Winter

He stood outside.

His scarf rippled in the wind, cracking like a whip at the ends.

His cheeks burned scarlet from the biting gusts of air, cutting through his lithe frame like his rapier wit.

He looked out across the deadened landscape – the grey slush at his feet, the slate sky above him, the harsh blue glow of the ice-covered flora. His eyes flicked to the only trace of colour in this bleak world, the crimson door that lead to a place he detested.

Satisfied that he was the only occupant of the white garden, he pulled a cigarette out of his cloak pocket, lighting it before taking a drag.

He let the smoke release from his mouth slowly, languidly, relishing in the heat spreading throughout his body.

He had always liked winter. The cold, unforgiving nature of the season left nothing to the imagination; only a crystalline simplicity that sliced through questions and left only answers.

He took another drag on his cigarette.

The click of the lock was the only thing that signalled that he had company.

* * * * * * * * *

He had always reminded her of winter.

She sat on a bed that was not her own, gazing out the window.

Below her was the once green-yellow garden, now covered by a blanket of blue-white.

She spotted him amongst the slate of the snow – a slim figure swathed in black, a curl of smoke rising up to meet her line of vision.

He had come to reside with her and her family some two months ago, amongst the battle cries of war and residual hatred by all parties involved with his entrance into her family’s new home.

He was rude, selfish, and cold. Thus, he reminded her of winter. He had tried his best to sequester himself whenever possible – locking himself in his room, not coming down for meals, refusing to coincide with those he was taught to loathe. Yet she always noticed his absence, but most especially during winter, his favourite season. She leaned further in to the window, her short puffs of oxygen fogging up the frosted glass.

It was quiet in her room; her eyes flicking from the black-cloaked figure to the lone tree in the garden – a sad sight with its barren, cracked branches; the noise of it all reverberating throughout the small room.

She turned her head, looking at the mahogany door that led to the stairwell.

The bedsprings creaked as she rose from her seated position, the floorboards and door joining in the chorus as she walked out of the room.

Her family was scattered throughout the house, accustomed to the wanderings of others.

She travelled to the back of the house, noticing that the door to the garden was the only one that did not creak.

He didn’t even acknowledge her presence as she stood on the veranda.

* * * * * * * *

After five minutes, he took his pack of cigarettes out, offering one to her.

“Fag?” he queried, lifting one out of the flimsy package.

She shook her head, stepping down to stand beside him.

“What are you doing out here?” she posed to him, stuffing her fists into her coat pockets.

“Escaping,” he let out with a sigh, watching his breath dissipate in the frigid air.

“I thought you already have?”

“No. Not really,” he replied with a dry chuckle.

She grinned at the sound of the roughness in his voice. It spread a warm, tingling sensation throughout her lanky frame that she thought she’d never feel again.

Maybe it was hope?

* * * * * * * *

She discovered that he began to stand outside even more during the winter.

Almost every day, after lunch, she could spot the curl of smoke that signalled his presence.

Sometimes she would join him, sharing a few words, the warmth in her body spreading further each time she made him laugh.

“Do you ever think about the what ifs?” she asked him one day, idly making a snow ball with her mitten-clad hands.

“No. Never.”

“Why not? I sometimes do; if there’s nothing else to occupy my time.”

“I like to think that all of the events in my life thus far, both the good and the bad, have made me a better person. Besides, my what ifs are either unpleasant or, at this point, unattainable.”

“I guess you’re right; I like you more now that I did last year. You’re a much better person than people give you credit for.”

He smiled at this. Then suddenly, he began to feel what she felt whenever he smiled or laughed at something she had said or did: that little glimmer of warmth spreading throughout his body.

But he thought it was something else entirely – caring.

* * * * * * * *

She awoke the next morning, Christmas Day, to a strange pressure on her stomach. She lifted her head, eyes aching and threatening to whisk her back to the realm of dreams, to see a book of all things, a bright red bow serving as embellishment.

Dragging an arm out from beneath the warmth of her blanket, she lifted the book up, reading its cover: One Hundred Years of Solitude. Carefully, she took the bow off, noting the author’s name, Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Using both hands, she shifted so her back rested against the cold, wooden headboard, grabbing the book and opening it to the first page.

Written on that first page in a familiar cramped handwriting was, Thought you might find this interesting. Happy Christmas, DM.

Immediately, she flipped to the first chapter: Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.

An hour later, she awoke from her trance, her mother’s voice piercing through the silence, effectively breaking the spell the fledgling town of Macondo had cast on her.

Still in her pyjamas, she raced out of her room, book in hand, coming to a halt right outside of his room, before banging the heel of her palm against his door, shouting for him to open up. There was no response, and again, she heard the shrill cry of her mother’s voice emanating from the kitchen, telling her to hurry up so the boys could open their presents.

She knocked one last time, hoping for at least an acknowledgement of her presence, but like before, there was none.

Slightly disheartened, she trudged downstairs, coming to rest beside her father, kissing him on the head, a slurred “Happy Christmas” whispered into his hair.

Her father gave a wan smile in return, an effort to brighten a war-ravaged face.

One of her brothers took her by the crook of her arm, leading her to a spot near the fireplace, wedging her into the middle of the organized chaos.

Her eyes flitted from face to face, genuinely pleased to see the elation from those present, but also disappointed with the lack of the one face she noticed the most; the one that almost always stood out from the others.

Her eyebrows furrowed into a frown, the creases marring her skin.

Abruptly she stood, sprinting up the stairs to his room, an everlasting series of whys fighting for dominance in her increasingly befuddled mind.

Once standing outside his door, she knocked on the hardwood surface, hoping that this time he would answer.

Still nothing.

She grabbed the door knob, wiggling it to see if it was open. It was locked, much to her chagrin.

She ran to her room, scrambling to fetch her wand, when a familiar sight caught her eye.

Rising from below was the tell-tale whisper of smoke rising to her window, signalling her as to where he was hiding.

With a smile, she snuck back downstairs, not wanting to alert her family as to where she was heading.

* * * * * * * * *

He didn’t know what compelled him to give her the book.

He found it in the small library he was currently making his way through. It was the first book he picked up when he first chanced upon the library one lazy Sunday; he chose it because he identified with the title. The more he read it, the more he liked it; and the more he got to know her, the more he realized how much he liked her, and how much she would like the book.

He had bought the book on one of the rare days they were allowed to leave the house.

He found an old leather-bound copy somewhere in the back of Flourish and Blotts, cramped on the shelves with the other Muggle books in that area. It had cost him close to nothing, which was perfect for him, since close to nothing was what he had then.

He found the ribbon in the house. He had nothing to do the day after he purchased the book, and so he was stuck traipsing about the house, trying to come up with something interesting to do. He stumbled upon the family tree, grimacing at his fabric self, but happy to see a ribbon peeling off the wall near his mother’s name.

He knelt down, taking hold of the red satin strip and slowly began peeling it off the wall, taking care to not rip it or fray it.

Once he felt that he had enough of the ribbon to create a bow for her present, he left, running back to his room to wrap the book up.

And now he finds himself outside - running away from her incessant knocking, hoping that he won’t have to join the melee that is unwrapping Christmas presents with her family.

* * * * * * * *

“I had a feeling I’d find you out here,” she announced with a smirk.

“What do you want?” he asked, flicking his cigarette to the ground, watching the red spark fade to gray.

He’s cold now, like winter, but she’s used to this type of treatment and it does not faze her.

“I wanted to thank you for my gift. It was very thoughtful of you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, turning his head to the side so she can now see his sharp profile.

“I feel bad now, though,” she began, stepping down so she’s beside him on the stone steps, “because I don’t have anything to give you for Christmas.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he answered brusquely, suddenly feeling cold for the first time since he went outside. The warm feeling she normally gives him is fading fast now, but yet, he tries to hold on to the last dregs of it; holding steady onto the bits of thread left, not caring that they’re fraying away.

She doesn’t know what to say and she just stands there, looking down at her boots, her cheeks reddening from a mixture of the cold and embarrassment. It gives him time to think.

What was he expecting? She doesn’t consider him as friend. More like an acquaintance that she’s been forced to deal with on a daily basis. He knew giving her the book was a bad idea. But that spark – that little bit of warmth he feels whenever he’s around her – it must count for something. He knew she was slowly thawing away the cold in him and he let her. He was tired of keeping up appearances simply because he had to; he was tired of being indifferent.

“But even if I did plan on getting you something,” she chirped, raising her head, “I have a feeling that it wouldn’t be something you would like. You had everything growing up. What could I possibly give to you that you don’t already own?”

“A friend,” he breathed, turning to face her.

“What?” she responded, her eyebrows scrunching in disbelief. “I thought you had friends.”

“But not like you. You’re not pretentious, you’re not constantly plotting something behind my back, you’re not only friends with me because of my connections; you just like me. I don’t know why, but I think you do. Do you?”

She looked away. Was she really his friend? After all of the bad experiences she’s had with him, can she really consider this boy her friend? And then she remembers back to one of their outdoor conversations in the snow – I like you more now than I did last year. You’re a much better person than people give you credit for. And she was right; he was, is a much better person now that in years previous. Many are unable to tolerate the cold, but she welcomes it; he soothes the raging fire within her, but she is still able to retain the warmth, and that’s all she can ask for.

He notices her smile first as she looked away from him; the small crinkles near her eyes, her one dimple in her right cheek, the way her eyes light up and seem less like a chocolate brown and morph into a deep amber.

She turned to him, her smile still intact. “Yes, I do like you and I am more than happy to consider you a friend.”

Suddenly, the weak strings of warmth bind together, creating a strong bond that shoots out throughout his whole frame, and he smiles, too, revelling in the warmth. He is no longer cold.

Her smile grows upon seeing his as the same feeling begins to make its way through her body.

The pair is caught off guard as the crimson door behind them opened, revealing her mother.

“Ginny! Draco! There you two are! We’ve been looking for the pair of you all morning. Let’s get out of this cold, dearies; you both have Christmas presents that are just begging to be opened,” Molly Weasley chided with a smile. “Ginny, you, especially might want to hurry up before the twins figure out some way to fool around with your gifts, if they haven’t already.”

“I guess I have presents after all,” Draco announced to no one in particular, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Of course you would!” Molly replied, slightly scandalized. “You have just as much of a right to get presents from the Weasleys and others as anybody else,” she finished, giving Draco a significant look.

His eyes widened in surprise. But how could they have possibly sent anything here without the Dark Lord knowing? And why would the Order willingly give their location away to his parents?

Molly read his thoughts. “Severus delivered them, dear. We didn’t want to put your parents in danger. No matter how much we don’t agree with their political viewpoints, it is Christmas, and they are your parents; you deserve a bit of happiness, too,” she stated with a smile.

He turned to Ginny. “Did you know about all of this?”

“I was the one who convinced Snape, who then proceeded to convince your parents that, while you may be here, they can still share a bit of the hols with you. We figured retrieving your Christmas presents might be our safest bet,” Ginny replied with a smirk.

She squeaked when he lunged to hug her, catching her completely off guard. She relaxed after a moment, wrapping her arms around him to return the hug.

“Thank you so much,” he whispered. “You have given the best gift I could possibly ask for at this moment in time: reassurance that my parents are still alive.”

She unravels herself from his hold, grabbing him by the wrist. “Well, come on; we still have gifts to open!”

He catches another glimpse of the backyard as she pulls him inside. It’s snowing.
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