The lake is frozen over

The trees are white with snow

And all around reminders of you

Are everywhere I go

-Sarah McLachlan, Wintersong

He made his way slowly down the Hogwarts steps into the snow; the students had been given Christmas Eve at Hogsmeade, leaving the white in front of the castle pristine and untouched. Harry found himself knee-deep in drifts, the damp licking up his dark robes, frosty air chilling the wet fabric.

He found himself wishing for bluebell fire; flames he hadn't seen in months.

He passed the barren and leafless trees, not bothering to use his wand to see; the moon reflected off the snow, giving him enough light to make his way across the grounds, though Harry knew them so well that he scarcely needed the help.

The Quidditch pitch was on his left, and he found himself slowing, staring at the deserted seats, the snow covered hoops...

'Harry, you should've seen the look on Snape's face when he realized he was on fire! He-'

'Honestly Ron, the real point here is that-' Hermione began.

'I wish I could have!' Harry cut across her, 'Amazing, Hermione! And-' Harry broke off at her peevish look, and gave her a sheepish grin. 'Okay, okay, you're right; we should be focusing on the stone. Thanks, though; you really saved my neck out there.'

'And you were bloody brilliant!' piped Ron.

Hermione rolled her eyes at this, but Harry caught the hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth as they began the trek from the Quidditch pitch to the castle.

A light breeze blew by, ruffling his hair, and Harry was startled out of his reverie; for a moment, the wind through the frozen branches had sounded almost like 'Weasley is our King.'

Hunching his shoulders slightly, Harry turned away and trudged through the grounds, passing the greenhouses without pause. The glass buildings were where Harry was pretty sure that they had realized they were in love, and where, in the same lesson, Harry had contemplated what it would be like to be the forgotten third wheel should they ever get together. Harry now knew, though, that he would be happier just to watch them together, to hear them argue, to feel their life and to know that they were happy, than to have the emptiness he had now.

Just then a familiar and ominous creaking caused Harry to whip his head around, but he saw only the whomping willow irritably twitching snow off of itself. Against the almost painfully bright snowlight, the shape of the willow's dark and gnarled trunk was clearly visible. Harry's eyes sought out the knot near its roots, half expecting Crookshanks to appear and press it. When the cat, unsurprisingly, didn't appear, Harry almost wanted to push the knot himself, and to sit on the ground near the tree's base, where the trio had found their first real truths about the current state of the wizarding world and, more importantly, had been - if only briefly because of Professor Lupin and other relatively urgent circumstances - happy having had the first victory against Voldemort together.

Letting out a shaky, frost-tinted breath, Harry let his eyes roam the grounds, recalling lessons past, knowing not snow and silence, but seeing Hermione's face after experiencing her first boggart in third year, hearing Ron's indignant complaints about leprechaun gold and Christmas presents in fourth year, and recalling their proud - and in Hermione's case, rather relieved - expressions as he touched down astride Buckbeak.

His eyes followed the dark line of trees that marked the edge of the Forbidden Forest and he wondered if the Ford Anglia was still in there, and if students still had detention in the Forest, like he and Hermione in first year, and a thousand other wonders came to his mind until it was full, and if only he could have more, because memory alone was not enough, and... and there was Hagrid's hut, visible only by the soft light peaking around the edges of the curtains in the windows, its dark shape standing silent vigil over the snowy grounds.

The ratty building had housed many of their fondest times, and the words never again forced their way the front of Harry's thoughts. Never again would the trio sneak down to see Hagrid at all hours of the day and night, never again would they huddle together under the invisibility cloak, hiding from an authority figure, never again would they be alarmed over Hagrid's new idea for a pet; never again would the smell of a freshly belched slug, courtesy of Ron, burn Harry's nostrils; never again would he look into Hermione's steely, determined, frightened eyes as she helped him to lift Norbert's crate.

These thoughts occupied Harry until his feet stopped and he found that he was at his destination. It was now that liquid burned his dry eyes; now that the icy north wind froze his tears into a thin crust of ice - his bodies own way of preventing him from crying. His tears weren't warm enough to fall; he was too cold to be comforted.

His knees bent suddenly, and he hit the ground with a dull crunch, breaking through a layer of ice and into the powdery snow beneath. He reached out a hand and rested it on the tree's trunk, before letting his eyes look out over the lake.

A thick layer of ice coated the surface, but Harry could still make out the Giant Squid's tentacles playing against the ice, looking almost as though it were trying to force its way out of its frozen cage.

How very metaphorical.

Harry turned his gaze back toward the tree, under whose bough's the trio had spent happier times. He recalled them huddling together on chilly days, concealing bluebell flames behind them, unsure as to whether they were totally permitted, but too cold for even Hermione to refuse their use. It was times like those that Harry and Ron had truly appreciated Hermione's newly acquired aversion to the rules. How he missed their warmth beside him, so much more than those flames. Ron's leg against his, Hermione's shoulder against him; on some days just Ron, as Hermione was on the red-haired boy's other side, ignoring their talk of Quidditch, her nose buried in a book; as they got older it was Hermione between them, with her smaller frame, her shoulders closer to their elbows than their shoulders.

Harry had loved the warmer weather, the three of them sprawled on the green, shaded by the leaves, a piece of grass often between Ron's lips. After exams had been the best, once Hermione had stopped wanting to rehash all of their answers; they hadn't a care in the world… they had laughed and joked, and not even thoughts of Voldemort had tarnished their lazy, sunshine-filled afternoons.

It was under this very tree that Harry had come after Dumbledore's funeral, on this very spot that he had looked forward to Bill and Fleur's wedding, to that one last day of golden peace with Ron and Hermione. That day had been marred, however, and so had every other that followed.

And now they were gone, but they had left behind a mark on Harry more painful than his scar could ever be. Every place that Harry held dear was steeped in their memory; every time his eyes opened their imprint was there, upon everything, and Harry was empty but for an intense longing. Adumbrations of Ron and Hermione were constant, an ever-present reminder to Harry's aching soul.

Alright, I know it's a little bit late, but to be honest, I started before Christmas; it's just taken me a while to get everything exactly the way I wanted it. And it's not formatted exactly the way I'd like, but wouldn't let me change it. More chapters to come, the next one hopefully within the week. All the chapters will be based on different verses from Wintersong; it's a brilliant piece, I highly recommend you give it a listen. I came up with the idea for this fic while listening to it, it just seemed to fit, and it almost made me cry when I thought about Harry without Ron and Hermione during his first Christmas after the war. Hope that you like it, reviews would be lovely :)

Cheers, Moksgmol