do them, I can just teach you a lesson like I did last night." He'd seethe at me.
In 16 years, I never forgot a single lesson.
If I was luckier, my brains and intelligence would've spoken to the sorting hat when I was eleven-years-old and that dingy old thing would have stuck me in Ravenclaw instead of Slytherin. But I wasn't lucky. Nor was I brave considering how I cowered away from my father's hands and accepted my lessons instead of kicking back and fighting— so Gryffindor was also out of my radar.
Maybe it was because I had walked in to the Great Hall that night with the group of prestigious boys that I had known for as long as I could remember, or just the fact that I checked off most of the prejudiced boxes that people made up about the house of green and silver:
Pure blooded like Salazar himself intended— check.
Determined... to find a life better than this one some day... — check.
Came from a heritage of Death Eaters— check.
Had the name Rookwood pinned as my surname— check.
Back to the topic that didn't entirely involve my sorry excuse for a sperm donor— my mother. Like I had said, she nailed a few of the marks on the head when she argued for months with my father about naming me Rain. The "beauty" and "positives." She also hit the nail on the head with the negatives... I think she accidentally saddled me with a curse when she held me in her arms for the first time on October 31st, 1979 and she greeted me with the name while lightning cracked across the sky outside the window. The day of my birth was when I became someone destined for a life full of disappointment and servitude towards others no matter how battered and bruised I would be or would feel.
"I'm so close. Just a little further, Ray." The grip on my hair tightened and his panting and uncontrolled moans were almost as loud as my gagging. My thumbs rubbed circles over his cream-colored skin while I held on to his hips in both of my hands. The little twitch they did before he gave a slight buck down my tongue let me know that I had him right where he wanted to be— on the edge of total destruction.
I loved when I held him on edge sometimes— just so I could hold on to a little sliver of what it feels like to have control over my actions for once in my life. I enjoyed that I was capable of being what made him feel this good— so fucking good. That he always wanted my mouth wrapped around him, that I was who he wanted to bury himself into, and that I was who he devoted his time to— if I was being good. It shouldn't have felt so good to belong to someone, but in times like the one we were sharing right now, it did.
I tilted my head back slightly to look up at him through my lashes. It was so simple— stupid even— that it always worked as well as it did. Just a flutter of my lashes while he watched me take as much of his length into my sore mouth as I could would send him into orbit every time. Men. Sometimes it's too easy.
The muffled music outside the door was cheering me on while I tasted that first trickle of victory slide down my throat. I wasn't sure whose eyes had rolled back into their head first, but his grunts of sweet release made me feel like I was the one who had reached an orgasm. His shaking thrusts into my throat muffled my whimpers and I swallowed his load willingly.
"So fucking good," Graham grumbled as he pulled himself from my throat and let go of my hair. I gasped when I could finally feel my jaw again. His thumb wiped the trail of slobber from my chin as my innocent eyes drooped from exhaustion. He bent down and lifted my tired self from the floor by my elbows and sealed off our moment with a kiss on my damp forehead. "Pull my pants up for me, baby. I want to go back down to the party now that I sobered up." His voice was tired, but it was gentle. I did as he asked and pulled the fabrics up his thighs before I tightened his belt back around his waist for him.
No words were exchanged between the two of us as he pulled me back towards the common room from his dorm by our interlocked fingers. The lights strobed and my head spun a little as I let Graham maneuver us to the couches. My raw throat only stung more from the smoke that was dragging through the air, and part of me wished I couldn't smell the sweat that was infusion itself with it from the bodies grinding against each other on the dance floor.
We followed the same routine we followed every other week. We had already been here and had been drinking once, Graham got horny and decided he needed to be let off, we had barely entered his room before he had me pushed to my knees and he was forcing himself into my mouth, and then we end up right back here with our fellow housemates and Graham places another cup of liquid courage in my hand for me to send down the hatch.
"That round was shorter than the one you had last weekend. Either she's that good, or you are just a two-pump-chump." Theodore Nott teased from the opposite couch. I sat on Graham's lap and just stared at the brunette that was smirking at me. I stopped feeling embarrassed a long time ago when anyone would mention the disappearances my boyfriend and I would take.
I learned quickly that it wasn't my place to say anything towards the comments or to try and get them to stop. If Graham wanted the whole world to know that he had just fucked me, then they would. And I would remain silent if I didn't want another bruise to cover across my ribs.
"She can only gag on the tip so many times before I can't help but finish down her fucking throat." Graham laughed menacingly while he gripped my hip with a sort of claim. One that I could thank my father for. After a disagreement with the Montague's, daddy dearest had to form some sort of balance that would get him off the hook, and it just worked out that me being stuck with Graham for the rest of my life was pleasing enough for his family to let our differences go.
16 years old and already entangled in an arranged marriage situation. 'Til death do us fucking part.
I chugged down the whiskey in my cup to keep my tongue from spitting out a comment that would get me in trouble later. Like I said, I'm usually only so sarcastic in my head. For all these boys had known for the last year was that I was good in bed— thanks to descriptive stories that Graham shared with no remorse— and that I was extremely good company because it was rare that my mouth even uttered a word. The perfect girlfriend that every man wishes for.
I had indulged a little too much in tonight's rounds of recreational activities. My eyes were closed while Graham laughed with his friends over words that I couldn't process in my distorted brain. It was a state between sleeping and being a functional member of society— that's where I was residing.
"Graham, I need to use the bathroom." I sighed through the slur of words as I sat up straight. "I think you need to take me. I drank too much." I mumbled as I rubbed my eyes to wake up just a little more.
"You're seriously so fucking incapable that you can't find your way to the bathroom alone?" He mocked me with a laugh. Making fun of me was one of the best jokes he had for his friend's entertainment— and they ate that shit up every single time.
They used to be my friends, I guess. Until a few years ago when they caught on to what my father constantly pointed out— I wasn't a boy like they were, I wasn't an heir, and I wouldn't fall into the same line of work. I didn't fit in any more.
"Silly me. Forgot what a raging moron I am. I'll be back in a few minutes." My tired voice responded dryly, and his hand caught my wrist in a tight hold when I tried leaving. He didn't have to speak what he was thinking because the way he was touching me was enough to say every word. Sometimes my drunken mind slips, the comments come out on their own, and Graham just secretly informed me with the look in his eye that I would be hurting tomorrow.
"Hurry back." He faked sincerity as he let go.
I wish that I still felt fear when he looked at me that way, but it was such a common occurrence that shrugging it off was my body's natural instinct anymore. The boys' laughter swarmed my ears while they all watched me stagger and struggle across the floor. If the room wasn't so dark— and wasn't spinning in my head— this wouldn't have been as exhausting. But every step I took was slower and slower than the last, and the push of the crowd against me almost knocked me another two steps back. I just want some fucking air.
The wooden door in front of me could have went to a number of places, but if my sober mind was telling my drunken mind the right information, this should be a bathroom. But the uncertainty continued to deceive me and I just stared at the wood while it stared back at me for another minute or two. When the wood moved at me and finally hit me— a trick I thought my mind was playing on me until I felt the thud— a gasp came from the opposite side while I played it off.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know someone was out here." She apologized in a quick voice with wide eyes. She was blonde, and she was pretty, but she also looked like every other girl in our house. One that tried really hard for desperate attention and she threw herself at the boys to give it to her. While I would rather run away from it. My quick scan of her with my eyes caught the hickeys on her neck, and I let out a single laugh.
"It's okay. I think a door hitting me isn't the worst thing that will happen tonight." I foreshadowed, but she'd never understand the attempt of a sick joke. No one would. Because Graham Fucking Montague was perfect and knew how to keep his punching bag hidden so that no one even knew what he was capable of.
She left after that with another preppy smile as her final apology, and it was sad that sometimes I longed for that sort of look to cross my face so I could just feel like the other girls. Oh to worry about if my eyeliner is smudging under my eyes rather than if my concealment charms will last long enough to hide my beaten skin.
I huffed out my breath and grabbed the handle of the door to steady my nausea. Now that I made it to the bathroom, I had lost hope of even finding my way back to the common room. A swift pull of the door and a step forward led me to the hard chest of another who I assumed was trying to leave the girl's restroom. But the toned chest muscles that practically knocked the wind out of me from how solid they were definitely didn't belong to a girl— just the distributer of the blonde's hickeys and Merlin knew what other treatments.
"Rookwood." His voice was calculated and stiff while he gave me a half-assed excuse of a greeting. That's just how he was. Too worried about himself to care about anyone around him and too reserved to have any real friends— just acquaintances that he would drop when we were out of school next year.
"Malfoy." I think that's how the word sounded when it had left my lips. It could've slurred into something similar, but I didn't care either way.
"You don't usually get like this. You're typically a little more reserved." He observed as he crossed his arms and leaned his shoulder against the doorway. "I knew you couldn't handle your liquor, but normally Montague has cut you off by now." He said flatly. Even at his own jokes, the kid doesn't smile anymore— not a real one at least. So cold and malicious. Eager to pounce at the opportunity to drag another down his road of miseries with him. He plays fair in life: If he suffers, everyone does.
"If you don't get out of the way, I think I'm going to piss on the floor." It was the only sentence I had said in 30 minutes that came out clearly. He took a step back and gestured for me to enter. "Graham's the one that gave me the drinks. It wasn't so much the number of them that did me in, just that they were more... potent than usual." I blabbed to him as I walked towards a stall. A lot of things were starting to confuse me— why I was so willing to talk to my hearts content to a classmate that I only associated with because his blood was as clean as mine, why Malfoy didn't throw out another sarcastic comment on his way out the door just to jab at me like his usual habits did, or why he never made his way out the door.
I ignored his presence while I stumbled myself around and sat down on the toilet to break the seal that I had been holding in for too long. Why does peeing while drunk always make the room feel like it is spinning in a 360? Maybe I was just really out of it since I thought I hadn't heard Draco leave the room. But when I flushed, unlocked the stall, and stepped out to wash my hands, he was now leaning back against the door and studying me.
"Can I help you? Or do you always stake out in here to listen to girl's pee during parties? Do you have a piss kink or something?" I asked him boldly, and his lips twitched up into a— I guess you could call it a smile—smile of surprise. He shook his head innocently as I crossed the room and used the sink.
My damaged presence in the mirror was hard to look at, so my eyes moved to the only other thing they were curious about: The blonde that stared back at me in the mirror from across the room with his head tilted and his eyes still narrowed. Watching.
"Tell Montague he should be a little more... tactical in his attempts next time. He's bound to get caught by the wrong person... and as much as I'd love to see him get in trouble, it's still a bit of an inconvenience for me if he's in detention. I don't know what secrets he wants out of you, but the Veritaserum is practically rolling off of your limbs." Malfoy warned as he finally stood up straight. I turned to look at him with a belligerent gaze as I tried to even make sense of his words.
"The potency in your drinks isn't because they're strong, Rook." He was teasing me now. Laughing at my expense. Just like every other boy that ran through the Slytherin, pureblooded circle ever did. I knew he wanted under my skin just by how casually he threw the old nickname out at me— like he didn't stop using it when he stopped being my friend at the age of 12. We were as good as strangers. Except we couldn't even count as that because we knew far too many details about the other.
He was in front of me now— directly in front of me. Way too close for my comfort as I backed into the ceramic sink to get away, but close enough for him to feel like he was doing something to me. I didn't like how his crystal clear eyes could see right through me or how hot his minty-bourbon breathing felt while it fanned over my face as he looked down at me. There was nothing pleasurable about it. He did what Malfoy was known best for— studying, watching, intimidating and observing. Stalking his prey like a killer animal.
"He has you on a truth serum. My guesses are that you did something behind his back, and he thinks you're lying to him about it." He said in a slower voice so I could comprehend his words in my delirious mind.
"I don't do anything behind his back because I know exactly what'll happen if I do." I told him matter-of-factly, and I stopped right there in my tracks. Not another word, Rain. Don't get yourself in any more trouble with Veritaserum in your veins.
"What happens? You get a cock shoved down your throat to teach you to behave?" He mocked like the statement was obscure. Like no one in their right mind would really punish their girlfriend over a concept so ridiculous. "Knowing the two of you, I'd figure you barely swallowed 2 drinks tonight before you were in his dorm swallowing his load like a slag." He laughed some more. Always kept around for entertainment.
"I better get going. Wouldn't want to leave Graham waiting. Maybe he needs me to swallow another load." I said in a bitter voice while I glared up at him. He had finally pinched a nerve like he intended. The Veritaserum didn't feel like it was controlling me nearly as much as his amberwood, pine, and green apple scent. The smell of Malfoy could choke me anywhere we went. It always had.
"You're a bit snippy tonight. A short temper doesn't suit you. I like it better when you're sober and barely say more than 3 words." He said in a hushed voice to build his intimidation. He placed his hands on the sink beside my hips and trapped me right where he needed me so he could strike. "Maybe your boyfriend slipped you the potion because he wants to ask why you haven't shut your filthy mouth tonight while his dick hasn't been in it." He had his lips right by my ear, and I shivered as my cheekbone grazed his cold chin. I leaned away from him until the ceramic pushed into my lower back, making me wince as it struck a half-healed bruise.
"You know what they say. When it rains, it fucking pours. Maybe my poor attitude is finally tired of being muzzled." I told him with a serious gaze. It wasn't that Malfoy scared me. No one scared me anymore. I had accepted that my hourglass would just simply run out of sand one day and I'd be free. It was the fact that he continued to get closer and closer to me that was making me crazy because I could not stand being touched anymore. Draco gave a dry laugh that didn't match his expression as he heard my response.
"Clever. So punny." He muttered with a snarl as he slowly stood up straight. "Don't say I didn't try to warn you. I'd just be careful what you let slip past those swollen lips of yours later when he starts interrogating you."
"I'll see you around, Malfoy." My voice was low as I cut the conversation off.
"Unfortunately." He stepped back and let me stumble past him without any other questions.