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Tawny sand. Ocherous beads of rock rolling past waves of salty blue. Harry did not hate beaches. Far from it, if he ever was honest. But he recalls beige droplets stuck between his toes, peeled pieces of itchy burned skin, heavy scents from his uncle's beer pack, Dudley's loud screams drowning his ears, scanty tomb beyond the earth. Nonetheless, he considers the waves to be quite calming. Slow. Peaceful. Regular pulls of teal. One. His hand reaches for it. Two. Fearful dews swim back to immense beryls. Three. His fingers dance through countless waves of indigos. Four. Turquoise falls once again to its moon.
While one could argue for oceans, beaches and seas to be magnificent all year around, most would state for them to be marvelous during summer. Harry isn't one to debate with the masses. Yet, his own view has changed between February and March.
The Moon covers seas and oceans with snow, careful to maintain them warm under pale coats. Sometimes, Harry doesn't follow things happening around him. He can not make the difference between what he dreams of, and what he lives. As he steps over milky horizons, his breaths draw silly figures before his eyes. He feels alive for once. He sits before tidy waves, unbothered by the cold seeping along his trousers. Silly figures cease once his eyes open on steady silver. Stars beam within sooty waves, his fingers hold ivory beads, salty wan waters dance around the Moon, and Harry cannot define where the sea begins and the sky ends. Is he dreaming? He doesn't care much. The night hugs him gently, waves sway him softly to peace, while warm snow grounds him to life.
Perhaps he heretofore knew. All along. As his gaze falls along his back, as it dances through his silhouette. Draco roams around the Astronomy Tower in March. His legs twirl without a care for the nothingness under them. He sits at the distinct edge of the decayed wood; Harry doesn't relish it much. But he stays quiet. The other searches for gleams over nightskies, unknown to have stolen all of it.
Perhaps it happened then. As moonbeams strike his ivory hair. As his sooty eyes glance for stars, as they bloom of silver and wan when he recognizes one's name. As his snowy fingers point for light over cloudy horizons. Perhaps, that is then.
He needs a few more moons and whispered stars to wholly apprehend it. To conceive how he fell in love with winter beaches and seas, and sodding Draco Malfoy.