To see these two boys rolling in the blindingly white snow, kicking up clouds of powder and dried pine needles, one would think a play-wrestling match, an innocent game of "Catch Me If You Can" maybe. To see them stop, panting, pulling at their respective gloves and scarves in the heat of exertion, one might think best friends, comfortable with themselves, each other, and the world around them
And to see them kiss, a hand in unruly black hair, a hand entwined in white-blonde silk, one would think love, and turn away smiling.
And so it matters not who these boys are, what colors they wear. It matters not that the darkest, most feared wizard in history has marked one, or that the other will be marked, before he comes of age. Because when one sees them in the snow, or in an empty classroom, they see love in its truest and most natural form, and the bodies it happens to occupy at that time do not matter at all.
A-N: This was written in class, and I still don't really know what to think of it. Review!