Snow Begins to Fall

I step timidly, right foot and then left, as if afraid to disturb the pure white snow beneath my feet. In the end, its purity cannot be saved and I leave my mark; a stain of mud and tread printed on the ground, an ugly blemish on winter perfection.

It isn't much further now, and despite the cold, I take my time. The path is barely visible beneath the deep snow, and most of the clues that would guide me to my destination are covered by winter's blanket. Only the pale sun in the sky, the ancient oak in the north, and the circle of stones in the distance point me in the right direction.

I could find my way with less. Though I have only seen the site once, it is a memory I won't soon forget. High above me an owl stares with her golden eyes, only her soft hooting giving her away amidst her white camouflage. Wherever I go, she is never far behind. I pause my footsteps, and the quiet of the forest envelops me.

Snow begins to fall once more, slowly adding itself to the collection on the ground. It settles in silence, softly making the world perfect again. The owl has stopped its melancholy vocalise, and I try to breathe in and out as quietly as possible. I watch the snow drift lazily to the forest floor.

Birch, sycamore, oak, and pine- the most ancient and wise of the trees- rustle a bit with a solitary gust of wind. They look bare and cold, and loom over me as if hungry for my warmth. I wonder what they are trying to tell me. My father always spoke of these trees with reverence, for it is these trees that harbor the souls and the wisdom of our ancestors. I listen to the breeze rush through their boughs, closing my eyes in concentration so that I might be blessed with their insight.

But I cannot hear the ancestors today; not when I desire to hear another voice.

With that voice in mind, I open my eyes, whisper a sacred blessing to the ancestors, and keep moving. The path winds up a hill, and it seems as if the snow urges me forward as more flakes begin to fall once I make the turn. The stillness around me is comforting, the accompanying solitude a reminder that I am truly alone.

As if reading my thoughts, the owl above me launches herself from the icy branches to the sky, reminding me of her presence. She swoops through air almost jubilantly, with more agility than I've come to expect from owls. But then again, she was never an ordinary owl.

I take a deep breath and feel the cold air burn my nose and lungs. I smile up at her and watch the white blur of her body get lost in the gray atmosphere. She is telling me that she is happy that I'm here, today of all days.

It doesn't feel disrespectful to raise my voice anymore. "I'm happy I'm here today, too, Hedwig."

She does a funny little turn in answer, and with that, I reach the top of the hill, and there it is: the old sycamore, as white as the snow beneath it and as thick as a castle wall. There is neither a marker naming his site, nor an epitaph to honor his life. It is the way he wanted; unassuming, humble, peaceful, and totally unknown to all but his closest friends.

It feels natural to kneel underneath the tree, so I don't question the action when my body makes the decision. I have never been one to pray, I have never been sure of who to pray to, or if they would even listen if I did, but I say something now within my heart. Maybe I'm not talking to a deity; maybe I'm talking to him.

Then, without warning, sounds come out of my mouth, forming words I hadn't practiced, words straight from my soul.

"Merlin, I miss you, Harry," I say, and give up formality. I sit on the frozen, hard ground and lean my back up against his tree. There's no way I can cause offense; he is not here, underneath where I sit. There wasn't enough left of him to bury, and even so, his spirit has gone elsewhere- to a better place, of that I am sure.

I wipe a tear away from my eye before it has the chance to fall, and I let the words come. "I'm sorry this is the first time I've come to your spot. I know you wanted this place for me, and for the rest of your friends, but I feel you everywhere. Everything is a reminder. Everything is now part of you. You're in the wind, you're in the trees...I see your face in the cauldron while I work, I hear your voice whenever I listen...you're even in that bloody owl."

At that, Hedwig hoots a protest, and I laugh sadly. "Don't give me that, I know she's watching my every move on your behalf."

I pause for a moment, staring into the snow owl's wise eyes. "You don't have to worry about me, Harry. I'm not happy without you, but I'm not going to do anything stupid. You gave up too much for me to just gamble my life away."

Hedwig coos, and I try to smile. "It's been years now...and it hurts like I lost you only yesterday..."

I curse as the tears come freely, a word that would probably have made Harry blush. "Sometimes the separation from you is overwhelming...it's too much, Harry, to be without you. Sometimes I get so mad at you for leaving me...'Stupid, brave Gryffindor', I say...had to go and save the bloody world..."

My sleeve is cold with tears but I ignore it. "Sometimes I hate other people just because they're the reason you're gone...you died for them too. You died for all of us, wizard and Muggle alike, didn't you? You had to...I don't doubt you honestly had to...but I think that I'd rather live in fear of Voldemort for the rest of my life than spend another day without you..."

My voice breaks, and I stop talking for a moment. Hedwig cocks her head and it seems as if even her sharp eyes have softened.

"I came here today because I miss you most this time of year," I say. "Christmas was always so hard for me. It always meant going home to a family too preoccupied to really love me. And you weren't loved at all by your family, were you? It makes sense that we would have fallen in love at Christmastime. We found our true family with each other, didn't we?"

For a moment I see him clearly in my mind's eye, the clearest picture I've had of him in months. He's bundled in his stupid Gryffindor scarf, no hat covering the disaster on his head that he called hair. His pants, as usual, are six sizes too big, but his coat fits well, something he must have bought for himself in London. His eyes sparkle against the white, snowy backdrop like the North Star on a clear winter's night. His cheeks are flushed with the cold and he blows into his mitten-covered hands to warm them before jamming them into the pockets of his pea coat and turning himself towards the path to Hogsmeade.

It had been easy and yet a bit frightening, at that moment, to realize that I loved him, and with that realization it dawned on me that I'd loved him since the first day. The first time I saw him on the train I had recognized a kindred, and I'd needed him, and his acknowledgement of my existence, since.

Though I should have been surprised when he'd turned to me on that first day of Christmas break and asked me to join him on his trip, I accepted it easily. After all, he surely saw me as I saw him- as another part of himself. He had felt it too, and it had been such a simple thing and yet so complex, for two people who felt so unloved to find some solace in each other.

We fell into step beside each other, that day on the path and in life, and we didn't leave each other's side much after that. We found we had a lot in common, and the things that made us different only made our relationship interesting. We were opposite sides of the same plane.

We moved slowly; there was no need to rush. We had enjoyed the act of falling in love almost as much as being in love. We didn't kiss for a whole month. I should have kissed him at the Yule Ball, when we'd found ourselves quite innocently underneath the mistletoe, but I had blushed and stepped away, and he had giggled out of nervousness. It wasn't until weeks later that I worked up the courage.

We'd been flying, something we did every chance we got because we both understood the freedom it granted. I loved watching him move on his broom, weaving through the snow and wind like a bird, only more graceful. I flew to the ground and dismounted, my eyes on Harry as he performed Quidditch maneuvers I wouldn't attempt in my dizziest daydream. He was happiest when he flew, I suppose it let him forget reality and be carefree for a few moments.

For a boy who had the weight of the world on his shoulders, it surely must have been a few moments of unencumbered bliss.

After a while, he landed beside me, grinning and eyes bright. I don't know what came over me except that I knew I couldn't stand to be so far apart from him. I took hold of the collar of his coat and pulled him close. Our lips met with all the fumbling that a lack of preparation brings. I drew back, embarrassed, but Harry was looking at me with a gleam in his emerald eyes that I hadn't ever seen before and a moronic smile on his face. He grabbed my collar in kind and pulled me back to him. This time we were both ready, and as our lips touched and our tongues danced, I felt my heart swell with love for him until I was sure it would explode within my chest. When he drew away I didn't open my eyes for a moment, just enjoying the feeling of being utterly in love and belonging so completely to another person.

When I opened my eyes again, I knew I was taking in a sight I'd never forget.

His eyes had turned fiery green, snow flakes were caught in his messy black hair, his cheeks were rosy from exhilaration and the cold, and his smile...his smile spoke volumes about happiness, delight, and even a dash of wickedness. I still see him that way in my mind's eye, with his whole being radiating love. He turned his face up to the gray sky, threw his arms up as if embracing the falling snow, and fell straight backwards.

I rushed to help before I realized what he was doing and stood, amused, over him as he moved his legs and arms to make a snow angel. I laughed and fell into the snow, too, and when we were done we wrote our names above the angel's heads. We studied them silently for a moment, and Harry took my hand.

"I think I'm in love with you," he'd said.

"I know I'm in love with you," I'd replied.

And we'd walked back to the castle hand in hand.

Our time together had been so short and always, always, the threat of the end loomed over our heads. The more I loved him, the more aware I became that his fate was quickly approaching and that there would be no reprieve. Harry Potter had a destiny to fulfill, and try as I might, that destiny did not lie in me. The reasons why I loved him were the reasons why all good wizards loved him. Harry was purer than the snow, cleaner than the water, more loving and patient than a saint, and filled with warmth and light in a cold, dark world. He had been the perfect savior for the wizarding world; the immaculate sacrifice, the white lamb offered up to vanquish a Dark Lord. His actions were not based on anger, revenge, or hatred. He had not done what he did for eternal glory, either. He'd done it for me and for all of us so that we could live without fear. He'd done it for love.

I feel a familiar swelling in my heart and realize that I'm crying again. Above me a white owl begins a soft repetition of comforting coos.

"If you'd have lived..." I start, but the sentence has too many possible endings and I can't complete it. Instead, I amend it. "If only you'd have lived..."

I spend another few moments silently crying, listening to the quiet forest around me. The snow is still falling all around me, and I feel as if each flake is for me, and it is. Each flake, each tree, each gust of wind, each hoot of the owl; they're all reminders of him, all signs that he is still here, that our love transcends even death.

I stand, filled with comfort and assurance that I hadn't felt in years, and I touch the white bark of the tree. It is warm underneath my fingertips, and I smile. I close my eyes and see him as I had that day, when I'd told him that I loved him for the first time. He seems to glow electric with the love in his heart as he's looking at me, and he throws his head back suddenly with laughter, and falls to the ground.

I laugh and fall backwards too, making a snow angel in the pure snow. When I'm done, I crouch down and write my name above its head: Draco. Somewhere in time, Harry's writing his name above his angel too. I stand and look at the old sycamore once more, meeting the eyes of the snow owl in the lowest branch.

"Happy Christmas, Harry," I say, and turn myself east, toward home.