"Falling Snow"

by CNGB

Special thanks to:

J. K. Rowling, for writing the Harry Potter series.

Edgar Allan Poe, for writing "The Bells."

Nocturne of Eclipse for making me one of your favorite authors.

Seleneskysong for favoriting"Soon;" Nocturne of Eclipse for also favoriting "Let's Read a Good Book;" and Chocolate Frog Card for favoriting "Everyone Dies."

Jessica for reviewing "Everyone Dies;" and Nocturne of Eclipse for also reviewing "Let's Read a Good Book."

And of course, to you, who is reading this.

Word count: 3,599

Rating: K

Warnings: Symbolism (if you do not understand the symbolism by the end of the story, which is possible, just as it is with anything else, I will explain it at the very end); potentially out-of-character original characters.

Categories: (vague) Spiritual

Legal junk: I do not own Harry Potter; I do not own "The Bells."

It is important to note that this one-shot was inspired by part one of Edgar Allan Poe's terrific poem, "The Bells" (which is provided right below this). Because of that, there will be three more other separate one-shots-not all of which are going to be in the Harry Potter fandom-as a follow-up for this one. I originally got the idea of how I had the mental image of riding to a relative's house by the first part of this poem, which made me think of "Jingle Bells," which made me think of Christmas. At first, I had this planned out to go out shortly after 2011 Christmas, but I didn't have access to the Internet on that day. It was a true shame . . . .

Hear the sledges with the bells—
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle,
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells bells—
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Snow was falling.

Falling, just like it always did, the snow practically covered Little Whinging. Some of the children whose parents had woken them up early were already outside, playing with each other and enjoying the weather as well as the weekend. Some of the children, of course, were still inside, either oblivious to the snow that they would soon want to jump right in to, or completely and utterly uncaring towards it which was generally some of the older kids.

Normally, Dudley Dursley's parents, Vernon and Petunia, would allow him to stay home (as it was the weekend, and also the first snowfall of the year) and play in the snow. But, for some reason, the Dursley family was going out to the countryside to visit Dudley's aunt, Marge Dursley. That was so stupid—at least it was in Dudley's opinion—because they could go visit her any old time. But who knew when the snow would disappear? It always did, after all. Dudley had noticed that in his early years. It stuck around for a while, and then, one day, he would wake up and there was no more fluffy, cold, white stuff decorating the ground.

"Dudleykins," cooed his mother, "it's time to get up."

Petunia was a thin woman with a long neck, always spoiling Dudley and whatnot. To Dudley, she was a very good mother. Despite his personal beliefs, though, sometimes some people said that she looked very nosy and harsh. That always earned them a well-earned punch, usually to the head.

Dudley squirmed. "Mum, it's early!"

"I know, Duddy, but we need to get in the car and start driving. Your dad wants to get to Aunt Marge's as soon as possible."

Grumbling about mornings, Dudley slowly got out of bed. It was warm in his room, but Mum knew that it would be cold outside, so she had already picked out his clothes for him. As soon as she had left his room, and Dudley was done sluggishly putting his clothes on, he jumped back on the bed, successfully rumpling his sweater and pants. Dudley closed his eyes, thinking that he would only rest his eyes, but then—

Knock, knock, knock.

Groggily, Dudley raised his head to look at the door. "What is it?"

A thin, black-haired, green-eyed boy walked into the room. It was Dudley's freaky cousin, Harry Potter. His parents died in a car crash when he was young, and was sent to live with the Dursley family—Harry's last remaining relatives.

"Dudley, Uncle Vernon says that you really need to get up. Breakfast is ready."

"Alright, I'm getting up! Sheesh."

Harry left from the door, and Dudley decided that it was best for him to go ahead and head down into the kitchen.

Just as his cousin had said, a nice, big breakfast was ready and waiting for Dudley in the kitchen. Dad, who looked like an older version of Dudley (on the large side, with blond hair and blue eyes), was there, and so was Mum, who was just telling Harry (who was finishing off a slice of toast) to go to Mrs. Figgs, because they didn't want him coming along to visit Aunt Marge. Dudley had a vague idea that Harry would rather be with Mrs. Figgs than with Aunt Marge, though. Harry left the kitchen and went out the door, and Dudley sat down.

"Good morning, Dudley," greeted Dad.

Dudley did not return it. Instead, his attention became fixated on his breakfast, which consisted of pancakes, eggs, bacon and toast, with orange juice.

"Vernon, are you done with your plate?"

"Yes, dear," said Dad as Mum picked a food-free plate off the table and set it in the dishwasher.

Dudley was able to finish his plate fairly quickly, and Mum freed him of it just as she had Dad.

"Dad, can we go now?" Dudley didn't really want to go and visit Aunt Marge; he just wanted to get the ride over and done with.

"Yes, yes, I think we can. Petunia, are you ready?" Dad asked, chuckling as he put on his large gray coat.

"I am."

And so, with that, the Dursley family stuffed themselves into the car and drove off, leaving Little Whinging's snow behind them.

It was a strange thing for Dudley: the snow. In all of the years before, Dudley had been very excited to see the snow when it came. But for some reason, he wasn't nearly as happy about it as he usually was. For some reason, it just seemed to Dudley that it was getting old. What was so special about the cold, anyway? Nothing much, as far as he was concerned. And with cold came snow, so what was special about the snow? Nothing much for that, either.

How strange.

The car ride to Aunt Marge's was long and boring, but somehow (and he would never figure out how he actually lived through the torture), Dudley somehow managed to survive. Most of the time, he just gazed out of the backseat window, still curiously wondering where the excitement of winter had gone, but Dudley did manage to get one short nap in. Wouldn't being in the car for a few hours justify his need for a nap? He certainly thought so, nine-year-old or not.

Finally, though, the three Dursleys were met with sounds of barking bulldogs, and Aunt Marge went outside of her house to greet them.

"Vernon!" she exclaimed as Dad got out of the car. "How wonderful it is to see you again." She hugged him tightly, and then went to Mum, and then came around to Dudley and nearly squeezed him to death—or at least, that's what Dudley thought was going to happen.

She gestured for them to go quickly into her house ("Quickly, now, quickly, we don't want any of us catching cold!") and led them into the living room, where a TV was showing one of Dudley's favorite cartoons. Smiling to himself, he sat down on Aunt Marge's red chair and started laughing at the silly characters running around. Only vaguely was Dudley aware of his parents and his aunt bustling around ("We don't need anything to eat, really, we ate before we left, but I think we could all use some fresh water.") in the kitchen.

Aunt Marge appeared in front of him a few minutes into the show with a tall glass of water, and Dudley took it from her, making sure to get as much water as he could (being in the warm car had dehydrated him, a bit).

"Dudley, dear," Aunt Marge said, "would you like to go outside and play in the snow?"

Almost lazily, Dudley turned his round head towards the window, gazing at it. "Sure."

Dudley left his parents and aunt, and was joined by Aunt Marge's favorite bulldog, Ripper. The biting snow completely enveloped them. His feet left imprints on the blanketed ground, and just for a second, he wondered how long they would remain before wind came along and forced them to disappear.

But, really, though, Dudley didn't think that the snow was nearly as interesting as he had thought it was the year before, and the year before that, and the year before that . . . . What had changed? Was it because he was a big boy now, that Dudley didn't think the snow was that pretty, that Dudley didn't want to go and make imprints of angels and men of snowflakes and have wars with the neighbors, the ammunition being cold, wet, soggy balls of snow?

It was strange—or at least, he thought so. But then, Dudley didn't really want to spend a whole lot of time on the subject. The snow was all of a sudden so very boring. He really couldn't think of the reason of why he had ever wanted to play in it. Didn't make much sense, did it? All it was was just white stuff that made everything so much colder. It would come again and again every year, and it would never stop, and Dudley would never miss it.

Sighing, Dudley turned to Aunt Marge's dog. "What about you, Ripper? Is the snow fun to you?"

As a reply—Dudley supposed it was supposed to be a sort of reply, anyway—Ripper dug his already wet, cold nose in the snow and began digging, kicking the flakes everywhere and getting Dudley rather cold.

"Ah," Dudley said, after he had wiped the snow Ripper had kicked off from the ground from his face, "I see."

Despite it being so cold, Dudley still walked around Aunt Marge's yard, dodging yellow spots from her dogs and making big, deep prints in the snow itself—from his feet, of course. Finally, though, when he gave up on trying to figure out why he didn't have any interest in the snow, he left the outside world for the warmth.

When he got inside, he discovered that the adults were doing nothing particularly special, all though they were drinking some of that drink Dad and Mum wouldn't let him have, which seemed to be called brandy. Aunt Marge asked Dudley if she could get him anything, and after he said that he didn't, he left for the room he had always slept in when he went to visit Aunt Marge, which was nothing more than a simple guest room. As far as Dudley was concerned, there was absolutely nothing to do in the countryside, and goodness he wished that there was at least a computer, but nooooo . . . .

Time passed quickly as Dudley watched the falling snow. He thought about it, mostly, but sometimes he just didn't think at all and spent all of his time watching the flakes. After a little while, he realized—by looking at the alarm clock, which sat on the bedside table—that it was nearly ten o' clock.

Normally at that time he would be out like a light, but for some reason, Dudley wasn't that tired. Instead, he lay on his bed, staring out at the window. A half-moon was out, illuminating the fallen snow. It had stopped snowing a few hours prior to Dudley's usual bed time (which was nine), but the ground was still completely covered. According to Dad, the snow wouldn't be going too far until a few months away.

Dudley groaned. How he wished that the snow was interesting again! At least then he would be able to do something a bit more . . . entertaining. Snow had always given him something to do. Perhaps—just perhaps—it was simply because he wasn't in Little Whinging with his friends, and therefore had no one to play with, that he was so bored with it. But as soon as he had come up with that conclusion, however, Dudley realized that that couldn't be the reason, because he had been to Aunt Marge's once before when it was snowing, and he had found the weather just as fun as he did when he was back on Privet Drive.

Maybe Dudley was just becoming a big boy, and didn't need the snow to entertain him anymore.

After nearly three days out in the country, Dudley, Dad and Mum were ready to head back to Little Whinging. Dudley, who had forgotten about the absence of the love of snow in his life because of Aunt Marge's TV in her living room, suddenly remembered that he wanted to see if any of the other neighborhood kids of his age were going through the same thing that he was. The first person he would see (most likely) would be Harry, but Dudley wasn't sure if his cousin was the right person to ask. Harry Potter, after all, was pretty freaky.

As they were driving, Dudley took in the quickly disappearing scenes. Trees, covered in snow. Houses, covered in snow. Vehicles, covered in snow. Post offices and libraries and playgrounds, all covered in snow.

It wasn't beautiful. Why?

The Dursley family eventually made it back to Number Four, Privet Drive, and soon, Harry came back from Mrs. Figg's, looking cold and tired (Dudley's cousin didn't exactly have the thickest coat in the world, and from what Dudley heard in the cupboard, Harry didn't always get perfect sleep), but strangely just a bit happy. Only a bit.

"What are you grinning about?" Dudley asked Harry as Dad and Mum went into their bedroom.

Harry looked at Dudley as if he was a particularly stupid alien. "It's snowing."

"So?"

Just as Dudley had thought, Harry was the wrong person to talk to.

"'So?' So, it's snowing!"

Shaking his head, Dudley left Harry in the hall.

As Sunday finally came to a close, Dudley dreaded going back to school. That, of course, was nothing new. Dudley detested school . . . much like basic exercise. It was always so darn boring and, at least in Dudley's sincerest opinion, it was designed to make children go insane. Completely pointless on so many levels, Dudley thought that he was going to try and skip.

"I think they'll figure it out."

"Oh, shut up. They would figure out you, maybe, but I just have to tell them that I don't want to go. Poof! No questions asked!"

Harry frowned at Dudley, looking as if he was a bit jealous, and sniffed. "I guess so."

"I know so."

And it worked. On Monday morning, when Mum tried to get Dudley up, he merely moaned and groaned and told her that he really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really didn't want to go to school that day, and, in her wonderful heart of hearts, she did not make him get up. Instead, with glassy eyes, she told Dad that Dudley must have caught a cold while out at Aunt Marge's, and that he would have to stay away from the other school children for a few days.

He did it again on Tuesday, and then again on Wednesday. During the afternoon, Harry was sent up to Dudley's (who was playing a rather fun game, where you had to blow up all of these aliens) room to tell him that dinner was ready and that Mum wanted him down.

"You know," said Harry slowly, "I think I'm going to try playing your game tomorrow."

Dudley shrugged. "Go ahead. I was thinking about going to school, anyway. Pierce said that we're going to be getting permission slips so that we can go on a field trip tomorrow."

The next morning, however, Dudley woke up to his aunt's yells ("Get up, boy! You're not running a fever! Up!") downstairs, and knew that Harry had failed in his plan to skip. Smiling bitterly, Dudley made his way down the stairs and into the hall. Mum was no longer there, all though Harry was just getting out of his cupboard.

"Didn't work, did it?"

Harry sighed.

When they were done with their morning routine, the two boys made their way down to the bus stop. Harry was sort of joyous, despite his failure to skip school. Dudley, on the other hand, was only mildly interested, but, once again, it was because he wasn't enjoying the snow like he had before—or, even, like Harry was. For, indeed, the gray clouds so far above Surrey had started to sprinkle their flakes down upon them once more.

"Why do you love the snow so much?"

Harry looked at him, surprised. "Why don't you?"

Dudley could only shrug. "I don't know."

"You're weird."

Harry was forced to duck Dudley's fist.

The two of them waited in awkward silence—not that awkward silence was very uncommon between Dudley and Harry—until the bus finally saved them. Dudley went to sit with his friends towards the middle, and Harry found his usual seat, which he sat at, alone, until nowhere else was available and one of the other kids were forced to sit beside him. It was like that every day.

It was routine for all of the kids in the front to become very excited and gaze longingly out the bus's windows at the snow when it snowed. The teens in the back, of course, did no such thing. Because they were big kids. Like Dudley? Why wasn't Dudley like the rest of the kids his age? It didn't make much sense for him not to be. Nothing had really happened since last year, except he had become nine. For the Dursley family, was it custom to start being a big boy at the age of nine?

Everyone around him continued to be overly excited, pressing their noses against the windows, throughout the bus ride. To Dudley's astonishment, almost all of his classmates continued to gawk at the snow. He, along with two other boys that usually stayed in the back of the class and a girl who sat in the middle, were the only ones not pushing each other down to get to the window as soon as the teacher left the room, or even moved her gaze from them to something on her desk.

Taking a deep breath, Dudley decided that he wanted to see the snow, too. Maybe, if he got around everyone else, he would see what they seen—what he used to see. Maybe he was just looking at it wrong. Maybe the joy out of it wasn't really all gone . . . .

But, to Dudley Dursley's great despair, as he pushed and shoved the other kids out of his way, he still seen nothing particularly interesting. Where had it all gone to? All the excitement? The question remained unanswered to Dudley, because the snow was still so very, very—and he almost hated to think the word, but—boring nowadays. He just simply couldn't figure out where all the excitement out of it had come from. Why would he much rather be locked in his room, playing his video games and blasting computerized aliens into oblivion and thinking of things to ask his parents to get him for his birthday and Christmas and plotting who would be his little gang's next victim . . . . It was so strange. So very, very strange.

And really, Dudley really, really did hate to say that snow was "boring" now when it had served him so well for about eight lovely years before. It had always been so beautiful, so pretty, and had always been so very exciting. But, all of those powerful forces of positive energy had seemingly been drained from the snow and the world around him. It was like . . . like losing a very dear friend, one that he had known since the moment of his birth. That was utterly impossible, though. It's not like Dudley was born when it was snowing!

Even so, Dudley was pretty sure that the feeling of "losing an old friend" served pretty well for his case. Dudley didn't really understand why it actually hurt him—not physically, but emotionally—to feel the way about his absence of care for the snow, but then, he supposed he didn't really have to. All that actually mattered that the snow just didn't matter anymore.

Like he had thought to himself before, the only plausible explanation for his sudden disinterest in the snow was that he was just growing up. Maybe he was developing faster than the rest of his peers (Harry had once said that he was definitely doing that when it came to his weight—Dudley had chased Harry half-way across southeast England for that comment), just like Mum had told him he was.

Somehow, though, he doubted that was the case.

Sighing, Dudley stepped away, over the bodies of his classmates that he had pushed to the ground in order to make his way to the window, where they had all been crowding around. Just then, Mrs. Collins came in from the lady's room.

"Oh, get a grip, all of you! Haven't you seen snow before?"

Yes, thought Dudley, sadly. He had seen snow before. The stuff that was coming from the sky outside of the building, though, was that really snow? Where did his absolute love for it all go?

Poor Dudley was so confused.

Falling, just like it always did, the snow practically covered Little Whinging. All of the children were being held against their will in the treacherous school building, being forced to learn boring things that they would never need in a billion years. Some of the kids had hope for hours to come, that the snow would still be outside so that they could go out there, and play. Some of the others, though, didn't really care either way.

Snow was falling.

As I mentioned above, this was a very symbollic one-shot, and if you didn't get what the snow was supposed to symbolize (innocence), then you probably didn't enjoy it. But, hey, maybe it's good for those of you who are fixing to be in high school.

This was a slightly harder story for me to finish, but I was able to finish it in the end. Yay, me.

- CNGB