It's Not Too Bad When The Sun's Out

Rain poured down on Hogwarts like heavy artillery. The few unlucky students who had been caught by the rain had since retreated into the dry castle, leaving only muddy footprints in their wake. The courtyard was full of dirt, small puddles, and pieces of paper that ripped wildly in the wind. Padril grimaced and hugged his cloak closer, trying to steel himself against the bite of the cold wind. It was useless. The cloak was as saturated as he was. The young Hufflepuff grabbed a piece of paper as it fluttered through the air and gently placed with the bundle in his other hand, sheltered from the rain under the cloak.

His potions homework had taken days to complete, and he had been justly proud of it. Not only had he completed the recipe, he had illustrated the importance of potion-making by comparing it to crafting a piece of literature, using the obvious emotive parallels between the inherent tragedies of Love Potions and Salinger's Catcher in the Rye. There is nothing sadder than a person who is desperately trying to be loved, and it reveals an inner humanity. It had been some beautiful writing, in his own humble opinion.

When he discovered it missing from his bag, he had been anxious. When he saw it scattered in the courtyard, he felt like crying. Why would someone attack him like this? Had he done something wrong? He spotted another piece of paper trapped underneath a loose rock, and stepped too quickly towards it, slipping on the wet pavement. His homework dropped from his hand into the puddle, the ink running from the parchment and filling the water with its blackness.

"I might just lay here for a while," Padril sighed, squeezing his eyes tight. The rain washed over him, and water sunk into his clothes. The cold crept down the droplets on his cheeks, and washed over his bones. Right now, he just wanted a moment to deal with everything he was feeling.

Oliver had been down at the quidditch pitch when it had started to rain. Now the boy was drinched and cold but also looking for something new to entertaine him. Upon entering the muddy court yard the fifth year gryffindor found a smallish looking boy laying in the water and mud. "Get up," Oliver said holding his hand out to the boy. once he was on his feet again oliver gathered the papers on the ground. They seemed to be the only reason a person would be outside of the castle in this weather, aside from being completely crazy. "These yours?" He asked handing them over.
There was nothing special of what Oliver had done. And he felt slightly annoyed by how everyone had retreated inside leaveing him bored. "Get inside before you fall and hurt your self causin me to take you to the hospital wing."

"Get up."

A thick Russian accent made Padril open one eyelid. Silhouetted against the sky was a broad shouldered boy in Gryffindor Quidditch robes, a broom in one hand and his other outstretched. His clothes were as drenched as Padril's, though clearly not as muddy. The Hufflepuff pushed his wet hair out of his eye and wordlessly took the offered hand. The boy was surprisingly strong, lifting him without much effort. Padril regained his footing, and looked over the Gryffindor.

Drenched wet with his muscles aching against the uniform, armed with crystal Slavic eyes, and an easy smile, Padril suddenly became very self-conscious of how he must look to the gorgeous boy. He was a mess of water, mud, and self-pity. This was not a good first impression. He nervously glanced to the ground and bit his lip, not sure how to respond to the sudden kindness of the stranger. He nodded glumly as Oliver handed him the remainder of his parchments; they were completely ruined. He scrunched them up in his hand and stuffed the remainder of his work into his pocket.

"Get inside before you fall and hurt your self causin me to take you to the hospital wing."

Padril forgot his nervousness for a moment and raised a skeptical eyebrow at that. It sounded awfully condescending but, he figured, Gryffindor's were always weird about altruism. Always busy trying to make it seem like they don't care too much, swaggering around with bravado. So long as the heart was in the right place, it didn't really matter too much. The slight flaw, however, made the nice boy seem more human and less of a perfect angel.

"I'm Padril," he said suddenly. Inwardly, he began to kick himself. There he was, blurting out introductions, while they both stood getting drenched in the rain. Perfect. Classic Padril. Idiot.

"Introductions are not ideal things in the rain," Oliver said, "but if you insist I'm oliver." He looked off at the door then back at the peraon infront of him. "Now inside. Its cold and wet," he stated tirning towards the door but hanging back just incase padril fell because of the slippery rocks.
Once inside and the doors were closed Oliver looked back at padril. "Why not just leave the papers outside and rewrite them." He asked narrowing his eyes at the boy, " why risk your health for some hogwarts."

"I don't mind introductions in the rain, actually" Padril contended as he followed the Gryffindor out of the storm. "People share umbrellas, cower from lightning together, help clumsy boys out of puddles. It's nice. The only thing better than an introduction in the rain is, um..." He trailed off, smiling shyly as he pretended to be busy shuffling his ruined parchment, desperately trying not to think of the last scene from Breakfast at Tiffany's.

When they were inside the Entrance Hall, Oliver asked about his homework. Padril tilted his head to the side, drawing his hood back and letting the water run off him into a puddle on the floor. It was a lot easier talking when he was just explaining something, it was basically formulaic. "It was a lot of writing that I had spent a lot of time on. The homework is due tomorrow, and I've got other work I'd been wanting to do today. So I tried to save what I could. I guess I didn't really worry too much about getting sick. Madame Pomfrey probably has something for any colds I get, and little bit of sickness is worth the time I would've saved."

The Hufflepuff then gave Oliver a quizzical look. "But why were you out there? Flying, obviously. But you're the last one back. Why'd you stay out in the storm?"

Oliver found this question hard to explain about why he had stayed out so long after it had started to rain. "Most quidditch teams I have observed only practice in good weather. Then they do not completely know how to control their broom. When it is storming is when I have witnessed some of the worst flying accidents. That and a few where the flyers were intoxicated." He stated this dryly hopping the boy would not ask more questions about it. The fifteen year old boy thought it was a good explanation. "That is what makes me the best." He boosted with a goofy smirk on his face.

"See, the reason there are flying accidents when it's storming isn't because they don't have practice, it's because flying in storms is dangerous," Padril pointed out. It seemed like such an odd thing to do, but the Hufflepuff didn't really get Gryffindors. They did the oddest things sometimes.

"I don't get sports though. It's all Sportsball to me. Sportsball with spherical ball, Sportsball with brooms, Sportsball with puck you hit with sticks. So if facing the wrath of your living god is how you become Queen of Quidditch or whatever the goal is, I guess that makes sense," he allowed. He was rambling again, god dammit. It wasn't fair though; having this hunk of sportsman with a thick Russian accent talk to him like this. It was inhumane.

Anxious to distract Oliver from his strange sense of humour, Padril brought out his wand and waved it over his robes, muttering "exaresco" under his breath. A gust of pleasant warm air enveloped him, and the water drenching his body evaporated. His robes were still muddy and torn, but at least he was dry now. "Would you like me to..." he gestured his wand at Oliver offeringly as he patted down his now messy and dried hair.

"Sportsball?" Oliver said with a quizzical yet confused look nobis face. He had never heard anything refurred to as sportsball before and it seemed really odd. "Crazy Brits,"he muttered under his breath with the shake of his head. Padril inquired about useing a spell to dry the robes he wore and Oliver shrugged. The fifth year had yet to learn that spell and it seemed like it would come in handy one day. Maybe in he was more proactive in class he would know more, "sure what ever," he said with a shrug.

"Exaresco", Padril chanted, a gust of warm air enveloping the Gryffindor. He watched as the boy's shirt dried, his muscles suddenly less visible through the shirt, and immediately began to regret his decision. Well, at least neither of them had caught a cold from their little adventures.

Almost on cue, Padril let out a hall shaking sneeze. A yellow handkerchief was immediately out of his pocket, and he uttered a quick apology. "I'm going to have to visit Madame Pomfrey then, or just sit in front of a fire for awhile," he said, trying to make it sound like he was just thinking aloud, and not trying to have the Gryffindor invite him to sit in front of a fire. On his lap.

"So why'd you pick Quidditch?" he asked, then expecting a follow up question. "I mean, how'd you get into it? Why do you keep doing it? Why do you like it?"

"Well," Oliver said not sure he knew how to tell another person about his decisions to play quidditch. "Well i guess it started off as fun," Oliver said, "And there was the fact that my father was the best back when he still played." it wasn't like Viktor had to claim him to be his father. The fifteen year old never wanted more than to be accepted for who he really was. "I love how the wind feels against my face." He narrowed his eyes at the boy, who Oliver found quite odd. "Why don't you like them?" He asked raising an eyebrow at him.