Categories > Books > Harry Potter
Footsteps crunch as boots pass through fresh snow. It is winter-- Christmas, from the twinkling lights and laughter and the smell of cider in the air. A few flakes are falling, round and swollen, sparkling on cuffs and collars.
Harry runs ahead, cheeks flushed and smile bright. He darts back, pulls at his father's hand, tugging urgently towards something ahead-- and James laughs, coming forward and leaning down to look, two dark head reflected together in the window glass.
Lily sighs through her smile, and trades indulgent glances with Remus, whose dark hair is damp from melted snow. They walk slowly behind the father and son, breathing in the crisp cool air, their strides smooth and unhurried. Their shadows stretch behind them, cast by the buttery glow of the street lamps and the cooler light of the high, round moon.
Behind them, Sirius walks with one eye on his watch-- he looks up, as a voice calls his name. He stops, turns, waits until the latecomer catches up. The other man is thinner, and a bit taller, and the shape of the eyes and mouth is subtly different-- but then they grin a greeting, and it is impossible not to see that the two are brothers.
They all walk slowly along the sidewalk, sometimes stretched out in a line, sometimes clumped together in a bright-eyed crowd. They smile at the people they pass, peer in the windows, stop to listen to the carollers on the corner and to lift their faces to the lights hanging from the tops of the trees.
Somewhere along the way, a snowball is thrown-- Harry jumps and yells, his voice thick with shock and outrage as he paws at the cold that trickles down his collar. He scoops up snow and hurls it back at a laughing Sirius-- but his aim is off, and it flies outwards to land on the shoulder of a passerby.
The blonde boy looks shocked for only a split second, before his face twists in a wicked grin. Within moments, the air is thick with flying snow, and everyone on the street becomes a fair target.
The wind gusts, momentarily drowning out the sound of laughter as it crumbles the snowballs in mid-flight, whirling the flakes in little eddies. It brushes over the prints of boots on the ground, breathes frost over the little circles that fingers have melted on glass. And then, as quickly as it came, it fades.
And the snow falls heavy and cold upon the empty street.
Harry runs ahead, cheeks flushed and smile bright. He darts back, pulls at his father's hand, tugging urgently towards something ahead-- and James laughs, coming forward and leaning down to look, two dark head reflected together in the window glass.
Lily sighs through her smile, and trades indulgent glances with Remus, whose dark hair is damp from melted snow. They walk slowly behind the father and son, breathing in the crisp cool air, their strides smooth and unhurried. Their shadows stretch behind them, cast by the buttery glow of the street lamps and the cooler light of the high, round moon.
Behind them, Sirius walks with one eye on his watch-- he looks up, as a voice calls his name. He stops, turns, waits until the latecomer catches up. The other man is thinner, and a bit taller, and the shape of the eyes and mouth is subtly different-- but then they grin a greeting, and it is impossible not to see that the two are brothers.
They all walk slowly along the sidewalk, sometimes stretched out in a line, sometimes clumped together in a bright-eyed crowd. They smile at the people they pass, peer in the windows, stop to listen to the carollers on the corner and to lift their faces to the lights hanging from the tops of the trees.
Somewhere along the way, a snowball is thrown-- Harry jumps and yells, his voice thick with shock and outrage as he paws at the cold that trickles down his collar. He scoops up snow and hurls it back at a laughing Sirius-- but his aim is off, and it flies outwards to land on the shoulder of a passerby.
The blonde boy looks shocked for only a split second, before his face twists in a wicked grin. Within moments, the air is thick with flying snow, and everyone on the street becomes a fair target.
The wind gusts, momentarily drowning out the sound of laughter as it crumbles the snowballs in mid-flight, whirling the flakes in little eddies. It brushes over the prints of boots on the ground, breathes frost over the little circles that fingers have melted on glass. And then, as quickly as it came, it fades.
And the snow falls heavy and cold upon the empty street.
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