A/N: This is just a short drabble I'd written earlier in the year for myself; I changed a couple of things so that it could apply to FF & I could share it. In this light, it's just Katie reflecting on her time at school with Fred the winter after he died.
Sometimes I think I miss you more when it snows. I don't know if it's because I fell in love with you in the winter, or if the white fluff itself is responsible for making me sentimental—I'm not a very sentimental person—but every time I look into the cold sky and up through the flurries of snow, I see you. And you're smiling, your arms outstretched as you take hold of me, the soft glow of the village lights framing your face. I think of the way you grabbed my hand as we tumbled recklessly down the hill on our sleds, and the way the snow fell on your soft red hair.
It was snowing when we sat in the pub's lounge at the old beat up piano and made it sing, and when we stood outside and you told me I looked beautiful, your characteristic mischievous grin gone. It was snowing when we drank hot cocoa with our friends against the backdrop of the village lights, and you stood too close and I smiled too much. It was snowing when we walked back from the greenhouses and you held my hand to keep me from slipping on the ice. And it snowed the night you brushed the hair away from my face and helped me tuck it underneath my multi-colored knit hat. It snowed when you told me you were seeing someone else, and it snowed the week later when you said you still had feelings for me.
It snowed when I sat up all night, staring out that large bay window at the little flurries that came down in curlie-cues underneath the castle lights and the glow of the city and thought of you. The storm continued through morning when I boarded the train to escape what I had lost; the flakes crowded outside the small, grimy window and obscured the blinking red lights in the distance. I thought you were gone then. You actually are, now.
I can't watch the snow or hear winter laughter or stand underneath a streetlight without thinking of you—your hair, your eyes, the smile on your freezing lips. I sit on my sofa underneath a plethora of blankets and pillows in a tiny apartment with white-washed walls and try to recapture these few moments, the only moments I have left of you. It's beautiful and sad and wrong and wonderful that you are so inexplicably connected to something that I have loved so much. But the feelings come and they stay and they linger, and I don't know what to do.