He's never reminded me of winter, but maybe that's just because I don't like winter much.

I always fight with him in winter, about one thing or another, but aside from that, I do not associate him with the season. Winter is cold and reserved and quiet and doesn't want to fall in love. He is loud and talkative and warm and too embarrassed to admit when he does want to fall in love.

I am awake, sitting in front of the fire on this January night, reading, presumably, although I'm really counting the minutes that have passed. It's much past midnight, and he still has not returned with that beast Lavender. If anything, she reminds me of winter—cold and jealous and cunning, although maybe it's me that is jealous of her.

Suddenly the door swings open, and in they come, attached at the face, all giggles and saliva and sweat and all those nice but unpleasant things that come with kissing, and whatever else they've just done.

Lavender is the first to notice me, and she breaks off from him, giggling. She excuses herself, briefly kisses him one last time, and exits to her dormitory.

The temperature in the room seems to drop fifty degrees as we meet eyes. He is red, perhaps from all the kissing, or perhaps from anger or embarrassment at walking in on me like that. He awkwardly waves and heads to his dormitory, but not before I can spare him a few words. They seem spiteful and petty and obvious, but in reality, they translate to so much more. They translate to why and how and when and more whys.

But all he hears is, "Your hair is a messy."