The trees were covered in a thick layer of their winter whites, barren branches heavy with their burdens of flakes. No wind disturbed the crystalline lacework amongst the stands of trees, upper branches meshing together to form a great tapestry to Nature's winter wizards, lit only by the flickering light of the sickle moon that peered between the drifting masses of clouds.

Shadows outlined the great work, floating downward past the canopy, a few spots making the journey to the snowy carpet; outline of a mouse's tracks, out for one last seed-hunt before retiring; outline of a owl's wing-print, out for one last mouse-hunt before retiring.

Flakes began to drift again from the covered sky, catching upon laden branch and bush, on forest floor and on the woolen shoulders that stood between two ancient oaks. The shoulders held many such flakes, one more now and again reuniting with its fellows from the clouds. Still, the flakes did not disappear, merely built another layer upon the shoulders, a few select landing on the hood and caught in the two front strands that fell outside the hood's protection.

As the person had of the only man who had ever accepted him. With one curse, no matter the orders, the fights, and in the end the pleading that had passed into memories, it was over. The blue eyes, so knowledgeable, would never again twinkle in merriment after winning a trivial argument, or when he conceded some minor point to his Potions Master only to trap him later with some burst of Gryffindor logic. No more arguments, discussions, or --

-- or, he admitted to himself, the friendship that had grown between the two men. That a spy and the savior to the Wizarding world over fifty years ago would enjoy their little spats never ceased to baffle the Slytherin, who, by training and inclination, always saw everything first how it would affect him.

As this parchment in his hands affected him. One simple sentence that if Lucius had ever laid eyes on, would have been a prolonged death sentence for Snape. (Pity that Wormtail had such a … forgetful… memory.) The sentence a hallmark of the old wizard's entire belief in people, even in Slytherins. The parchment that even the snow respected and kept clear of…

…as they avoided the Potion Master's shadow, his green cloak pulled tight against the chill. He stood under the sweeping bows of an older tree on the clearing's edge which blocked both the snow and the infrequent light from above, casting his face into deep shadows. Those shadows had swallowed his approach upon the older man, so deep in thought that he had not heard his approach apparently. It surprised him.

It disturbed him.

By all his memories, his own and those given, the only times that one could sneak up on the Slytherin was when he was either unconscious in the nurse's care, or after the Dementors had come too close. Even under an Invisibility Cloak, the man had been able to almost exactly point him out.

So it worried the Boy-who-lived that he could be standing not ten feet away for over 20 minutes, and the other not notice him until he spoke.

"You will find that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it."

Harry didn't miss the flinch those words evoked or the twist around to face him, shock quickly hid behind the sneering mask.

It was a mask, now, Harry saw. A well-worn mask that hid many things: resignation, pride, fear, determination, iron-will, resolve, pain, and something Snape couldn't dare to allow himself--

--hope.

Harry held out one hand palm up slightly, offering, accepting.

"And to those who need it," he added softly. 

The silence of a winter's night

brings memories I hold inside;

remembering a blue moonlight

upon the fallen snow.

Enya "Amid the falling snow", Amarantine