November came and went without any signs of snow, much to Harry’s dismay. He kept the supplies for a snow day on call -- from his obnoxiously red snow boots to his puffer jacket and yellow mittens to, what was Harry’s favorite part: the supplies for a well needed friend.
It was quiet in the house as night, almost bizarrely so. Harry awakens and rubs his eyes. Usually he could hear his father’s snores from his room upstairs, but even that seemed muffled for some reason. He searches for his glasses blindly, and, upon finding them, shoves them on his face. The cold press of the wire frames immediately wakes him up, and he shoves off his covers to wince at the frigid temperature.
He walks to the small window in which he could see his backyard and looks down upon the dark yard to see the shadows of it blanketed by snow, illuminated by the moonlight. He could not suppress the smile that tugs at the edges of his lips, and quietly sneaks down the staircase, past his parent’s bedroom and to what his mother affectionately called “the mud room,” which was really a small room that led to the door at the back of his house. He slips on his boots, and then his jacket followed by his gloves, his beloved school scarf, and his red cap and his snowman supplies before silently slipping out.
Breathing in the fresh scent of snow was something Harry could do for forever. His friends and family knew of his love for the winter season and everything that came with it. They did not know, however, about the snowman Harry affectionately calls “Tom.” Despite being almost 18, he still finds himself recreating his friend year after year using the same supplies. As a child he used to tell Tom everything, going as far as to have open conversations with his imaginary friend whom always listened with a snowy ear. Now at the ripe age of 17 he says nothing as he forms the base of his friend, only muttering a few swears as the snow crafts itself underneath his guide.
By the time he finished, he reckons it was still the middle of the night. It was roughly one o’clock when he got out of bed, as he had checked the time, but by now it was easily two-thirty or past. He presses the button nose on to Tom’s face, and stood back to admire his work. Tom was far taller than Harry himself -- he’d say at least half a foot, if not more on Harry’s 5’5” frame. He presses his dry lips into a smile before it quickly turned into a gasp as he watches the starry sky above the beloved snowman. A falling star arches its way across the heavenly skies, a beacon in the darkness of the sky.
He knew what his mother would say. “Make a wish, Harry!” And before he can stop himself, he allows himself this one childish move, and does indeed wish with all his might for one stupid, stupid wish.
Bring life to someone who understands.
He is awoken by the sound of the doorbell ringing. He falls out of bed, with a loud yell of, “Fuck!” and grabs his glasses from his nightstand. He slips on his slippers, the cold floor an enemy at this hour of the morning. (Which, Harry finds out, is around nine o’clock, which explains why neither of his parents answered. They had long since left for work.)
He runs a hand through his dark hair, knowing there was no way to look presentable in his pajama pants that were a bit too long on him, a sleep shirt that was four sizes too large and reached mid-thigh, and slippers that had owls embroidered on them. Fuck it, he decides, whoever it is can deal with it.
He gets to the door, and, expecting perhaps Hermione who lived down the street to be on the other side, swings it open. “What do you want?” he demands.
And the cold air rushes in and shit shit fuck shit it’s cold without a sweater and who the hell is this?
“I do believe that’s not a proper way to greet a friend,” a smooth, deep voice answers him. Harry swallows and looks up at a face that was surely crafted by the gods himself. “Especially one you’ve known for so long, Harry.”
Harry gapes. His mouth unashamedly drops when he gazes upon this man’s face. The harsh line of his jaw, the contour of his cheeks, the darkness of his eyes and length of his eyelashes, his button nose and red lips and perfectly coiled hair.
And most importantly, the green and gray scarf that just so happened to be around his snowman’s neck was around this stranger. He knew who it was immediately upon gazing into those eyes, and yet, in fear of thinking he was going insane, he says nothing.
The young man before him sighs and Harry believed he saw him subtly roll his dark eyes. “Really,” the boy said in a sickeningly sweet voice, “You don’t know who I am?”
“No,” Harry finally manages to snap back. “I don’t.”
He arches an eyebrow. “No? I would prefer to go by a name such as Lord Voldemort, but I suppose Tom works for you?” The young man spits the name like it left a sour taste in his mouth.
“There’s no way you’re Tom,” Harry replies, “because the Tom that I used to know was sweet and listened to what I had to say instead of speaking to me as though I’m a complete idiot.”
The young man’s red lips curl into a scarily beautiful smile, sweet as poison. “Yes, Harry. I’m the snowman, the friend you desire. I’m Tom.”