Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

-Cold-	By : madamemalfoy Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 5207 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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by Madame Malfoy’s Mirror

Crookshanks was at the window, mewling.

How he could stand the cold, she’d no idea. And what he could see, through that blackened, icy portal, she couldn’t fathom. There wasn’t anything to see.

Mmmrrwwrrrr

She ignored him, intent, for the moment, on completing the act of turning the page of her book, something not easily accomplished with thick gloves.

Tap

Pause.

Tap taptap

She sighed, her breath like smoke in the frigid atmosphere, twisting from her lips in a slow, mesmeric gyre. She watched it rise toward the ceiling, coiling still as it rose higher and higher.

Cold.

It was so damned cold.

She burrowed deeper into her blankets, one of them an old Gryffindor quilt from her school days. The one she and Ron used to drag out every time Harry had a quidditch match. They’d snuggle together beneath its heavy folds, as close as they dared, trying not to touch each other—something that changed as time wore on and their friendship strengthened, until is was second nature to seek each other’s warmth.

On the heels of that thought she felt a familiar pang course through her.

Ron…

If only she could believe, as Harry did, that he was dead. Then maybe she wouldn’t feel this pain chase through her every time she thought of him, like a jolt to an old bruise. And though she tried to stop it, the memory of the last time she’d seen him alive began to play itself out in her mind. It was the day the snow began to fall. The day when they and everyone else knew for sure that the spell had failed.

Huh...she thought with a sneer, The Spell To Save Them All.

The Time Stop.

Somehow she’d known, almost right away, that something had gone wrong. It was in the air they breathed—too thin—in the colors all around them—washed out. And sound…there wasn’t any depth or texture to sound. Not anymore.

The last day she’d seen him alive she watched him walk out into the cold, his once bright red hair a dull beige in the failing light—another clue that it hadn’t worked.

Wait! Where are you going? You can’t apparate without a safe point! What if they find you?

She’d taken hold of his arm in an effort to stop him, to pull him back. It was just like Ron to run off without thinking. He’d been doing that a lot lately. Taking risks. And one day he wouldn’t be so lucky. One day they could kill him…

A sob tightened her chest and she fought her tears.

Please, Ron. There must be some other way!

He stopped mid-stride and turned to her, the stoic expression on his face falling at the sight of her, her eyes bright with tears. He cupped her chin with his long fingers, trying to smile for her sake.

Look, he’d said, It’ll be quicker this way. I can look north while you look south. That’s what we talked about, right?

She tightened her grip on his arm.

Ron…look, I know what I said. But I have a bad feeling about this. About all of it.

Ron sighed. So do I—but there aren’t many more of them left, Hermione. They can’t hold out forever now that Riddle’s dead.

He and Harry, early in the war, had taken to calling Voldemort by his muggle name. It started as a simple psychological tactic, a way to defuse the tension and fear, but it had grown to more than that. Soon it spread throughout the magical world. And there it did something extraordinary, something they never could have done. It made him human. Real. And ultimately, defeatable.

Fat, lacy flakes had begun to fall. His familiar, freckled face and long lashes blurred beneath their whiteness.

I have to go. He said, and she knew that it was useless to argue. I have to look. I might find what we need—lost magic.

She was truly crying now, the sight of him hopelessly lost in the water of her tears and the white of the falling snow. We have to find it. He added. Before it’s too late.

She nodded. I know, she whispered. I know…please, be careful.

He kissed her cheek.

I will. Don’t worry now. It wont be long.

He started to walk away, though she held on to him until the last moment. One half of her two best friends. She hadn’t known a time without him, it seemed.

Ron!

Her shout failed to carry through the deadened air, but it seemed that somehow, he had heard, because before he apparated he turned to her, smiled and waved, and pointed to the cottage beyond. He said something then, words lost in the stillness between them, but she could somehow make out their shape.

The cottage, he seemed to say. When it’s all over, come back here, to our place. And you’ll find me…

But in six years, she’d never seen him again.

So she tried to forget—to lose herself in a book, like she used to, but there was no escape from this.

TaptapTAP

This endless, god forsaken…

Mmmrrwwrrrr

“Crooky stop!” she snapped, throwing her book aside and turning her eyes towards the window, the last of her patience gone. She’d almost forgotten he was perched there, the sadness and grief of old memories a leaden weight on her heart. How he could sit at the cold sill and—

But before she could finish the thought she gasped in shock. Something was moving in the shadow outside her window. Moving!

Impossible, her mind and senses insisted, even as she rose quickly from the couch, throwing back the layers of quilts and bedclothes strewn across her lap. Just impossible. No one could survive the cold for long. Not now. Not without the protection of complex, layered magic, usually the work of two or more wizards---not one alone.

But even as she deliberated, her body followed her unconscious directives, moving quickly and quietly across the room, drawing her wand from her coat pocket in one clean, precise movement, the chant of a hex beneath her lips, wanting only breath to make it real. But the shadow, or whatever it was, was gone.

The years of fighting on her feet had hardened her. She didn’t take chances anymore, or bank on her guesses. Though it was unlikely, it could be an attack. Even after all this time.

So she doused the fire with a quick jab of her wand, to hide her visibility. The darkness that followed gave her cover, the necessary time to move closer to the window to try and locate the intruder. If she could make out where they were, then she might have the advantage.

“Crookshanks,” she commanded in a fierce whisper, “Get down.” It was impossible that anyone had found her here. Only three people knew the location of this cottage, and one was most likely dea—

“Ron!” she gasped, suddenly losing all thought of subterfuge. Because it could be him—it could be—even after all this time—

She ran to the door, heedless of her state of dress, or the need for a protective spell against the cold that would surely consume her in moments once she ventured outdoors. Because what if he was out there, trying to get in, what if he was dying?

But as her hand fell to the doorknob something unusual happened. A thud, as of something heavy falling against the door, rattled the frame with the force of its landing. Then—a groan— the sound of a man in pain. Before she had time to process this she heard a horse cry, from a throat cut raw by the wind and chill—

“Help me…let me…in…”

She didn’t hesitate, but wrenched the door wide, tears in her eyes. “Ron!” she shouted, just as a sodden, snowy form staggered across the threshold. In the rush of his fall she caught the silvery glint of his hair, the torn and bloodied state of his robes. She grasped at him as he fell, nearly falling with him as his weight dragged her down. She strained to hold on as he continued to sink toward the floor, blinking back the tears from her eyes, trying to think, to process.

For as she sank to her knees a sob of frustration and fear caught in her chest. It wasn’t Ron that had come, bloody and wet from the snow.

It was Malfoy.
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