Disclaimer: Don't own it. –grumblegrumble-
A/N: I apologize if "Winter" looks like it's going nowhere. I hope that all you readers out there are enjoying this so far. Oh yeah, I noticed that my season pieces are becoming progressively longer. W00t!1
I also like to tell you readers that the moment doesn't always necessarily go with the tone and personality of the season. I did not specify that in the summary 'kay?
When I was small, winter frightened me.
If people's vision of winter is an old man with a walking stick, hunched over, then they are sorely mistaken. Winter is nowhere near so decrepit and gray; she's a seductress dressed in white, her cheeks a frosty glass and her lips blood red. Her eyes are steely, her skin nearly transparent, and when she howls, nothing but arctic gales fly from her ruddy mouth.
The tree branches would snap and crack under piles of snow, moan and sigh from the wind's relentless lashing. The noises often intensified at night, and I would snuggle deep inside the covers, burying my face in the threadbare pillow, shivering uncontrollably. More often than not, I'd wake up to every winter morning with a fever, my nose bright red, and Mum standing at my side with a bowl of hot soup.
It made me mad to see my brothers dashing outside with whoops and yells, running headlong into the snow. Usually they wouldn't come back in until dinner, breathless, their clothes instantly wet and soggy once inside the warm house. And I'll be sitting there, wrapped in a thick blanket, glaring reproachfully at them as they related events of snowball fights, angel imprints on the ground, and who had made the biggest snowman.
When I did get to go outside, though, I played as hard as any of them, hollering and crashing through their snowmen, determined to show that yes, I am one of them, but yes, I'm better. Of course, Ron or the twins would then laugh and cry, "Dog pile on Ginny!" It was rowdy, and I loved it. All that was back before they saw me differently, before I was a delicate, female Ginny. To them, I was their sister, the same in every aspect I can think of save our gender.
Christmas was a huge affair, complete with gifts for each member of our immediate family, a substantial dinner feast, and a carol sung at the very end, near midnight. We each had our turn to pick a song year after year, though eventually we had ran out of carols and so we repeated, frequently with substituted words and phrases that made us all laugh.
My brothers and I would receive our standard sweater, courtesy of Mum, and perhaps a special treat, if we were lucky, and that past year was good. Sometimes I would get a new item of clothing, but that was rare and all the more precious. I would try to give Mum something too with the money that I had somehow managed to scrape up during the year, but as always, I never quite managed to raise enough funds.
At school, the teachers are lenient and jolly from the impending holidays. Everyone is merry, their cheeks rosy and full. Even the Slytherins are not as snarky, the Gryffindors not as obnoxious.
Winter also comes in the form of mistletoe, scattered about our school grounds like booby traps, ready to ensnare an unsuspecting boy and a hopeful girl. Luckily, no one has tried anything on me yet, though the fact that I have 3 brothers constantly by my side seems to help too.
The lake has a thin icy layer over it, undisturbed until the end of February, and the snow blankets the roads and meandering trails, making it near impossible to trudge through unless you have a shovel. My breaths come in little huffs and puffs, and I wave my hand through the ersatz fog I make.
And even though it has been several years since I was but a child at the Burrow, winter still scares me when I am at my most vulnerable. Some nights when I can't sleep and look out the window, the snow drifts towards the ground, a harsh white against a backdrop of navy blue, never black. Never completely black. Everyone is blissfully asleep in their beds, including the portraits and the Trio even.
And that's when it hits me, on those kinds of nights. It's quiet, painfully so, without a noise to focus on except my own shallow breathing, and if I hold my breath long enough, there's a dull thump in my ears, the sounds of my heartbeat filling that silent void. There's quiet, and then there's quiet, the sort of peace that is forced on, smothering everything, like death.
Yes. More than anything, winter reminds me of death and the torpid hush it brings along soon after.
I'm awake. Sheets way over my head, covering me whole. Shuffle, shuffle, deeper into the mattress, hug the pillow tighter. It's really warm. Let's just stay inside for the rest of the day.
It can't be morning. Not yet. What day is it? Groggily I open my eyes, rubbing them. I throw the covers off of me, gasping sharply at the sudden chill, hard little bumps instantly appearing on my arms. I sit up in bed, drawing the blankets closer.
It's the weekend the rational part of mind states. Saturday was yesterday. Oh right. Of course. I mentally slap a hand to my forehead. …All right time for sleep again. I dive back in once more, burying myself underneath the cottony warmth, not at all threadbare.
I lay there listening to other people's breathing for a few minutes before I softly groan. Can't fall back asleep again. Damn. I might as well get up and walk around. There's nothing else to do; everyone's knocked out until at least eleven. I look out the window, the sky only just beginning to lighten. It would be a few hours before the pink of dawn would creep across the light blue.
Sighing loudly, I slide off of the bed and head towards the bathroom…
The snow stopped a few minutes ago. I'm building an abysmal snowman, my first one since winter began. I have less than a week left before I'm off to the Burrow, with Harry and Hermione possibly coming along. The gloves on my hands are doing nothing to ward off the cold as I pack the snow against the snowman, smoothing the edges, making the figure rotund.
I'm working on the snowman's middle body. The head is on the ground, awaiting my numb fingers. I blow on my hands and rub them. Still cold. Very cold. Since this snowman is my first one in a while, it's rather difficult to discern from two giant lumps of snow. I'm trying though.
Half an hour has passed. The once pink sky is blocked from my gaze by dreary, wintry clouds. I had forgotten how hard it was to build the perfect snowman. But, I'm almost finished. The head is distinguishable; the only thing lacking is a pair of arms. I look around for two skinny branches. I find a pair lying conveniently on the hard ground a few yards away. I walk over and bend down to pick them up when a decidedly loud crunch was heard.
It was the kind of crunch the snow makes when it's grinded to the earth. I quickly turn around to see a person pushing all of my hard work to the ground. Within moments, my snowman was dead. Armless. Oh the humanity. The person has light blonde hair and is looking my way. Oh hell, not him again.
He has that smirk on as I'm marching through snow towards my deceased snowman. I glance down at my time and effort, wasted. I sigh. He sneers. The world goes on.
"I took one look at that pathetic lump of a snow figure and decided to improve it for you," he states, "It looks so much better don't you think?"
I look at him blankly. "Did you just randomly show up here to destroy my snowman?"
He shrugs, that sneer still plastered on. "I woke up early, took a walk round, and came upon the monstrosity. I put it out of its misery. You should thank me."
I can only shake my head and sigh again. "Look, if you're here to bother me, do what you normally do and be off. I really don't see the point of you putting me down all the time."
I'm not sure, but something about him always makes me feel exasperated, ready to snap. I already feel uncomfortable enough simply standing in front of him because of the money differences, but all the same he puts my senses on high alert. Hence the sudden bursts of audacity and wit coming out of my big mouth.
He raises an eyebrow, dusts some snow off of his shoulders. "Because, Weasel, it's fun. Besides, as you have said before, I have nothing else to do so why shouldn't I waste my time and leisure on the less fortunate?"
I blink, my eyes growing wide. He remembers? It's in the middle of December, and he still remembers all the way back to August? He really must have nothing else to do. However, he speaks the truth, and I can't say anything. I let the seconds drag by until he realizes that I have no response and smirks again.
"Can't say anything for once? What happened to all the clever wordplay? I knew it wouldn't last forever."
I rub my hands and cough. "I didn't feel like saying anything. Now, if we're just going to stand out here and talk all day, I suggest that we cut this conversation short now. I'm losing the feeling in my fingers, and you will too, soon."
"I won't, not with these," he says, holding up his hands to show off a costly looking pair of dragon hide gloves. I gulp. What I wouldn't give to wear them right now as I look down to see own pair of ratty gloves. "And in the very latest style," he adds with a flourish.
"Which I'm sure your precious Daddy bought just for you," I mutter, "Impractical."
He crosses his arms. "Indulgence."
"Overkill."
"You're just jealous."
"Jealous of you? What ever could you have that I would possibly want?" I regret to admit that I'm slightly smiling as I say this.
His eyes had a glint. "Countless things."
I wave my hand dismissively. "Things of which I'm sure that are small and inconsequential."
"Aren't you demeaning yourself a bit?"
"Not in the least."
He stares, and I stare back just as vehemently. I'm having another lucid conversation with Malfoy. Is it really he or a nice boy in disguise because, surely, someone like him doesn't plainly talk to someone like me?
Abruptly, there is a slow creak and a crash. A moment later, snow from tree branches hanging over us fell to the ground. Well it would have had it not been that we were in their way. I spit out a mouthful of very cold water while Malfoy lets out a stream of colorful expletives that Peeves would have appreciated. I'm sure I look lovely right now with snow in my bright red hair. What a ludicrous sight.
"Damn it! I just washed my hair!" he gripes, "Stupid snow!"
What a baby. "You were the one who decided to go outside in the first place," I shrewdly point out.
"Oh shut up!" he snaps, "What do I care about what you think?"
I open and shut my mouth, surprised and a bit…something. It's a weird feeling, and it takes a few seconds for me to realize that I'm talking to Malfoy. Right, I almost forgot. Strange.
He dusts the snow off of him in short, jerky movements, grumbling angrily all the while. When he's done he straightens his posture and tries to assume his normal, intimidating pose. Snow is still laced is his hair, however, and I think I'll refrain from informing him. After all, what does it matter what I say?
There's a light flush of healthy color on his cheeks, and his hair is somewhat mussed from the snow, with strands of blonde poking out. He's still glaring at me with those insolent eyes of his, but at least he's not saying anything right now. Crap, I jinxed it.
"What are you looking at?" he demands. I realize that I've been staring at him all this time, and immediately my eyes look at something else. Yes, I jinxed it.
"I was trying to figure that out," I couldn't resist replying. My mouth will be the death of me; I swear.
He scowls. "You won't ever shut that mouth of yours, will you?"
My gaze begins to drift elsewhere, away from this conversation. "Afraid not."
"Then," he says, crouching down," I'll just have to shut it for you."
And before I can react, he packs a snowball and hurls it right into my face. The force of impact sends me stumbling backwards. My eyes are stinging; I've got ice-cold water in my mouth and nose. I sputter and cough, startled, and wipe the snow off of my face.
He smirks, his bad mood gone. I stare at the ground, unsure of what to do until the irrational part of my mind takes over, and I quickly scoop up some snow, pack it, and chuck the damn snowball right at that snobby, aristocratic nose. Surprise is clearly registered on his features before he deftly catches it with one hand, forgetting that I had thrown it quite forcefully.
So the snowball explodes into thousands of tiny shards in his hand, a lot of them peppering his face, which includes his nose, and I am pleased. He wipes his face clean and throws me a scathing glare.
"Huh, whatever happened to that weak-minded Potter-lover I saw back then?" he mutters.
I blink. "There's no need to bring him into this."
"Aw, protecting your lover?" he coos, "Or should I say your bloody god?"
He's not my god. I sigh and chuckle. "I should have known there is no level too low for a Malfoy to stoop to. I've always wondered why your family put up such a noble façade anyway, spouting on about honor or some other bollocks like that."
"We are Slytherins," he proclaims and stands up a little straighter, "We know our goals and are not easily distracted by some virtuous need to right all things. Not like you lot, with your loud-mouthed speeches of defending the weak and to always take that right path."
I instantly think of Harry and Ron, and all their schemes to thwart Riddle. "Sometimes," I answer quietly to myself, "the right path isn't always so straight."
"Your House never knows when to shut up," Malfoy continues (I think it ironic); "It's constantly about the damn greater good. You could pick up a thing or two from us. Maybe we could even get you…recruited."
I know he's joking. He must be. I widen my eyes and look at him incredulously. "It's not always black and white between the Houses," I reply, my voice still soft, "Surely you all of people must know that. Just because you're in Gryffindor doesn't automatically place you at odds with Slytherin and Riddle. You're not a follower of Riddle by default if you're placed in Slytherin. That House embodies other qualities too. All the other Houses do."
"So even when you're in Gryffindor and your intentions are in the right place, that doesn't mean your ways of reaching your objectives are always so straightforward and safe."
It's the truest thing I've said all day, and I'm surprised that I even came up with something like this. I stand in front of him, feeling awkward and stupid. It's still frightfully cold, and I'm not getting any warmer if I continue to stand here.
He looks at me for the longest moment before shaking his head. With one eyebrow raised, he says, "If that was the case, you've had all the chances in the world to stop your little friends from doing Merlin-knows-what. Isn't that right?"
The word comes out before I can stop myself. "What?" Yes, one-word questions are so eloquent, Ginny.
As predicted, he sighs theatrically. "What I mean is that somewhere in your empty head, you should have realized by now that everything your friends have been scheming and planning and doing are precisely what you just said. And if it's true what I said, which it is, then you've had all the opportunities to stop them. So why haven't you? Is it maybe because you aren't exactly good yourself? Hmm, perhaps there is more than meets the eye."
I open and close my mouth; he's made me speechless again. Why is he always doing that? It's true, all of it, and I keep on refusing to make sense of it. I don't try to stop them; I only watch, and they leave me alone. I know what they're doing is wrong, but somehow…
Am I weak then?
"Weasley," he says sharply, and I meet his eyes again. The expression on his face is oddly sober. I gulp involuntarily.
He narrows his eyes. "Don't you have anything to say?"
I have many things to say. You're wrong; I'm not weak. I'm not. The next time I see Harry, Ron, and Hermione trying something, I will speak up. Attempt to stop them because playing dirty isn't their job; it's yours. They're not meant to play the game like that. It doesn't suit Harry. I bet he feels horrible. He just has to.
I'm staring at Malfoy, stringing nonsensical words together in my head, when my eyes wander yet again. Most of the snow is brushed off of his hair, though the white in some of the ice makes the blonde stand out more. I've always liked that shade of light blonde. It reminds me of an innocent child, for some reason. His posture is ramrod straight, taken directly from the traditional Malfoy upbringing, I suppose, and I've got to admire that.
It's delicate and yet strong, the way he looks, like the silk of a spider's web. I know what his hands can do, but it's unnerving to hide that strength in such a thin body. The robes just seem to hang on him.
The pastel white of the background makes his skin look even paler, like a ghost, and it makes me notice the dark hollows under his eyes, how tired and stressed he is. The eyes are a very nondescript gray, as blank as the stones on the school walls, and all they do is reflect, like there's nothing underneath, nothing worth mentioning about him.
The way he looks is haunting, and suddenly, I understand him a bit more than I used to.
"No, Malfoy," I say slowly, finding my voice at last, "for once, you win this verbal match. I'm going back inside, and you should too."
He looks taken aback for a second, but recovers quickly with a smirk. "What should you care about what I do?"
I shrug. "I don't know. You just look cold, standing there like you're waiting for something, but I don't know what it is that you're waiting for."
I leave it at that and watch him walk off without another word, leaving footprints on the blank snow that will eventually be covered again. I don't have anything more to say to him for today.
YEAH! Go me! Well, this turned out longer than I'd expected, but I'm ultimately pleased with the results. So please me some more by reviewing!