Snow

Snow, delicate snow,

that falls with such lightness

on the head,

on the feelings,

Come and cover over the sadness

that lies always in my reason.

-Miguel de Unamuno, The Snowfall Is So Silent

It was November and the first snow of the year had begun to fall, silently, in small white flakes around him, covering the trees with a white icing. Draco was rather fond of snow. He loved the serenity of the way it fell, covering all the impurities beneath a sheet of whiteness. And it remained that way, unblemished and pure -- until some prick came and stomped all over it, leaving a trail muddy footprints behind him. It was vulnerable in that way, but always unrelenting. Night fell and new snow came down from the clouds, stretching white over the corruption of the past like a coat of shimmering ice.

And it yet it was so cold, and coldness had always been associated with the absence of emotions. A cold-blooded murderer and a cold victim lying dead on the floor, limbs twisted at impossible angles; it was the epitome of all things inhuman and corrupt.

But Draco found that he could relate to the snow, its vulnerability and persistence...its coldness and corruption. He shivered as he walked past the frozen lake; some of the snowflakes in his hair had melted, making little rivulets that ran down into his collar. Others sprinkled his white blonde hair, like shimmering ice crystals in the morning light.

When he had been younger Draco had always wondered where snowflakes came from. He had imagined that they were the teardrops of fallen angels, frozen in time by the chills of the wintry air. He caught one in his hand, and stared for a moment, captivated by its intricate crystalline design, before it melted in his palm, leaving nothing but a small puddle of a fading memory.

He padded lightly through the untouched and trackless snow, marked only by shadows, careful to tread lightly so he made even footprints. Behind him the castle loomed in front of the rising sun, its pointed rooftops capped with snow. Though it was promising to be a pleasant day, a feeling of melancholy was settling in Draco's stomach.

Four months remained until the end of his seventh and last year at Hogwarts. It was almost ironic. He had been waiting for this day ever since he had started school, and yet, suddenly, he didn't want to leave anymore. He had so much here. It would all be different at home. His mother had become overly affectionate since his father had been killed by the Dementors in Azkaban and Draco found it rather overwhelming to be in her company. But she had written to him last month, pleading him to come home for Christmas, and come home he would - after all, he hadn't much choice unless he were to leave her to spend a lonely Christmas with nothing to keep her company but the memories of a past life and a past love.

And then there was Harry.

Well, of course there was Harry. Everything revolved around Harry; he was the Boy Who Lived, after all. Harry was like a miniature version of the sun - everyone orbited around him. Harry was the sun, and he, Draco, was the snow. Hardly a match made in heaven; a beam of warm sunshine and the snow melted away into nothingness.

But that was the way it was. Before Harry, Draco had been nothing. He had thought he was all that, clever and important and funny, even, but really he had just been a pathetic shell of himself, of the Draco that was now part of HarryandDraco.

Or, rather, had been.

Suspicious of Harry's regular disappearances during the night, Ron had followed him one night to find him in the midst of an uncompromising situation with Draco. Harry had jumped off Draco and run off without an explanation, leaving Draco hurt and confused. But certainly not as hurt and confused as he had been when Harry had come to him during breakfast and told him in a hushed whisper that they were broken up and that he wasn't to tell anyone about their relationship.

So Draco was no longer the Draco part of HarryandDraco. He was just plain old Draco. He trudged wearily through the snow, not bothering to lift his feet so as to make neat shoe prints anymore. The snow had stopped falling by now, and the sun had disappeared behind Gryffindor Tower, but the Forbidden Forest rose dark and gloomy in the distance, snow frosted over the bare branches of trees like icing sugar.

Not watching his path, Draco stepped into a patch of dirt, leaving a trail of muddy footprints in his wake. He shivered again; the snow had begun to soak through his cloak. In the icy silence of the descending night he walked on, snow crunching under his boots like broken glass. Around the lake he went, once, twice, and the sun went down, but he didn't notice, and he kept walking.

Night fell and the moon rose high, full and bright, casting its milky light onto the snow. The snow that had frosted the tops of trees white like icing sugar now eerily reflected the silvery glow of the moon. Above the trees a mass of winter stars dusted the inky winter sky. The wind soared, tearing at his hair and cloak, but he just wrapped his cloak tighter around his body and walked on.

The snow had begun to fall again like tiny slivers of silver glinting in the moonlight, when Draco heard the sound of snow crunching under somebody's feet. He didn't turn around, knowing who it was and why he had come.

"I knew you'd be here."

"Don't bother apologizing, Potter," Draco said harshly, staring hard at Harry's shadow in the snow in front of him before turning to face him.

"Didn't come here to apologize," was all Harry said, raising his shoulders in a gracious shrug.

Draco didn't have anything to say to that, so he just looked at Harry. A few flakes of silvery snow were caught in Harry's locks of black hair, glimmering like an icy halo in the moonlight, and his green eyes were wide and innocuous under his glasses as he stared back at Draco. His cheeks were flushed with cold and his dark hair stood out against the snowy backdrop.

Finally Draco broke his gaze away and spoke. "So why did you come, then, if not to apologize?"

"Because I knew you'd be here," Harry said again, bowing his head slightly, as if in shame, but keeping his eyes on Draco.

"Yes," said Draco, at length. "We've established that." He paused, before continuing in an afflictive tone, "I'm going to close my eyes and count to three now, and you had better not be here when I open them again."

Harry didn't react, but Draco closed his eyes. Flakes of snow fell, catching in his eye lashes and hair, melting on his nose. His cheeks were flushed with cold and wind, too; and there was heartbreakingly beautiful but melancholy expression on his otherwise pale face.

"One," Draco said slowly, and heard only the silence of the night. "Two," he continued, and heard not the sound of crunching snow but again the silence of the night. "Three," he said, and finally heard the sound of snow crackling underneath Harry's footsteps. His heart sank and he kept his eyes closed, not wanting to open them to see Harry's retreating form in the lugubrious moonlight.

But suddenly, Harry's lips were pressed against his in a delicate kiss, and Draco screwed his eyes shut tighter for fear of opening them to realize that Harry was just a figment of his imagination. Draco shivered and Harry parted his lips with his tongue in an irresistibly bittersweet kiss, wrapping his arms tightly around him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered against Draco's neck, rocking him back and forth. "I'm so sorry."

Draco's knees gave out as Harry's lips trailed across his throat with feather light kisses and both the boys sunk into the snow. The chilly wind rose again, thickening the already snow-spangled air, tugging wildly at their hair, but Harry's lips were upon Draco's and his hands in Draco's hair; and Draco did not realize that he was already soaked to the skin, nor was he able to appreciate the serene beauty of the winter night around him, because all that mattered was Harry.

- fin -