Miss Moony would like to say that she doesn't own Harry Potter and that she had no help with this story from Miss Wormtail, Miss Padfoot or Miss Prongs.
Blaise's POV, folks, and slash, too, so don't read if it bothers you.
------- I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good -------
My December
Contrary to popular belief, I am actually quite fond of winter.
In winter, my tan fades, and my skin turns as pale as death. My lips chap, and my hair frizzes out.
In winter, it snows. I watch the flakes falling gracefully from a seat in the astronomy tower, and scowl when I see the younger students ruining the perfectly white landscape by compressing all the snow under their feet.
Harry is winter. All of it.
His skin is as pale as death, his scar standing out starkly on his forehead. His lips are bright red, as if they're so chapped that they've been bled on from a thousand tiny wounds, and his hair sticks up in every direction, not quite curly but not quite frizzy either.
Harry is beautiful.
When it snows, Harry dances. He spreads out his arms, looks up into the falling snow, and spins around and around and around. His lips are parted, and some of the snow falls between them. His eyes are closed and his breath condenses as soon as it leaves his mouth.
I watch from my seat in the astronomy tower and surprise myself when I realise that I'm not scowling at him for crushing the pure white snow under his feet.
Harry is amazing. In every way.
Harry smells of winter wildflowers and cold, December winds. His skin is as cold as it is pale. As death. Blood trickles down his forehead, from his scar, and the snowflakes on his eyelashes still haven't melted. His lips are dry and chapped, and bleeding, in places, and his hair is standing on end.
His breath doesn't condense as soon as it leaves his mouth, in short, sharp, gasps. Instead, it mingles with mine. Our tongues meet in a dark, predatory dance. He's not facing the falling snow, and his arms are around me, his fingernails digging into the fabric of my cloak.
My teeth clamp against his lip and he whimpers. I draw away. Blood is flooding down his face, from his scar. I lean in again and we both taste the blood that falls down to our lips.
Harry is the Boy-Who-Lived.
Harry tastes of blood, and fear, and death. His eyes are bright green and glittering when he looks at me, and I am reminded of the Avada kedavra curse that he survived. The snowflakes on his eyelashes have long since melted.
Harry's hands are veined with cold fire, and a pink stain brings colour to his pale-as-death cheeks.
Harry is alive.
More alive than I've ever seen him before. Even in winter.
Harry's lips burn coldly against the skin of my throat. My lips sear with heat against his ear.
Harry is winter, and contrary to popular belief, I am actually quite fond of winter. All of it.