Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the property J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended.
Touch The Snow
Snow was a treacherous thing. People presented it as so pure, so clean. A symbol of all things good and soft. And yet it was so weak.
Of course, as it just began to litter the ground, it made the world sparkle. When it blanketed the earth, it acted as an equalizer, turning the world to white. But it gave way so easily. It wasn't its own. It belonged o whoever came and held it in their hands. And it never fought, it never fell from those cupped hands. It only melted, and through melting it lost all of its endearing qualities and became commonplace again.
When you took it in your hands, you could do what you wanted with it. It molded to fit your fingers and, unless it melted, it would retain that shape long after you were gone. But it was not constant, even in that sense. Like its beauty, it was fleeting. The second a foot pressed against it, it lost its softness and its purity. Grooves and shaped indented there stole your attention from the snow. It was no longer a question of where the snow came from, but where the footprint lead.
What good was something so pure and bright if it gave no purity or brightness to anything else? If it selfishly kept it all to itself, then carelessly allowed it to be destroyed by curious hands? It was good to view, perhaps, but never nice to touch. To touch it was to destroy it, and to be destroyed by it.
It appeared so slight and delicate, yet when you pressed it to your hand, you were overcome by startling, cold, unbearable pain.
And yet people endured this pain. They touched the snow, time and again, fully aware that the snow would lose its blanket-like shape. Fully aware that it would burn their skin. But they chose to touch the snow.