Marisol stared. She could not make something beautiful. Snow was hard enough. She'd probably kill the flowers. Mari was not very careful nor gentle, and she couldn't see why they needed flowers, in the first place.

Something, probably Slytherin ambition and a dash of her own foolishness, made her want to try.

"Orkeedeeos Steereeacos!" she whispered, flicking her wand and expecting it to do the rest. Apparently, it required more effort. Marisol pictured a frosty flower made of ice. She leaned over the fence and tried again. A few crumpled, icy wisps lay on the snow. Pitifully deflated strings that could never be garden flowers.