He could never like summer as much as she did

Beginnings

He could never like summer as much as she did.

He reasoned that it was too sluggish, too lethargic, but winter—when everything was frozen in place—was even worse.

That only left spring and fall, but they weren't his favorites, either. He didn't care much for seasons at all, really, but she did.

And summer—romantic and warm and dreamy—was her favorite.

And when asked (when she asked) which he preferred—beginnings, middles, or ends (because stories were another thing she loved)—he always chose beginnings.

She told him that if everybody always tried to start over, nothing would ever happen.

He just told her endings were boring.

Actually, what he hated most was the middle. Tangled and twisted and uncertain, it wasn't something he had patience for. He couldn't stand it when things got too complicated. He was always looking for fresh starts, and she was right—he never got anywhere.

He'd always want a clean page. They were the perfect time to forget. It was like a phoenix rising from its ashes, and he loved that feeling, as if he was right for once.

But in the back of his mind, he'd known. It was a natural resolution for him—it just wasn't until he first saw her with James that he realized.

If he was going to have an ending, it would be with her.

Stories were like seasons. Spring was the beginning, bursting with life, until it slowed down and, eventually, came to a full stop.

Fresh out of Hogwarts, he still refused to pay attention to months and weather, didn't attend the wedding, wasn't even invited, but he took notice when he heard about the deaths.

They were early, mid-fall—and couldn't they have waited for the end? For winter?

And again Severus Snape wished for a new beginning.