The snow was always beautiful, the way it glittered, reflecting any and every light, making it seem like diamonds were embedded in the white blanket, the way it made you want to bend and pick up one, just to examine the jewel more closely only to find that it just melts in the warmth of your hand, leaving nothing but a puddle.
His eyes were always cold like the snow. Before, if you looked at him long enough, you could feel his coldness penetrating you like frostbite, making you turn away from him no matter how much you want to keep gazing into those eyes, those glassy light grey eyes.
But lately, he's been warmer. Like now, when he glides through the snow as easily as if he were a snowflake himself without a stumbling or slipping even once, he takes your hand in his and smiles. That was one of the first things you learned about him, that his hands were always just warm enough, so his delicate hands weren't sweaty and uncomfortable. You love those hands.
And then there's that smile. As he walks, there's no inkling of a smile, his face is just empty, expressionless. Then he gets closer, and the smile slowly forms, a small one at first, and it spreads across that beautifully pale face of his. He only shares that smile with you, he shows only you this soft, gentle side of him, giving almost everyone else that harsh sneer that you've become so accustomed to. You love that smile.
You slip your arms around his neck, holding him close. He isn't surprised by these sudden intimate movements; by now, he's used to this, to the way you cling to him when he's near, the way you show your need for his slim form so obviously. You don't know if he likes it as much as you, but you know that you won't let him go, and he won't make you. And when his arms enclose you, you let out a breath of air, watching it dissipate into the surrounding frigid air. It doesn't matter how cold you've become here waiting for him, because his embrace is enough to make you feel warm.
As you nuzzle your face into his soft neck, you imagine him to be like the picture by your bed, the one of the snow on a Christmas Eve long past. What he gives you is like what the picture gives, a hope for the next snowfall, for the next time where everything will be at peace…after a storm…after a war. He gives you the hope you need when he looks at you, when he gives you those small kisses you hunger for, even now, in the freezing cold out by the Forbidden Forest.
Then you look at the snowflakes stuck to his hair, his blond, almost white hair, and you watch them melt almost as soon as they hit his head. Why does it make you so sad to know that the snow won't last, to know that it will eventually completely melt away?
Because you don't want that to happen to him. It hurts you to think that he could melt away, not after he's promised so many times to be yours forever…
No, he's nothing like the snow.
His fingers run through your hair, removing the snow that has accumulated as you waited for him. You catch his hand and press your lips to his palm, giving him a shy smile, rewarding you with a light blush creeping through his cheeks. You've found that when you smile at him that way, it has that effect.
No, he's nothing like the snow. He isn't a jewel that will disappear, or a precious snowflake that will melt away. He's more like the spring flower, if anything. He's the life promised to you after the storm.
You look him in the eyes, his gaze no longer cold. His eyes don't remind you of the snow anymore. His eyes aren't ice. His eyes are fire. You love those eyes.
"I love you, Draco," you say. It isn't your first time saying that to him, and you know it won't be your last, but it still feels like gold going through your lips as you say it.
And finally, he brings his lips close to your ear, barely grazing it, and he whispers back, "I love you, Harry."