18
Lady Malfoy took a leave over the deep winter weeks to spend at home, upon the return of Draco. As the snows blew through the days, Alice found herself rather alone with the thoughts that came as she buried herself in magical theory. More and more, the haunting request of the Minister rang through her mind. It would not do, she decided, to allow her mind to spin itself in useless circle.
She needed a change in scene, and upon searching, and failing to find Antonin, she soon stood in one of the side courtyards, her breath forming clouds in the crisp winter air as she looked around to ensure her solitude.
The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the pristine snow, and for once, she wasn't thinking about ancient texts or court politics or the weight of her responsibilities. Instead, she was doing something entirely, wonderfully muggle. Something she had not done since she was a child.
She going to build a snowman.
The base was already substantial, perfectly round from her careful rolling. Her gloves were soaked through, her cheeks flushed from exertion, but she felt more like herself than she had in months. This was simple. This was normal. This was—
"What," came his voice, rich with incredulity, "are you doing?"
Alice froze, her hands still pressed against the middle section of snow she'd been lifting. She turned to find Voldemort standing at the courtyard's edge, his head tilted slightly in what appeared to be genuine bewilderment.
"Building a snowman, my Lord," she replied, trying to keep her voice steady, as if to convince the Dark Lord this was commonplace. "I needed a break from studying, and well..." she gestured to her creation, "it seemed like a good idea at the time."
He moved closer, studying the rounded snow with an expression she'd never seen before – something between confusion and fascination. "You're... manually constructing a crude figure from frozen precipitation."
A laugh bubbled up before she could stop it. "That's probably the most clinical description of snowman-building I've ever heard, but yes." She paused, then added with a hint of mischief, "Though I suppose you'd just wave your wand and conjure one perfectly formed."
"Naturally," he agreed, but made no move to do so. Instead, he continued to watch as she struggled with the middle section. "That appears... inefficient."
"That's rather the point," she said, surprising herself with her boldness. "It's not about efficiency. It's about..." she paused, searching for words he might understand, "the process. The simple pleasure of creating something with your own hands."
A flicker of something unreadable crossed his features. "There was a time," he began, his voice strangely distant, "when such... creations were not unfamiliar. Wool’s Orphanage, before..." He trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.
Alice's hands stilled. He rarely spoke of his past, and never with this almost-wistful tone. "The War…" she ventured softly. She had since pieced together fragments of his history, realizing with a chill that his childhood would have coincided with the Second World War some time ago.
His expression was unreadable. "Once. I created a serpent. The matron was... disturbed by its realism." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Particularly when it began to move."
"Of course you did," Alice murmured, fighting back a smile of her own. "Well, this one won't be moving, magical or otherwise. Though..." she studied her work critically, "I'm having trouble with this middle section. It's rather heavy."
She expected him to walk away, to dismiss her childish muggle pursuits. Instead, he moved closer, and with a subtle flick of his wand, the middle section lifted and settled perfectly atop the base.
"Thank you," she said, genuinely surprised.
"I merely grew tired of watching you struggle," he replied smoothly, but remained where he was, watching as she began to form the head.
"The other children," she ventured carefully, "at the orphanage. What did they build?"
For a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer. But then: "Crude things. Shapeless lumps with coal for eyes. Though..." he paused, something almost human crossing his features, "there was one girl. Mary. She would create... elaborate scenes. Entire families of snow, holding hands. It was... technically impressive, for a muggle child."
Alice nodded, carefully placing the head on top. "And what happened to her?"
"The bombs came," he said simply. "She didn't survive."
Alice's hands stilled in the snow. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was... a long time ago." But something in his voice suggested the memory was clearer than he claimed. "Your creation is missing something."
"Eyes," Alice agreed, looking around. "I don't suppose you'd conjure some coal?"
Instead, he waved his wand, and two perfect spheres of black obsidian appeared in her palm. "More durable," he explained at her questioning look. "And less... common."
She placed them carefully, then stepped back to admire their work – for somehow, without quite meaning to, it had become their work. The snowman stood tall and proud, obsidian eyes gleaming in the winter light.
"It needs a nose," she mused.
Another wave of his wand, and a perfectly shaped carrot appeared. Alice laughed. "Traditional. I wouldn't have expected that from you."
"Sometimes," he said softly, "tradition has its place." He watched as she placed the carrot, then added, "Though perhaps..."
A final wave of his wand, and a small silver serpent coiled itself around the snowman's neck like a scarf, its scales catching the light.
"Better." he said, satisfaction in his voice.
Alice studied their creation – this strange blend of muggle tradition and magical enhancement. "Yes," she agreed. “Now it belongs.”
For a moment, they stood in companionable silence, watching the winter sun play across their handiwork. Then he turned to her, something almost gentle in his expression. "You should go inside. Your hands are freezing."
As if on cue, warmth bloomed around her, chasing away the winter chill. She nodded, recognizing the dismissal, but paused at the courtyard's edge. "Thank you," she said softly, "for sharing that memory."
"Don't make too much of it," he replied, his voice returning to its usual cool tone. "People have died for knowing considerably less about me."
The snowman remained in the courtyard for weeks, never melting, its obsidian eyes watching over the castle grounds like a silent guardian of that strange, gentle moment between a Dark Lord and his muggle ward.