Before you accuse me of anything, I started writing this at school today, right after I saw that it was snowing. It inspired me.
December 7, 2006
Today I remembered exactly why I like winter. The first snow, first real snow, of the season is always so magical and it never fails to fill me with this sort of indefinable happiness no matter how cold it is or how bad I'm feeling. There's nothing in the world as beautiful.
First Snow
It was so cold.
Harry's teeth were chattering, which was rather annoying, but couldn't be helped. He didn't want to return to his aunt and uncle's house just yet.
He wasn't quite ready to forsake this coldness for theirs.
It didn't particularly matter to him that the only thing separating him from the frosty December air was a threadbare jumper and too-large jeans. Nor did it matter that he hadn't any mittens to protect his small hands from the cold, like Dudley did—he had his sleeves, after all. And really, if he used them to hold onto the metal chain of the swing, he could hardly even feel the biting chill. The only thing that mattered to him right then was that he wasn't watching Petunia and Vernon fawn over their precious baby boy.
An older person would have known that the tight feeling in his chest was envy. Harry was six, and therefore didn't know. Even if he had, he would have been mortified and denied it until he was blue in the face. Well, technically he was a bit blue in the face, but, well. He didn't know what figures of speech were either.
He shivered again, and 'Oh, drat!' there went his teeth.
A small group of school children walked by on the outskirts of the park, bundled up from head to toe and huddled together for warmth. They were probably on their way home, where their parents would fuss over them, and tell them to come in out of the cold, and maybe even give them hot cocoa. That was what Petunia did for Dudley, anyway.
Harry hadn't ever had hot chocolate. At least not while it was hot anyway. Having a taste of leftovers before he washed the dishes didn't count, or at least he didn't think it did.
Harry was shaking from head to foot by then and finally had to admit defeat. As much as he didn't want to witness what he could never have, he didn't want to become an ice statue even more. Then something very small and very white landed on his broken-framed glasses. He looked up, and the cold air seemed to stick in his throat.
It was snowing. The very first snowfall of the year. And since there was no one else around, Harry could pretend that he was the first person to see. It hadn't yet become a storm, though the sky threatened, and the flakes fell softly, landing caressingly on the hard ground. And distantly, Harry could almost-see a flash of red hair and almost-hear a woman's merry laughter. He swallowed, and the cold, even the heartache were all but forgotten.
For a moment--one beautiful, breathtaking moment--he wasn't 'Potter' he wasn't 'Boy,' nor was he a burden or unloved. He was Harry. He was six. He was innocent.
And he was lost in wonder at the first snow.
Everything else could wait a bit longer.