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“I’ve been felled!” Harry Potter cries dramatically.
He falls backward into a snowdrift on the Hogwarts Grounds, his lungs burning from the cold. Laughter spills from his lips in little wisps of fog that float away like miniature clouds. His messy hair is soaked and his winter robes aren’t far behind.
“Avenge Harry!” Ron Weasley yells a battle cry that seems to inspire the remaining Gryffindors to greater heights.
Laughter rings through the wintry air as snowballs continue flying overhead.
Harry wipes one of his wool mittens across the lenses of his spectacles, only to leave a smear that turns his eyesight blurry. It makes him huff. He knows the charm to clear them, the same charm that Hermione Granger taught him to cast on them before Quidditch matches, but he doesn’t reach for his wand.
Instead, he drags his arms and legs through the snow, making a snow angel. It feels even more childish than starting the snowball war after breakfast did, but he does it anyway. There’s something magical about it, a different kind of magical than actual magic. It’s … whimsical and nostalgic and—
“They’ve sent assassins! Stop them!” Ron hollers like a general leading his troops.
“Malfoy got me! I’m dead!” Colin Creevey sobs theatrically.
Harry snorts as several other Gryffindors die just as dramatically in quick succession. He cranes his neck and is grateful that the winter air is chill and biting because it explains away the pink in his cheeks that darkens—he can feel himself blush—when Draco Malfoy steps around the wall of a snow-fort with a wicked smirk on his face.
The prat’s as handsome as ever. Perhaps even more handsome than ever with snowflakes melting on his pale eyelashes. Harry wants to kiss them off—
Draco sneaks forward, his charcoal gray winter robes a stark contrast to the white of the snow. Harry grins, slips off his gloves, and blows warm air on his cold fingers as Draco takes out three more Gryffindors. A cunning, smug grin appears on his face as he winds up to throw a snowball at Neville Longbottom. Before he can, a snowball hits Neville in the chest.
Draco glares over his shoulder and snaps, “Longbottom was my target, Blaise! We discussed—!” only to splutter and stumble a step when Ron nails him in the back of the head with a snowball.
“You lost to Weasley!” Blaise howls with laughter, which only increases in volume when Draco huffs and stomps away.
“I’ll get you for this, Weasel!” Draco snarls.
“Go die like a good little slimy Slytherin,” Ron retorts as he pelts snowballs at Blaise. “Don’t worry, Malfoy, I’ll be sure to tell your father all about this since you won’t be alive to tell him.”
Draco’s cheeks, which were already pink, turn almost rosy. “You mangy weasel! How dare you—?”
Harry laughs so hard that a cloud of fog starts hovering over him, almost obscuring him from sight. Tears stream from his eyes, stinging his cheeks. His stomach aches but he can’t stop. Draco and Ron snarking at each other always amuses him. They’re so ridiculous!
“Think this is funny, do you, Potter?” Draco asks, sneering down at him and glaring with frosty gray eyes.
“It’s hilarious,” Harry replies before smiling up at Draco with all the tenderness they show each other in private.
“Don’t look at me like that where anyone else can see,” Draco mutters, the shells of his ears turning red as he leans forward.
His protectiveness of their feelings for one another still warms Harry’s heart. After all, Harry doesn’t want anyone else to see how Draco looks at him with love and gentleness either. Those emotions are for him alone and he intends to hoard them for the rest of his life.
Harry reaches up with bare, chilled hands and cups his boyfriend’s face. The shock of the heat makes his fingers curl against smooth, pale skin before he slides them back to feather into Draco’s damp flaxen hair.
“C’mere,” Harry whispers, tugging lightly.
Draco huffs but obediently joins Harry down in the snow, covering Harry like a living blanket as Harry wraps his arms around him, enveloping him in a full-body hug. The shiver that wracks its way through Harry’s body isn’t from the cold.
“I love you, Ferret,” Harry says against the flushed skin of Draco’s ear.
Draco grumbles and pinches his side before muttering, “I love you, too, Scarhead.”