There is a spot where the large forest on the edge of Hogwarts’ grounds and the lake that runs up to the castle itself (and even underneath it) almost meet; the village of Hogsmeade lies below, down a gentle slope in one direction, while in the other direction spreads a view that encompasses nearly everything of importance that lies within the bounds of Hogwarts. The castle lies to the left, the massive front entrance obvious to any witch or wizard’s eyes; to the right, precariously near the dangerous forest, lays the groundskeeper’s hut. Through the middle, clearly visible during the day and possibly even at night if one squints, the Quidditch pitch can be seen.

On the night that this tale takes place, no squinting was required, however, to see the flags snapping about in the occasional gusts of wind. A foot and a half of snow had fallen in a continuous stream over the past day, burying any dips in the ground into a nearly perfectly even sea of white; the little light coming from the stars and moon was reflected and possibly magnified to create a permanent twilight over the world. On the roof the snow had gathered around turrets and blocked high windows completely, while the occasional window on the side of the building twinkled merrily to signify that students or professors were up despite the late night hour. The two matching lights from the windows on Hagrid’s hut went out, which meant it was well after 11 at night and possibly past midnight.

One, then two deep footprints marred the otherwise pristine snow, with no visible feet causing them. Three, four, and then a chuckle. The voice did not quiet itself as it spoke jovially, “Nevermind, Harry, I think aiming snowballs won’t be a problem after all!”

Silence met the comment; one could have imagined that the disembodied voices had retreated back inside to allow the snow to remain as it was. “Harry?” called the same voice again, shattering the short silence. Then a handful of snow scooped itself out of the ground and disappeared, several feet away from where the footsteps ceased; it reappeared in the air, hurtling itself toward the castle doors but stopping over the first unburied step, splattering against an unforeseen object.

“Ready for some fun?” A different voice, quieter but no less amused.

“No fair, Harry! How’d you get rid of your footsteps??”

“Come out on the snow and see.”

“Wicked!” said the first voice, now coming from several feet away from where it had been.

“Weightless charm,” replied to second voice to the unasked question. “Don’t get too far away or you’ll sink. And me too!”

“How will I know how far you are? Or have *any* chance of hitting you?” the first voice complained after a moment’s hesitation, having moved in the direction of the second voice.

“How about… like *this*?” An ethereal ribbon of blue appeared suddenly, wavering hesitantly and moving as either or both ends of it moved. A snowball appeared from one end, speeding toward the other, and splattered again against the invisible form. Pieces of snow glittered on the form and made his position slightly visible without the assistance of the ribbon.

“I’ll get you for that, Potter!” the first voice exclaimed, and then the war was on. Snowballs flew back and forth furiously, and neither of the invisible bodies launching the compressed snow seemed to hesitate when the door to the castle began to slip open.

The ribbon disappeared, and the snowballs stopped flying from one direction and soon from the other. “Harry..?” came the first boy’s voice, followed by an angry hushing sound from the other.

“Mr. Potter,” spoke a sneering voice suddenly, apparently from the dark man that had appeared in the doorway. “And Mr. Weasley, I presume?”

“Just take the points, Professor,” said the second voice with a resigned sigh. His footsteps suddenly appeared in the snow.

“Which of you is wearing the cloak, Potter, and which is invisible by spell?” the Professor replied.

“Don’t you want to take points, Professor?” the second boy’s voice taunted, followed by a lump of snow being scooped out of the ground and launched directly at the Professor’s face.

The snowball impacted, splattering over the Professor’s face. “That’s it, Potter!” the adult’s voice snapped, snow still falling from his face.

“Just—“ the boy’s voice cut off as a spell was cast at the area over the footprints, and a long impression appeared in the snow: he had dodged but fallen in the snow as a result. “Professor, don’t!” he cried out.

“Ah, so it *is* you, Potter. Finite Incantatem.” A slim, aristocratic youth appeared, bowing his head so that his blonde hair fell into his eyes and pulling his heavy black cloak around him more tightly. “Draco?!” Apparently, the professor was surprised.

“I’m sorry, Professor Snape. It’s just, Potter’s been too good lately; he has to be up to something. I thought if he lost points it might throw him off-balance, and you would be completely within your rights after finding him outside…”

“Your voice?” Snape wondered. “You sound like Potter.”

The blond’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “Voice-changing potion.”

“A masterful plan, Draco,” Snape responded, though his tone didn’t quite match his words. “There is only one problem: you got caught. Now I must take points from *you* instead. Ten points from Slytherin. Go back to your dormitory, immediately.”

Draco nodded his head, and then moved to the door and opened it. There he hesitated for a moment. “Sorry about the snowball, Professor.”

Snape sneered. “It will be repayed in due time, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Yes, sir.” Finally, the blonde-haired boy slipped inside.

The Professor remained in the doorway for another few moments, examining the grounds near the front doors with a frown on his face. “I shall have to ask Mr. Malfoy how he accomplished this,” he muttered to himself finally, and then with a snap of his cloak he too returned inside the castle.

More lights had gone dim or disappeared from windows entirely during the exchange; it was now at least half-past twelve. The grounds were once again still and silent, the only sounds the wind through the trees and the only evidence of human passing being the twelve eighteen inch deep holes that marred the pristine white landscape.