Author's Note: Merry Christmas. ;-)
Disclaimer: I own nothing in the Potterverse, and use nothing from it to gain anything but joy.
Snow is falling, quickly now, but it melts away the second it touches the ground. You can practically hear the disappointment from the Hufflepuffs: no romantic white Christmas with fluffy snow that blankets the school. Just a cold, soggy Christmas Eve.
I walk especially slowly tonight, as my feet cover their usual terrain. Up around the lake I almost slipped on a patch of ice. But, of course, a Malfoy would never do anything as undignified as slip.
It was in the process of my near-fall I caught sight of ebony, tightly curled and soft. I'd recognize the head of Harry Potter anywhere. Lightly dusted with snow, his hair was even more unruly than usual. The wet of the slush pushed his black tresses against his forehead, and over his eyes.
Harry Potter's eyes: whether you love them or hate them, you know them. No one can explain them with mere words, really. They're not 'emerald' or 'dazzling' so much as seeing. Not many a person has eyes that can truly see, and not just look.
His eyes catch mine, for the barest of seconds, before they pushed right in. I wonder, sometimes, what he sees when he looks through me.
I right myself, standing tall again, and move forward. Right, left. Step, step. Heel, toe, heel, toe. One foot in front of the other. Somehow, I end up next to Harry Potter, looking into those seeing eyes on Christmas eve, approximately 8 o'clock in the evening. He doesn't seem surprised in the slightest. But then, neither am I.
When his stare gets a little too intense, I close my eyes. His cold, pale pink lips come to rest on mine. I wrap my arms around his neck, as sigh a little. But certainly not loud enough to be heard, no.
I frown as his lips pull away, but I dare not open my eyes. After all, those with their eyes open run the risk of seeing.
And as hard as it was, I walked away from Harry Potter. He'll be there in the morning, waiting. And you can't peek at the presents before it's time, you know?
On my way back to Slytherin, I sigh again, but a little bit louder this time. I squirm as I realize just how proud I would make any Hufflepuff. Oh well. These things can't be helped.
Maybe there's a little bit of romance in a slushy Christmas Eve after all.