Disclaimer: I don't own it.
A/N: Merry Christmas, An. (: Sorry that it's taken so long to finish!
snow angel
(severus/lily)
She lies amongst the newly-fallen snow—her cheeks flushed from the cold and biting air, her fiery hair spilling about her in a halo of auburn, her emerald eyes sparkling with a sheer excitement for life—and sweeps her arms and legs back and forth in a graceful arc. The snow brushes easily away at her touch.
"What—" He pauses, his voice constricted by emotions so powerful that words cannot describe them. "What are you doing?"
"A snow angel," she explains, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world—and he knows, for her, it is. "I'm making a Christmas snow angel."
It's childish, it's stupid—they are, after all, eleven years old, not five—but he doesn't care, for he's never seen anything quite so lovely—no, quite so perfect—in his life. The mere sight of her alone leaves him stunned and speechless, dazzles him with an even greater intensity than the blindingly bright sunlight dancing all about her, because she's not just a ray of reflected sunlight: She's the sun itself, incandescent and warm and the center of his world. Everything that he does is done for her, every action that he takes is meant to bring himself closer to her. He wants nothing more in life than to orbit around her, to bask in her incomparable glory, as the most cherished of her planets.
And yet, he knows that he can never be her "favorite"—let alone the one that she loves—because he doesn't deserve her and never will. She's an amaranth flower, after all, a rare blossom of everlasting beauty too wondrous and pure for the likes of him, flawed mortal that he is. He has only the potential to corrupt her with his darkness, to destroy her innocence—innocence which is not ignorance, no matter what his mother claims—and leave despondency in its wake.
The mere thought of ruining her so makes his stomach clench in agony. He should give her up, he should leave her right now and never speak to her again, but then he hears her laughter, bubbling forth like a river of liquid gold, and he knows that he cannot; he's much too selfish to ever relinquish his hold. He wants her—needs her—conscience be damned, even if this does make him all the more unworthy.
"There!" she suddenly exclaims, breaking through his musings, and her voice, melodious and mellifluous, sends shivers up and down his spine. "All done." She struggles for a few moments with the problem of getting up, unwilling to ruin her creation so soon, then she reaches out and clasps his hand in her own. Her grasp is soft, gentle, warm; his is stiff, calloused, cold.
It takes all of his self control to let go again, and even then, he holds on longer than he should have. She, however, gives no indication that she noticed; he has no clue how he's supposed take this.
"What do you think?" she finally asks, curious, as she scrutinizes her work. "And be honest."
The right wing is larger than the left and its head appears to be nonexistent, but he notices none of this. He gazes remains firmly fixed on the girl before him as he whispers breathlessly, "Angelic."
She positively beams back.