One morning, Draco Malfoy woke up to find himself half-drowning. He sat up quickly, water running off the planes of his face as he tried to decipher the cause of this nocturnal aquatic apparition. He was in his private room at Hogwarts. Peeves did not appear to be in the vicinity. He looked up to see if perhaps his bed's canopy had developed a leak when he saw it.

Against all the laws of sense and probability, a tiny grey cloud was hovering just above his head, sending out an inexhaustible amount of rain.

"What the hell?" Not, perhaps, the most eloquent response, but it must be remembered that he had just been woken up. Wiping rain from his eyes, he fumbled under his soggy pillow until he found his wand, which thankfully hadn't yet been damaged by the moisture.

Several spells later, the best he'd been able to do was cast a waterproofing charm on himself. He scowled and the rain spattered even harder, turning his previously comfy bed into a swamp of damp linens. Snarling, he tugged on the bellpull that summoned a house-elf.

"Master Draco, you has wet the bed!" Dobby's concerned voice turned into a frightened squeak as Draco gave him a glare that would've made his father beam with pride, or as close to it as a Malfoy gets.

"Look, you stupid elf, there's not that much widdle in the universe, let alone my bladder!" Ignoring the somewhat defiant mutterings Dobby was making that sounded suspiciously like 'is too', Draco wrung out his pajamas before pointing up at the cloud. "What do you make of that?"

The elf's eyes went round and he disappeared with a pop, only to reappear with an umbrella. "Sir must be careful not to catch a cold. Master Draco has always had weak lungs." With a few snaps of the finger, Draco found himself sitting in a high backed chair with his feet in a bowl of hot water, a blanket wrapped around him, and the umbrella over his head. "Would sir like some chicken soup? Dobby will make it with the alphabet noodles sir likes."

"Oh, stop fussing, you stupid--" Draco scowled and threw the blanket off.

He was promptly quieted by a spoonful of pepper-up potion that tasted like cherry cordial. Wheedlingly, the elf said, "Dobby would also make sir gingerbread..."

Draco started to say something, then paused before saying, "The special kind, with the runes iced on?"

"Dobby would never leave them off, but first Master Draco must eat his soup like a good boy." With a grotesquely maternal smile, Dobby pushed a cup of hot soup into Draco's hands.

Pushing aside the little umbrella that kept the soup from being rained on, Draco took a big slurp. "Howsrdfthig?"

"Master must not talk with his mouth full!" trilled Dobby as he used a napkin to wipe a dribble of soup from Draco's chin.

"How do I get rid of this thing?" Draco enunciated, shoving Dobby's hands away so hard that he knocked the elf down.

With gravely offended dignity, he said, "Dobby is sure he does not know, sir. And now, Dobby must report back to the kitchens."

"What about my gingerbread?" Draco whined to the empty air, just before the umbrella collapsed under the weight of the water and soaked his blanket.

Some time later, after finishing his slightly watered down soup and putting on fresh clothes and a hooded cloak, Draco stalked out of his quarters, the cloud trailing slightly behind. He managed to ignore the whispers, for the most part, until he almost tripped over a giggling Weasley. "What's the matter, you've never seen a bloke rained on before?"

Her eyes danced as the girl (Jen? Gwyn?) raised a freckled hand and pointed. "It just looks so funny, with your ears steaming and all."

Draco scowled and the cloud turned a bit darker. "Amazing how little it takes to entertain some people."

"Well, you know us Weasleys. Can't afford to pay for entertainment, so we have to find it where it's priceless." She winked at him and grinned again, and it made her freckles look like they were dancing. Or maybe that was the rain in his eyes blurring his vision.

Before he could think of a comeback, the Siamese triplets showed up, the red-headed one of their group shouting, "You leave Ginny alone, Malfoy!"

She rolled her eyes and shot him a look that he could have sworn was conspiratorial before she cried out, "Oh, Ron, thank goodness you came to rescue me from the amazing soggy ferret! Whatever would I do without you?"

This speech made her brother pause, only to get knocked down by heroic Pot-head, trying to rush in and save the day yet again, who skidded on some of the water that had splashed off of Draco. Their flailing limbs managed to catch Granger, knocking her onto the ground, where her hair got caught under where the two boys were wriggling and trying to separate in order to stand. Draco laughed and the cloud seemed to bounce a bit.

The girl Weasel, Ginny, just looked over the scene and smirked before patting Draco on the shoulder. "Cheer up, Malfoy. You don't look half-bad when you smile."

He shook his head as she walked off and then spared one more sneer for the three prats on the ground before sauntering off towards the hospital wing. Surely Madame Pomfrey would have something to fix the blasted cloud.

But, alas, our hero's hopes were to be dashed. Madame Pomfrey had not only never heard of a case of spontaneous personalized precipitation before, she also insisted on removing the waterproofing charm from his skin and hair, claiming that they weren't authorized for such use. She suggested he speak to Professor Flitwick, who suggested he speak to Professor McGonagall, and so Draco squelched his way back and forth, criss-crossing the castle as the cloud over his head grew darker and fiercer.

He'd just gotten kicked out of the library by an unreasonably cranky Madame Pince when it started hailing.

Banging his head against the wall suddenly seemed a very attractive thing to do, but just as he turned around to get a good running start, a hand closed over his wrist. "Come on, I'll take you to Dumbledore. It must be hard to see with all that in your face."

Draco would have jerked his arm away from the female Weasel if he hadn't been almost completely certain that the motion would throw him off balance and make him fall. Besides, she was warm. And, yes, now that his vision was clearing slightly, he had visual confirmation that that was a bosom his bicep was pressed against. Being close to a real live bosom outweighed an awful lot in terms of Weasley germs.

He was busy attempting to plot ways of getting even closer to what was, upon repeated sidelong inspections, quite a nice bosom when she stopped and said, "Love sugar."

"Pardon me?" He'd always known he was handsome, but he didn't think they were quite ready for pet names yet. Although given long enough to contemplate the wonders of her pulchritude, he was sure he could come up with something.

"We're here," she said, frowning slightly. With careful diction, she said again, "Love sugar."

This might be a good time to remind the reader of the befuddlement abilities of a heretofore unknown bustline on the brain of a teenage male, as he frowned and said, "Thank you, er, honey dear."

The gargoyle they were standing in front of shifted to reveal a set of stairs, and the Weasley-who-might-pass-as-pretty smiled. "I guess the password's changed. I hadn't even known there was a candy called honey deer."

"Indeed, Miss Weasley, indeed, and thank you for helping Mister Malfoy in his hour of need." The two students whipped around to see Dumbledore standing on a step that was spiraling down towards them. "And now I believe that Mister Malfoy needed to see me?"

"Oh! Oh, yes," she said, blushing to the roots of her hair that was still fairly carroty but maybe not as offensively so as her brother's. "I'll just, er, go on to class. Um. Good luck, Malfoy!"

And she was off before he could work out whether the proper response would be to say thank you or to sneer.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows and Draco shook himself all over, then winced as the motion sent cold water running down the neck of his robes. The stairs wound their way back up to Dumbledore's office, with both of them stolidly ignoring the patter of water falling to the ground below. Just before Draco stepped into the office proper, Dumbledore waved a hand and the entire office was covered in plastic sheeting.

Draco shot the headmaster an accusatory glare. "Sorry, my boy, but Mister Filch has refused to set foot in this office ever since an unfortunate incident involving Mrs. Norris and the portrait of my great-uncle, and my cleaning spells aren't what they once were."

"All I want to know is how to fix this!" Draco realized belatedly that shouting and banging his fist on the desk was probably not the most diplomatic way of attaining his goals, even if the drama of his thumping the desk had been offset by the plastic making his fist bounce off with a soft thud. Sulkily, he added, "Sir."

The headmaster looked grave as he pulled a dusty book out of his desk drawer and peered at Draco over his spectacles. "Perhaps, Mister Malfoy, it would help you to listen to this." He cleared his throat and started reading out loud. "Every Who down in Who-ville liked Christmas a lot... But the Grinch, who lived just north of Who-ville, did NOT!"

Eventually, the cloud over Draco was pouring out water at such a rate that there was an inch of it accumulated on the ground. Dumbledore cleared his throat once again and looked at the boy that was almost completely obscured by the rain. "Well, Mister Malfoy, what do you think?"

There was a moment of dead silence, except, of course, for the constant plunk plunk plunk of rain hitting the water, which was now at ankle level and rising. Then Draco said, quite calmly, "I think you're a deranged, moronic twit, sir. And that the Grinch lacked a proper devotion to his task. That's the problem, no one has the stones to follow through on evil plans."

Dumbledore gave an embarrassed cough. "Yes, well, be that as it may, I believe that you might profit by following the Grinch's example in your current situation." There was a bit of a snuffing noise and what seemed to be a defiant tilt to the angle at which the rain was hitting, and so Dumbledore said, "Of course, we could continue... Let me see, ah, here. 'At the far end of town where the Grickle-grass grows and the wind smells slow-and-sour when it blows and no birds ever sing excepting old crows... is the Street of the Lifted Lorax.'"

"NO MORE CRYPTICNESS!" Draco's dramatic leap to his feet was only slightly undermined by the giant wave of water he kicked up. "Just say what you have to say and none of this waffling around the point." He sank back into his chair and crossed his arms, muttering to himself about how Potter probably didn't have to deal with this kind of thing.

"I believe, Mister Malfoy, that this dark cloud hanging over you is a physical manifestation of your inner melancholia and bitterness. The darkness which you have lived surrounded by, and the oppressive conditions of your environment, have led to an excess of angst in your psyche which, combined with your magical abilities, has led to the metaphorical becoming reality." Dumbledore sat back in his chair and folded his hands over his slightly soggy beard.

Draco shielded his eyes with a hand long enough to give a proper disbelieving glare. "What does that mean in English?"

"It means, Mister Malfoy, that you must strive to be a better and happier person." Pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, Dumbledore then said, slightly apologetically, "Now, if you will please return to your quarters, I will see what can be done about proper drainage."

And so Draco found himself, slumped dejectedly and trudging back to his rooms whilst feeling very sorry for himself. He'd never been that bad, had he? All right, he had, but he'd enjoyed it. Surely that counted for something? The rain had slackened a bit, but he barely noticed as he continued his grim march towards his room and his last night as an unredeemed and unrepentant bad guy. Come tomorrow, he would start being... Good.

And he never did get his gingerbread.

The next day dawned without soggy sheets and madly maternal house-elves, but sadly still quite filled with dampness, at least in Draco's corner of the world. He had muttered a curse in the general direction of the infirmary and cast waterproofing charms on every surface of the room, including his hair and skin. It felt decidedly odd, feeling water bead up on his skin and slide off, but at least he was spared the indignity of wet sheets.

As he was leaving his room, he saw Pansy Parkinson, who had taken to avoiding him ever since their supposedly mutual breakup, which had actually consisted of Draco telling her he was bored and wanted to date other people. She had wept and stormed and sworn that she would love him forever despite the way her heart was broken, and he had nodded and left to see whether the Ravenclaw he'd heard was quite round of heel was available that night. Deciding that he should make amends as part of his campaign towards niceness, he trudged towards her, the rain a steady grey sheet around him.

"Pans," he said with forced heartiness. "How've you been?"

She clutched her books closer to her bosom, staring at him with suspicion. "Fine..."

"Good, good," said Draco jovially, ignoring the muttering of the various students in the area. "So, do you remember what we said, about--"

"Is-- Is he b-bothering you, Pansy?" came a voice from Pansy's elbow, making up for a nervous stutter with a great deal of bravado.

Draco squinted through the water in his eyes to see who it could be, just as Pansy turned to the source of the voice and said, "No, Neville, it's all right. The worst he can do is water-stain my dress."

"LONGBOTTOM?" Draco was aghast.

Pansy stomped on Draco's foot, hard, the sharp spike of her heel making his instep feel like it'd been broken. "Neville is a nice boy, and he treats me like a princess!"

"Well... Good," sputtered Draco, his brain still reeling. "You deserve it. I just wanted to say..." The words stuck in his mouth as he tried to figure out how someone went about saying this sort of thing. Slowly, he got out, "I'm s- sorr- sorry if I hurt you before, you didn't deserve it."

Draco felt quite pleased with himself. That sounded just like one of those super good Gryffindors would. The cloud's time was up! His bubble of happiness, however, was broken by Longbottom, Longbottom of all people, sneering, "It's too late, Malfoy, she's with me now."

This led to Pansy throwing herself into the pudgy git's arms and the happy couple walking off, which was rather less annoying than the sudden bolt of lightning crackling through the cloud above him, causing the cloud to get darker and rain all the harder. Recovering slightly, Draco managed to call after them, "Well, who wants her?", but it just wasn't satisfying. Still muttering about not wanting any pug-faced wenches with questionable taste, he kicked at something on the ground and found himself coated with glittery ink in a revolting shade of fuschia.

"Not a good look for you, Malfoy," came a voice from nearby, although this one was considerably sexier than Longbottom's.

"D'you think?" Draco sneered. "And here I thought I'd do a Lockhart and market it to pathetic housewives as haute couture."

An umbrella went over his head and he looked into a pair of brown eyes that sparkled more than the hideous ink. "My mum'd buy three, then."

Draco's mouth opened for a comment about the Weasley budget not stretching to a Draco Malfoy couture handkerchief, let alone the yardage necessary to decently cover their matriarch, but then he snapped it shut again. "Thank you for the umbrella."

"Malfoy?" She frowned at him, dislodging the umbrella enough to make it channel water straight down the back of his robes. Thunder rolled as she slapped her hand to his forehead. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," he muttered, trying to avoid making comments about mad, violent Weasleys and instead focus on fixing the umbrella's positioning. The rainfall was down to a light drizzle, but it still felt like a river flowing down his back.

She shook her head, her eyes soft as she pushed some hair out of his eyes. "You know, the Weasleys are the best family in all England."

"Uh huh," he said blankly as her hand trailed down to rest over his rapidly accelerating heartbeat. If she got just about an inch closer, he'd be within an inch of lips that he was really thinking might truly deserve comparison to rosebuds or some other poetic rot. One of them was being bitten now, the skin indented around her tooth, and he rather thought he'd like to volunteer to take that chore over. It'd be only nice to save her the effort of biting her own lip, right? Oh, just the smallest bit closer - her breasts were touching his chest, just barely, but enough to make his hormones start a conga line to the beat of his arrhythmically pounding pulse.

"I think you should see Madame Pomfrey." It finally dawned on him that the lips he'd been so focused on had moved, and then a second later his ears managed to get a message past the wild hormone party to his brain, where it called a halt to the festivities to the accompaniment of a fresh burst of torrential rain.

He would have said something, if his brain had been able to produce anything resembling coherent thought. As it was she took hold of his hand again and started dragging him down the hallway, the umbrella increasingly useless as the rain poured down. He could barely hear the other students in the hallway over the rumble of thunder as she tugged him along. She thought he was ill? How pathetic did she think he was?

And yet, he thought, looking at the way her damp clothing was molding to her body, perhaps there were compensations. The rain cleared a bit and he could see that her thin robes were completely plastered to her legs, outlining what was quite possibly the finest arse at Hogwarts. He'd have to do further studies to be sure, but it definitely seemed like it could be world-class. Then a thought occurred, and the cloud drifted higher as an evil smile spread over his face. Tamping it down in favor of a deliberately woebegone expression, he said "Weasley?" in the weakest voice he could muster.

"Yes, Malfoy?" she asked, turning around. He ducked his head a bit to hide the smirk that he knew was threatening to form, and silently thanked whatever deity had decreed that the girls' uniforms no longer included those hideous sleeveless jumpers. Yes, life as Draco Malfoy was looking up a bit, as a very thin, old, white Oxford shirt on the torso of a lovely girl was an absolutely beautiful thing in the rain.

"I think..." He let his breath hitch, or at least stifled a laugh by making it seem like a sob, and said weakly, "I think I need to sit down for a moment."

She looked alarmed, and frantically scanned the corridor before throwing her arm around his waist and pulling his arm around her shoulders. "Just lean on me, Malfoy. We can stop in the History of Magic classroom, it's just ahead."

Draco did as he was told, leaning his head down to rest on her shoulder and get an even closer look at the way her bosom was framed by the wet, transparent cloth. The rain was more of a heavy mist at this point, and he hoped that the ghost professor took Saturdays off, which would mean that he'd be alone with the hot Weasley. Well, hot in the sense of attraction; she was starting to shiver from the damp and he felt a bit guilty, although not enough to stop staring at her breasts.

They finally reached the classroom and he slid heavily into a seat, accidentally pulling her down into his lap as he went so that he could, entirely by accident, put his hands on her arse. He misjudged it a bit, and ended up with both hands full of bum, yes, but also a faceful of breast. There was no way that he wouldn't get in trouble over this. Deciding that he might as well enjoy it before the crying or screaming started, he nuzzled the pale, damp flesh in front of him, wishing like hell there wasn't cloth in the way.

She stepped back rather quickly and the much heavier rain obscured his view of her face, which he thought probably explained why she didn't look angry. That theory was disproven, however, when she laughed. "You faker! You did all that just to touch me up?"

He flinched a bit, as he'd seen the Weasley girl lose her temper once at the Creepy kid, and it had not been pretty. Rain poured down heavily as he tried to comfort himself that at least this time she did not seem to possess a camera to be broken against his skull and then lodged in various orifices. Before he could speak, though, she shook her head, which he could only see through the downpour because of her bright hair and said, "Well, that's a relief. I thought you must be dying if you didn't insult my family, but if you were thinking of me as totty, then I understand."

He swiped at his eyes, unsure where to start with being annoyed. "Can't a fellow be nice without it being about sex?"

"Malfoy, I'll admit that you're good, but the bit where you pinched my bum and nibbled at my breasts gave the game away, don't you think?" The rain cleared a bit and he could see her smirk at him. "Besides, you're not a nice person."

"I can be nice!" he said with some outrage. "I'm a wonderful person!"

She patted his hand like he was a somewhat dotty old age pensioner. "You just go on believing that," she said with distinct amusement before turning to walk off. He was watching her arse again, a bit dazed by events, when she turned and said, "Oh, and Malfoy? Nice shirt."

He frowned in confusion, then looked down. What on earth did she mean? He was just wearing the standard white shirt... And he'd forgotten the waterproof charm, so it was sticking to his own skin. He looked at his outlined chest and stomach muscles, and then to the door where she'd disappeared, and thought, "Hot damn."