BB says: Well, this was my first fanficiton ever and I'm revamping it now. So hello my old fans, and I hope to like the changes. And good day to my new fans, who I hope will follow along.

Rating: This one may be K+, but this story grows to be teen.

Disclaimer: I own no part of D. Gray-Man, anime, manga, or merchandise. Nor to I own any part of the poem, "Bring the Snow."

"January brings the snow/ that makes our feet and fingers glow,"

~Sara Coleridge

Her song was finished, she took a bow. Everyone in the crowd applauded -the girl had a beautiful, powerful voice- but the end of the song was the end of the spell; people once more found themselves staring at a performing gypsy child. A massive part of their hearts felt pity, for this was only a child and thus naïve to the harsh reality of the world. A world that, upon remembrance, they had no part of. She was a pauper, street scum. The poorest of her audience possessed more than she would ever know.

They threw a few coins at her, mostly made of wood, dispersing without making eye contact with this object that caused both pity and disgust. One man, smirking, dropped his coin on the ground near his feet, its shiny surface coddled in the snow. The girl wasn't a fool, but she couldn't let the shiny copper go untaken. She reached for it, hand dirty and cold from living on the streets, face concealed by the ratty cloak she had found in the sewers. It had once been a quality garment, but had long since been stained the browns of blood and dirt and sadness. Like the girl herself.

The man stomped on her hand, smirking at the hood of her cloak. "S'il vous plait," she begged pathetically, holding back her mounting rage. So much power. So much fury. She felt it mounting inside her, scratching at the edges and demanding release. But she had no idea how to accommodate such a thing. How to extent herself to a limt her body seemed insistent upon.

So she was meek. And mellow. And pathetic. Because she wanted to be strong but couldn't be. Not when it was so much simpler to be silently resentful.

Grinding her hand once more into the wintry slush, the man turned away, spitting as though the sight of her had sickened him. Apparently he had grown bored with her sniveling. The young girl cradled her scraped and bleeding flesh, greedily gathering the coins with the other hand. The money was deposited into a simple cloth bag she had concealed beneath her cloak, and she made ready to depart.

"Where are you off to?" The voice was calm and soothing, a soft smile hidden with the words. Turning sharply the girl noted the strange man who had failed to depart with the end of her song. His face was covered by the shadow of his hat, but she could see that he had forgotten to shave, and a soft smile was whispered upon his lips. She didn't trust him. To much kindness.

"Comment? Je ne sais pas. Je ne parle pas anglais." Perhaps he would go away if he thought she only spoke French. They were in Paris after all. It had been the girl's desperate shelter. From the traveling caravan that had feared her for her unwanted witchcraft. She was cursed for her sinful magic ways; that was why both her parents had been slaughtered. Such a creature was only welcomed begrudgingly, out of fear of what she would do if shunned. And she had sensed their fear. Their hatred. So she vanished. No one searched for her.

She disappeared within the large populace of Paris, hoping to find a nice, quiet hole, and slowly rot away. But her body's damn need to survive kept leaping into her path of self destruction. Kept her scrabbling on the filthy cobblestones and fighting other peasants.

"I said, where are you off to? Où allez-vous?" The man's smile didn't falter, and there was a chuckle to his question. The girl screwed up her face. Run? He didn't look like her would chase her. He look like one of those "kind gentlemen" who would put her into another orphanage. Where she was scolded for defending herself against the taunts of other children.

"Are you hungry? Tu faim?" He knelt to her level. "I was about to return to my room. If you would like, you could spend the night there too. It'll be warm." The girl stiffened. Oh. He was one of those men. Now she should defiantly run. As though sensing her mounting panic, the man soothed her. "Now now, don't you worry. I won't touch you if you don't want me to. We performers have to stick together in this tough world, and I would hate to discover you frozen later." She didn't answer. Her stomach mumbled a complaint, but she was all to ready to ignore it if it would save her life. A voice broke through her contemplation.

"Mana!" The man looked back, smile increasing several levels as a small, brown haired boy ran up to them. "Allen. Did you get lost again?" The boy looked angrily defensive. "No! I just…there was a candy shop and…who's she?" The girl hid deeper in her hood, wishing to disappear. A soft curtain of flurries fell from the sky and melted on her freezing toes and bloody fingers. "I don't know. But she looks like she could use warmth and food. Come on along, if you like." The man…Mana took Allen's hand and entered the inn behind the girl. She waited several seconds before following.

The inn was lively and warm, mugs of beer and glasses of wine prominent. The husky scent of bodies and sweat permeated the heady smell of stew, heavy laughter and singing flitting about the room. No one noted the little urchin girl making her way into the inn, eyes glancing about wearily. She followed Mana and Allen to their room, waiting paces behind to be invited. She would accept rejection. As she had accepted it her whole life. "Well, aren't you coming?" The boy, Allen, had a heavy British accent, and was looking right at her. His glance was nearly as suspicious as her own. She slowly entered the room.

Mana was placing their bag onto one of the beds. "Would you mind sharing a bed with Allen then? If not, I'll sleep on the floor." The girl blinked before giving a single, curt nod. "Good. Well, Allen and I are off to eat. I ordered some warm water for you to wash up." She gave another nod. They couldn't abandon her in the inn if their belongings were with her. Perhaps she would simply take the suitcase and leave anyway.

The inn keeper's daughter appeared, a steaming pitcher of perfumed water and a cloth in her hands. She tried to stifle the look of dismay and apprehension that all people gave the girl, and smiled stiffly at Mana. Who, in turn, shot the girl a reassuring glance.

"I'll see you at bedtime." And without Mana there to smile at, the serving girl had no problem abandoning the urchin to fend for herself.

The young girl peeled back her hood, taking off the cloak after what felt like years of wearing it. She blinked, inspecting herself in the small, foggy vanity in the room. Wide, lavender eyes blinked back at her, marking her as a witch, her sallow cheeks marking her as an urchin. Greasy black curls bounced down her back, the black of ravens' wings; black and purple and blue and green when held in the light. Her fingers -crusted with dirt but a deep mocha all the same- grasped the cloth, rubbing herself fast and hard. She didn't want to be seen without her hood. Her hood was safety. It was hidden.

If she was someone else, anything other than a gypsy and an urchin, her light eyes and her dark complexion would have made her enchanting, a beautiful child to grow into a beautiful woman.

But she was so she wasn't.

There was a knock at the door, and she realized, in a panic, that her hood was still tossed at her feet. Allen entered upon her grasping at the fabric, trying to hide like a child behind a blanket.

She felt him take her in from head to toe and back again; purpled muddy toes, ragged dress, long black hair, set chin with trembling lips and terrified purple eyes. His eyes paused on the dimly glowing bands on her arms and in her ears. She hoped he wouldn't try to take them; she couldn't take them off, and she'd tried!

Allen just sighed, shoving the bowl at her. "Here. It's lamb." She nodded stiffly, edging toward him carefully. He didn't move, stiffly holding out the platter like she was a frightened animal that could possibly bite him. As soon as she was close enough she snatched the bread from him, tearing into it viciously. It was gone in seconds.

She took her bowl and sat on the nearest bed, noticing, for the first time, that Allen had brought his food too. His eyes darted away and back, daring her to speak. "I don't like the noise downstairs. So…I'm gonna eat up here." She didn't busy shoveling stew so hot she was burning herself but just hot enough to almost make her forget the slush of her gutter. All she could do was blink at him and hiss as she burned her tongue.

Allen sat beside her, careful to keep the space between them in tact. After a few moments of eating (Allen ate with the same desperate intensity that she held) she spoke.

"Father?" Her accent was deep. She was a river-girl, a gypsy whose who life had been on the waters that flowed through France. English was not her native tongue. Allen started at the sound of her voice. "You speak English?" She nodded curtly, still waiting for his answer. He blushed a bit under her intense look, too intense for a child of eight, but he refused to look away. "No. Mana's not my da. He…picked me up, I guess. But I don't have any parents." The girl chewed a tough piece of lamb, working over his answer. No parents? He was an orphan…a piece of street scum too? She was more comfortable knowing this.

"What's your name?" She blinked. It didn't matter. "Zahara."

"No surname?"

"Non." Curiosity flashed behind Allen's eyes, although he had once again started vacuuming up his stew. "You're done already?" Yes. Zahara's bowl was empty. She wasn't hungry anymore, not that he was offering her his food. The boy was acting more starved than she was, and she hadn't eaten in over twenty-four hours.

"Where's your mum and dad?" Ah, the inevitable question. She acted like she didn't hear him. Because she didn't like to talk about that night, that terrible night of hiding in a fallen tree and hoping that the men who had killed her father and were doing bad, bad things to her mother wouldn't find her. Too scared to even try to save her mother. So scared…too scared…

Allen didn't ask again.

The night in the inn was the most peaceful Zahara had had in a long time. There was no chill, not with Allen's warmth right beside her, and Mana's loud snoring was comical and reassuring. She would've smiled, but her lips had forgotten how to.

Zahara would've liked to stay, really, truly. Pretend this was her bed and Allen was her brother and Mana her father and she was surrounded in warmth and love. Never again be forced to wander the streets in the dead of winter and hope someone had enough pity to place a coin into her prematurely calloused hand.

A mother to kiss.

A father to smile.

A brother to protect.

A sister to hug.

And maybe a little dog. Just for love.

How many times have these thoughts kept her warm in her gutter? And how often had the winds swept them away, out of her grasp and out of her sights?

At midnight, when Zahara was sure both kind visitors were in deep sleep, she took her leave.