The sheets shriek beneath them--folding, twisting, creasing as he moves on top of her like a thing possessed. She can feel the mask their skin has created, a filmy curtain against the cold night air. And together they climb, breathing harsh and quick, whispering things they never meant to know.

And when they fall, immediately they pull apart. He moves huskily to his edge of the bed, large feet grazing the stone floor. She lies quietly for a moment, crimson hair splashed against the virgin cotton. Over his shoulder, he tosses her a glance. A forest robe is slung over his desk chair, and he throws it at her with a cough.

“What?” she says, catching the silk in her small fingers, sitting up to pull it on.

And he doesn’t even look her way. “It’s cold.”

“You’re not wearing anything.”

“I’m not cold,” he says, and she begins to pull the robe back off.

“I’m not either.”

Through the window, it is snowing.

-----

She is sitting at the kitchen table with Dresden hands clasping a porcelain cup. Waving hair tucked fiercely behind her ears, she looks like a wild little thing. Her jumper does nothing to hide the protruding bones, her jagged collar. It is green and worn, and she remembers a time when it was clean and crisp and smelled like him--like sea and salt. Now it is ruined. She ruins everything.

Sea and salt mingle in her senses before she even actually hears him-- before she actually sees him. His presence is claustrophobic like that, overwhelming in every aspect. She used to like that about him. Now she isn’t sure how she feels.

“Hey,” he says when he enters the kitchen. There’s a rasp in his voice that wasn’t there two days ago, and she can just make out the silver stubble on his chin. Nevertheless, he’s dressed as sharply as ever--charcoal coat, slacks and devastatingly black boots. Those are new.

“Hi.” It’s all she can manage. She knows she looks pathetic in her ratty jumper--his once immaculate jumper. She knows he notices. And she knows he is looking at her critically, like something unpleasant has dripped onto her chin, and he doesn’t know whether to tell her or not.

“What are you up to?”

“Tea.” The cup in her hands is half-empty and cold. That is not what she is up to.

Silence.

“Are you all right?”

She wants to scream. Instead she speaks, she asks, she demands. “Where were you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Maybe.”

Silence, but now their eyes are hitting. Grey and brown fluctuating in the artificial lighting of their kitchen--her kitchen--maybe his kitchen? She doesn’t know anymore.

“I was at my mother’s.”

“Really?”

“Are you really asking me that?” He sounds upset, though just barely.

“I wasn’t the one who disappeared for two days.”

He glares. “And you didn’t want me to go?”

She cannot help but stand. It feels like the right place in the conversation to do so. It feels like she is a character in a script, and her directions say to stand. So she stands.

But instead of holding her ground, she turns to drop her cup in the sink like a mouse. How pathetic.

“You made it pretty clear what your feelings were, Draco.”

“Ginny.” She doesn’t know what he means by that--by just saying her name. She can’t think of any way to respond either.

And she realizes she really wants to cry. She wants to break down and just cry.

“What?” she asks. If you’re going to address a person, you should at least follow up with something remotely profound to say.

“I--” He’s caught off guard. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know either.”

This time, she walks out the door.

It is snowing.

-----

Draco and I first started fucking my first winter at Obscurus Books. I was right out of university, and he had been working there since his father died. There was something so utterly commanding about his presence there. It was obvious he didn’t know shite about printing, but it didn’t matter in the end. He commanded business like he commanded mudbloods--ruthlessly.

I know. I know I’m a fool. What the fuck was I thinking?

To be honest, I wasn’t. I was a sexually frustrated young woman who had just gotten her heart harpooned out of her chest, and I wasn’t thinking. How could I be? He was just so different from Harry--dangerous, deceitful, and deadly. I liked that. I liked that he fucked me until it hurt, until the bed frame forced an imprint in the wall, until my lip bled from the screams I tried to suppress. Harry Potter would never fuck me like that--not with so much heat and passion. The short touches I shared with Harry had been sweet, timid, and utterly heartbreaking.

It had been a cold, snowed-in winter. Fucking Draco was like breathing again after drowning in a cold cup of chicken noodle soup.

That was all it was.

Really.

I didn’t realize it was snowing.

-----


She jumps on the bed with a ferocious giggle. Her laughing only increases with his sleepy groans. “Wake up!”

“Sod off.” His head is under the covers again.

“Draco…” she croons, sticking her lips to his ear, reaching to caress his bare chest. “Come on, wake up.”

“Too early.”

“What was that?” she asks coyly. “Really, darling, use your words.” It’s a phrase she’s heard her mother use more than once.

Suddenly, his heads pops up from below the sheets, all scowls and bed head. He looks too funny, and she cannot help but laugh.

“Wench.”

“Prat.”

He jumps up to tackle her, grabbing her firmly and smothering her with nipping kisses. She barely fights, laughing as he tickles her and wrapping her arms around his neck. He looks at her very seriously just before dropping a kiss upon her nose.

“Now, my dear wench,” he murmurs into her ear, “to what do I owe the pleasure of such a wake-up call?”

She cannot help but smile a real genuine, happy smile.

“It’s snowing.”

And outside, it is snowing.

-----

“Do you want my coat?”

“I’m not cold.”

“I’m not either.”

After all, it is snowing.

-----

I never liked snowball fights--too great a chance of failure. I used to think she was stupid back at school, flinging snow at her brothers and friends, no doubt catching whatever diseases her family was accustomed to tracking down. It was really pathetic actually, watching the vulgar spectacle. I remember wanting to shout at them. I remember wanting to shout at them to stop--to tell them how foolish they were being.

But something always stopped me.

I remember wanting to shout at them.

But most of all I remember her crimson hair splashed against the virgin snow.

It all seems very surreal now.

-----

“If he asked me, I would have married him.”

“He didn’t ask.”

“He didn’t have to.”

-----

It’s been snowing for three nights straight, and the stoop is slippery with ice. Nevertheless, he is still standing there. He is still waiting for the door to open. He is still waiting to come home.

Finally, his prayers are answered. “Granger.” He greets her with a cocky smirk. “Is Miss Weasley home?”

“It’s Potter now.”

He flatlines.

The smirk is gone. He can feel the color dripping from his face, his insides shriveling at the very thought. He is collapsing. He can feel his esophagus closing, his eyes spinning, the slippery stoop coming up to meet his nose.

And yet, he is still standing straight, however ready to curl over and die.

Granger just smiles, leaning closer to stage whisper her next words--no doubt torturous sentiments such as “I told you so” or “Tough luck, Death Eater”.

“It’s not Granger anymore,” she says. “It’s Potter now.”

-----

And maybe, just maybe, it is snowing.