Author's Note: I've realized that there are some stories on FIA that I haven't posted on FFN, so I thought I'd go ahead and upload them here. This story was originally written in January 2007 and was beta'd by Lyndsie Fenele.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related settings, characters, and terminology do not belong to me.


I've always hated the snow.

I used to be entranced by it as a little girl. Watching the snowflakes drift to the ground lazily reminded me of the way my parents danced together while listening to the Wizarding Wireless. Snow was always associated with love and warmth and Christmas. It wasn't Christmas if there wasn't any snow.

The first time I remember ever playing in the snow was when I was four years old. Mum had bought me a big puffy jacket from a second hand shop in Muggle London to keep me warm. It was my favorite jacket because I knew it meant that that world outside—that wonderful white paradise—was mine for the taking. With mittens adorning my hands and a scarf around my neck, I raced outside with my brothers and was immediately disappointed. For one thing, the snow was cold and snowballs were not at all easy to make. They always fell apart in my hands, and by then my fingers were too cold to try and make another one. For another thing, the snow wasn't soft. The snow had always looked like the softest cotton filling in a pillow, or like clouds. I used to dream that the snow was my own heaven and I was a little angel building snowmen in the sky. But snow was not easy to work with. Snow men and snow angels were too hard for my closest brother and I to make by ourselves and they never came out the same way as they did in all the books I had looked at. Snow was hard to run in and it hurt when one of the twins hit me with multiple snowballs.

No, snow was disappointing to me. After my first snow day, I didn't care to play in it again.

Now I have new reasons to hate the snow.

It was in the snow that I kissed him for the first time. I will forever be plagued by the image of his face surrounded by softly falling snowflakes. Flakes landed in his hair and on his impeccable robes, in his eyelashes. He never looked more ravishing than when his cheeks were red-tinged from the cold with little specks of white all over him.

I was standing in the snow the day I received the message that he was dead. It hadn't caused his death, but I will always be reminded of how cold it was, and how much colder I felt, when I read that he would never return to me again. He'd promised me that he would, but then he didn't come home. My tears mingled with the falling snow and fell from my face, lost on the wind with the oncoming blizzard.

The sun reflects off snow the same way it reflected off his hair. They were nearly the same color. His eyes were the same grey as the sky and it was only while looking in his eyes that I loved the snow. It was the only time that I could stand it.

Now snow isn't associated with warmth and love and Christmas. I'm reminded of coldness and could-have-beens and funerals. It makes me feel bleak and miserable and takes me back to places that are too painful for me to visit. How can it feel like Christmas when I am stuck in painful memories of the past? He used to chase me around the yard, throwing snowballs at me as I screamed. He never listened as I yelled for him to stop, and inside, I didn't want him to stop. He smiled the most in public when it was snowing outside. He laughed and played and astounded people with his humanity when it snowed.

I've always hated the snow.

How can I not hate it when he had loved it so much?