A/N: Hello lovely people. So I stumbled upon a prompt in one of the most awesome groups on Facebook. The Death Eater Express. The admins post prompts - I think at least - every day leading up to Halloween.

One of the prompts set the following words:

"Antonin Dolohov, Pumpkins, Hermione Granger, "You can't live off whiskey and candy" - oh and guys, I really really took to that. I wanted to write a Antonin / Hermione fic for so long and finally the muse was triggered and didn't leave until my fingers were bleeding.

So I proudly present you my two-shot: In Siberia.

#betalove: A huge thank you to VinoAmore and kabg01. For their support, encouraging words and honesty.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

"Something wicked this way comes." - William Shakespeare

She pulled her hood further down into her face. The snowflakes weren't pretty stars falling down covering the landscape with a light sheen of white. No, out here it slowly and surely developed into a snowstorm, burying everything under it.

The wind bit at her clothes, pulling her cloak hard and making it even harder to move forward through the thick snow already covering the ground. She cursed inwardly. They should have been back hours ago. It was her own curiosity that maybe could get them both killed.

She should have listened to Dean, she thought to herself while fighting against the howling wind. He told her more than once that they needed to move, leave the cave no matter how interesting it was. He told her he had a bad feeling about it. But she brushed it off as his worry for his husband. She regretted not listening. They triggered a curse when they entered another chamber carved deep into the stone and needed to fight their way back out. Both of their magic was depleted dangerously and apparating brought them both to their limits. Not to speak about it working properly. They reappeared far away from their original destination.

Thank Godric we didn't get splinched, she thought, angry with herself. She shook her head. These thoughts would lead her nowhere and she needed to focus on getting them both back save. She would never forgive herself if something happened to her partner. Fastening her scarf around the lower part of her face again, she braced herself against the wind.

"We should probably prepare for a few days without electricity." Dean yelled from in front of her. He was right. There solar panels wouldn't work. Not in this storm.

"And probably without contact to the others." He added, his voice carried away by a howl in the wind. Both froze. Dean looked back, the storm pushed away his own hood and exposed his face and wide eyes. Blood was still clinging to his cheek. Without a second thought he grabbed her hand and started to pull her forward. She stumbled but grit her teeth and hurried to catch up to him. Her heart was beating fast in her chest, thundering in her ears and accompanying the blood rushing through her veins like a wild stream.

Fear clung to her back, made her slower and her muscles ready to freeze in panic. She tried to breath through it, conjuring images in her mind that always helped make her calm. Dean threw her a look she knew all too well. He didn't need to see her whole face to gauge her emotions. She could feel his as well by just extending her senses.

Soon after leaving the country - running from death and torture - they found that their magic cores were easily attuned to one another. It needed practice and a lot of researching in books some would call gibberish. But they succeeded. It meant just dipping into the outer shield - the added barrier every witch and wizard possessed - told them enough about inner turmoil and upheaval. About how the other felt and how much energy was left. It saved their heads more than once.

"Just a bit. You can do it." He yelled when she stumbled again because of her fatigue. His boots sank deep into the snow because of his huge build and accompanying weight. She on the other hand was light footed, the charms weaved into her boots helping her run through even the softest of snow without much effort. They didn't help her now, though. Not when her muscles were already shaking from her fight with curses too old and complex traps.

Another howl - this time the storm itself - tore through them, made their backs go straight in fear. The snow wasn't snow anymore but ice crystals burning on any exposed skin. It felt like pins and needles piercing through the bit of warmth they both managed to hold with a few spells placed upon them. She felt Dean shiver, his hand clasping painfully around hers.

They soon saw their little huts appearing in the distance, the windows gaping holes in the dark wood. Hope coursed through their veins as they breathed a sigh of relief. They had already lost too many people dear to their hearts - to the weather, to illness, to attacks. At least in this storm both of them could be sure that there wouldn't be another tracker finding them.

She looked up again, burning the picture of the dark huts in the snowstorm into her mind. With all her might she willed herself to not break down, to not let her protesting muscles deter her and Dean anymore than she probably already had. She was sure he would have been able to reach their safe haven in less than five minutes. Suddenly she slipped on a hidden patch of ice, crashing hard onto the ground and pulling Dean with her.

A sharp pain exploded in her wrist and on her cheek, dark droplets of blood appearing in the snow when her vision slowly cleared. She cursed under her breath, brushed away the blood with an annoyed gesture. Transferring a bit of magic into her fingertips she closed the cut as good as possible. Looking around she hurriedly crawled over to her partner, his face pressed into the snow. Fear clawed at her heart.

"Dean?!" She yelled, using his fur coat to pull herself above him in the hope not to slip and crush him. She hissed when she put too much pressure onto her wrist. He coughed roughly and turned around.

"I'm alright. I…" He was interrupted, his raspy voice vanishing into the wind when another howl - far closer than both expected - pierced the air. They both scrambled upward, looking around and trying to see in the impenetrable whiteness around them. Their backs were against each other, wands drawn. In quick succession she cast spell after spell over them, suppressing her own shudder but feeling his on her back through their thick clothes. Stars danced in front of her eyes.

"We need to get back to the huts. Fast." Dean finally exclaimed. She was aware of the fear making his smooth tones deeper, rustier. He only took two steps when he hissed.

"My ankle. I can't… fuck!" He cursed, kneeling down. She joined him, pointing her wand at his limb.

"It isn't broken, just sprained. I can't heal it…" Self-loathing and anger clouded her voice. She shouldn't be so naive, but she felt disappointed that magic couldn't fix everything - supposedly a lesson she learned a long time ago.

Shaking her head and gritting her teeth she tried to think of something else. An image from so long ago it barely felt real appeared in the front of her mind - the summer camp's first aid course. She learned how to at least help in this situation. With a silent spell she summoned two thick twigs. Impatiently she pushed his hands aside. She was sufficient in both silent and wandless magic now but she still needed to see what she was doing. A swish with her hand later thick gauze secured the twigs and in advance his ankle. With a wave she added a numbing charm. Nodding once, she took a quick look around, both fearful and angry for letting her guard down.

When she saw no one, she determinedly pulled his arm around her shoulders and stood up. He towered her by nearly two heads, but she felt him lean down onto her and marched onward. The wind - even if it seemed impossible - had picked up even more and made their path to their huts even trickier.

Sooner than expected they reached their huts, the wind not quieting down but getting stronger by the minute. Their outer clothes were soaked through because of their heating charms and the moisture slowly made its way into the second and third layer. They had to hurry otherwise a cold was inevitable. Deadly in this country.

"I hate to leave you alone…" Dean rasped, looking to her in fear. His eyes were wide, his pupils blown even wider and making his eyes appear black.

"Don't worry. You take care of Seamus and I'll see you as soon as the storm eases up. Let him take a look at your ankle as well. Maybe you need some salve." She forced a smile on her face, a billion reasons and one entering her mind why she couldn't stay with the two of them. He kept her with him for only a few seconds, then nodded grimly.

"OK. Send your patronus if something is wrong, ok?" She nodded along, already pulling away and hoping to reach her own hut soon enough.

"Hermione!" He pressed even though she was already a few paces away.

"I promise. Now I really need to get going." She yelled above the storm and without a look back vanished into the white.

When she reached her hut - home she called it for the last three years - she closed her eyes and tried to center herself against the loud storm and her own feelings of cold and fear. After vanishing her warm gloves she pressed her hands against the wood of her front door. The magic hummed through it, a steady flow of energy. With fierce determination she started to pull her magic into a single point in her mind, formed it into runes and formulas. Under her breath, a swell of words no one but she could understand flew from her mouth. It wasn't a joke when Dean once said that her place was more secure than even Gringotts and Hogwarts combined. A sudden lessen of the pressure on her mind made her aware that she succeeded.

Stumbling into her hut, she fell to her knees, breath quick and hands clutching the rug. With the last of her strength she crawled forward. When she was far enough into her small haven, she used one of her booted feet to close the door with a resounding crash. Her wards, pulling on her already massively depleted magic, was the last thing she felt before everything went dark.

Hermione awoke, still clad in her moist clothes the next morning. The howling wind told her that the storm hadn't eased up and instead seemed to be more fierce than it was yesterday. With a shake of her head she tried to clear away the fog that seemed to cling to her thoughts - something she loathed and because of that made sure to never really deplete her magic again if possible. It had killed people.

Shying away from that thought she slowly pulled herself up, resting for a while on her knees until the light-headedness morphed into a dull pounding headache. First things first, she thought and started to undress herself in the middle of her living room. When her clothes were gone she waved her hand, testing her own strength with a simple summoning spell. A bit slowly but still surely her bathrobe appeared. It was a thick, woolen cloak that would keep her warm until the heating charms and fire chased away the last coldness penetrating her hut.

Happy with her first try of magic after blacking out, she pulled her wand out of her recently discarded clothes. Working magic with a wand was much simpler because there was an outlet to guide the energy from her core. She wouldn't waste too much of it just concentrating it into a spell. In that sense, magic was like energy the way muggles described it. It was never really gone, just changed. From kinetic to thermal and so on. Hermione felt comfortable that something of her old world was still applicable into her "new" world. Though new didn't cut it.

New would mean she was still twelve and in Hogwarts. With Harry and Ron. But she wasn't and they weren't. Instead she was in Godric knows where and Harry and Ron… they were dead.

Sighing, she pushed away these thoughts and cynically thought that maybe Harry would have mastered Occlumency if he had just the right motivator. Seeing your loved ones die was enough for her.

Her wand vibrated suddenly in her hand and made her aware that a pending floo call was waiting for her. Securing her robe around her, she casted a few warming charms and hastily made her way over to the small fireplace. Activating it, it burst into green flames, a sound like a cough accompanying it.

"Hermione!" Dean shouted, his face too pale to her liking.

"Finally! What happened to you! I was so fucking worried! What were you thinking not giving me a heads up that everything's ok!" His exclamations overwhelmed her for a minute. She shook her head and opened her hands to placate him.

"Dean… calm down. I'm fine. I just…" She waved her hand, unsure what to say to not make him worry even more than he already seemed to be. The frown entering his features was openly visible even through the faulty floo connection.

"You passed out, didn't you?" Her silence was enough of an answer, his sigh unnaturally loud in her ears.

"I told you…" He started, annoyance creeping into his tone. Hermione waved her hands. It was a sign of her strength already returning that the spell worked and the young man fell silent.

"Don't you reprimand me. It was necessary otherwise we both would be ice cubes now." Irony was dripping from her words and Dean flinched. Hermione saw his face fall and frowned herself. Kneeling down to better see him, she leaned a bit forward.

"Dean? What is it?" Her voice was soft now, less aggressive and for the moment she could ignore the building pain in her head.

"Seamus." Dean's voice suddenly was clogged with emotions for his husband. Worry clawed at Hermione's heart.

"Tell me." She commanded, tension making her shoulders cramp.

"He gets worst every minute. I don't think he'll make it without outside help." Dean sounded defeated even through the crackling of their fire connection. Hermione bit her lip, hard.

"Shall I come over… it's just a few minutes away." She suggested without a second thought even though she wasn't sure she could be of much help at the moment. Her magic was still recovering and upholding her wards wasn't helping either. He shook his head even before she finished her sentence.

"No, you can't. There are wolves outside. I saw them only a few minutes ago. They're just waiting for an opportunity like this. I think Greyback has something to do with it…" Greyback. Hermione hissed. If Greyback got his paws on these wolves there was nothing natural left in them. No fear for fire, a surprising immunity to magic as well. She still tried to find a logical explanation how that was even possible but so far her researching skills and self-taught arithmancy left her with nothing.

"What can we do?" She finally asked, her voice low while her thoughts ran a mile a second.

"I think I need to get him to Poppy." He answered. Hermione knew she didn't need to tell him how dangerous it was. Their floo connection was faulty at best and using it to travel… he really had to be desperate.

"Do you think there is anything else we can do? Potions I could brew or magic transition? Or…" Dean's shaking head let her fall silent.

"We already tried, honey. I don't think there is any other way. Curse all those bastards." His tone became even darker, hate and anger apart from worry clouding it even more. The last attack had cost them too much. Hermione felt a palpable fear creeping up her back, clawing into her skin and bones. She shivered.

"I trust you, Dean. If that's the only thing we can do…"

"It is." He determinedly said with no room for further discussions. The witch knew that time was running out, tasted it in the air. In anger one of her fists connected hard with the stone floor. She hated feeling helpless. The flames didn't hide Dean's face becoming soft.

"Don't blame yourself, Mione. Please, don't do this." He muttered. His eyes told her that he wanted to envelop her in his long arms, calm her down. Hermione stayed silent and did blame herself. That was just her nature. She always tried her hardest, wanted to be the strongest and the most intelligent. There was nothing a bit of research couldn't fix. But in this instance - and she recalled in too many others as well - her intelligence failed her. Books failed her. She had only herself to blame.

"I'll be gone for three days, I think. I don't know if I can contact you…" Fear entered his face, strong and undiluted.

"Don't worry. You're the one always saying I live in Fort Knox." She tried for humor but the forced chuckled made them both wince.

"They won't get to me. Greyback may have sent the wolves but no Death Eater will be out there now. By the looks of it the storm will hold for a bit longer. Five days, I would say." She mused, tried to infuse her voice with calmness and with strength. Both of which she didn't really feel. Dean seemed to second guess his plan, pulled into two directions. To protect Hermione or his husband. It may seem simple to anyone outside of their bond but it wasn't. Not for someone as trustworthy and loyal as him.

"Dean, look at me." Hermione finally mumbled. She cleared her throat and fixed his eyes with her own whiskey colored ones.

"You need to save him. We can't lose him. You can't lose him. Do you understand?" He nodded reluctantly to that and Hermione suppressed the relief starting to show on her face.

"Besides…" She cynically began, but needed to start anew because her own emotions overpowered her bravado.

"Besides, it's Halloween soon and I have everything I could ever wish for." Dean chuckled and decided to ignore that both of them knew that she didn't. That she wouldn't because her best friends were dead.

"Hm… I see." He mumbled and threw a look behind himself, probably to look to Seamus.

"I have to go." Dean said through thin-pursed lips. A small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth a second later, though. Hermione guessed that he wanted to leave her with a smile and not the foreboding both of them felt pulsing through their bodies.

"Can you promise me something?" He asked and Hermione nodded eagerly.

"Promise me that you remember in the next few days that you can't live off whiskey and candy. You have to look out for yourself for me." Hermione chuckled softly, her eyes suddenly spilling over with tears.

"I promise." She brokenly answered and suddenly the hearth went cold.

He coughed. The sound was wet in his ears and without ever enjoying the medical branch of magic he knew that his condition was declining. And fast. He shouldn't be surprised about that because the storm raging around him, the constant battle with his magical core to just hold out a bit longer and his condition at the start of his journey were all doing their part to make him more sick. He was surprised, though.

Maybe because of his upbringing. You weren't told your whole life that your blood made you special and invincible without it leaving you behind feeling just that. A cold - something only muggles and half-breeds and weak people got - took him by surprise.

He tried to argue with himself that being tortured and then spit out into a snowstorm of Siberia would weaken any man - wizard or not. The teachings ingrained into his brain, though, made him second guess his logical approach.

Not that he was sure that he could depend on his mind these days. Azkaban, the Cruciatus and an illness he tried to hide from any of his brethren had played a trick on him and his senses. He couldn't explain away voices he heard awake and asleep, shadows fluttering just at the corner of his vision or even the constant urge he felt to just go searching with tiredness or too much alcohol. It all should mean he was going insane, or was already there. But wouldn't a mentally unstable man be unable to recognize insanity?

Shaking his head, he pushed away his philosophical thoughts. Other dangers were more important to concentrate on now. He couldn't let the feverish ramblings of his mind get the better of him.

He braced himself against the storm again, wrapping the flimsy cloak they left him with more tiredly around him and with much difficulty spoke another heating spell onto his person. It wouldn't stay for long but maybe long enough to reach the settlement he knew was nearby.

His locating charms told him as much at least. And wouldn't it be just ironical for him to stumble across Muggles - or even Muggleborns - out here, defenseless and ill as he was? It would display his former lord's humor to perfection. If anyone would call it humor that is. Most of his brethren called it insanity at its finest but were in too deep to really do something about it. They had searched for ways to get rid of the abomination, though. Just in case they whispered in dark corridors just before vanishing into the night.

A howl not too far in the distance made him stop short. He cursed in his mother tongue. A second later he tried to calm his wild beating heart. Just because there were wolves around didn't mean that they had anything to do with the Lord's pet.

He stumbled forward again, his boots dragging in the deep snow. A while ago - he couldn't measure time in the white nothingness - he stopped feeling the cold. It should have elated him. Instead it made him more afraid. Growing up in climates like this taught him early on that losing the feeling for the cold was a sure sign that the body would give in soon. Obmoroschjene his grandfather had called it and showed off stumps on his hands and feet where the healer had to amputate necrotic tissue to stop blood poisoning and inevitable death and couldn't safe fingers or toes.

As a child he was deeply fascinated and at the same time disgusted. It taught him to be on his guard in these temperatures, though. That knowledge and his own common sense made him aware that he had to get out of this cold. Find shelter in a cave maybe. And as soon as possible.

The first sneeze surprised her two hours later. Cursing she felt her forehead and with fear discovered that she had a slight fever. A wand-wave later confirmed her apprehension. Just what she needed.

It wasn't like she couldn't cope with a cold. She was a grown ass woman as Seamus liked to point out, but in this weather with only a few supplies that would last her two weeks and no one to contact if bad came to worst, she couldn't suppress a foreboding feeling overwhelming her.

There wasn't a potion she could take or an incense she could light that would help her with the symptoms because even though magic was nearly endless it had its shortcomings. One being that curing a cold caused by ever-changing viruses was as impossible for witches and wizards as it was for muggles.

She theorized in her free time that maybe the viruses were more dangerous because they could infiltrate the magic of the witch or wizard and in that way assimilate the structure and feel of it. So casting a counter spell or healing it would mean acting against the magic of the ill witch or wizard. A stupid idea because the by effects could kill not only the healer but the patient as well.

Hermione sighed. True, she had worse. Far worse. A deep wound inflicted by Antonin Dolohov in her fifth year and a scar to show for the number he did on her. Scars on her knuckles because a slicing curse on one of her escapes nearly cut off her fingers. They just stayed with her because her sinews were keeping them connected to the rest of her limb. Or that one time in Greece when a Hydra stood between her and her escape route. It bit a part of her calve off. Thank Godric for Madam Pomfrey who could restore it to nearly perfect capacities.

So the cold wasn't what made her afraid. It was the impact on her magic that made her nervous. It wouldn't be gone or be depleted like massive spellwork was known to do. Instead it would make her magic fluctuate. For her wards to work properly a steady stream of magic was necessary though.

Chewing her lip she pulled the tea bag out of the pot and with one of her oven mitts on her right hand took it to her sofa and placed it on the coffee table. She pulled the thick blanket from the backrest, building herself a comfortable and most importantly warm nest. Her thoughts circled around. Maybe the cold wouldn't be too bad. Living in this latitude did wonders to her immune system and a bit of sneezing and coughing wouldn't have that much of an impact on her magic… would it?

Frustrated she pulled her long curls into a braid at the back of her head. The elastic got caught in the bandage she wrapped earlier around her sprained wrist. Growling she finally got it free.

But what if her magic was fluctuated by the cold enough to disturb the stream? Which wards would hold and which wouldn't? She wasn't stupid enough to just dismiss the idea that the wolves she heard howling and scratching and snarling would try to enter her cabin. Especially if they were influenced by Greyback. The witch knew that the werewolf was clever, though most oversaw that because of his bloodlust. She only needed to show the slightest weakness and they would be inside and overwhelm her probably with sheer numbers.

Hermione weight her head from one side to the other. She couldn't take the risk. Not if she was going to get more ill. Caution was something she learned over time. That and to be humble and realistic about her own achievements and talents.

A wand wave later a heavy tome laid in her lap, the pages already flipping to the one page she would need to calculate the risks. McGonagall once told her that a brilliant witch like her should write down what she developed - not that Hermione ever failed to write down what she knew. But experimenting with charms and spells, with runes and arithmancy was a completely different area. It depended on logical approach, balanced and explored magic and a thirst for the impossible.

That's why Hermione found her warding system written down in this book. No one else could read or access it - Dean told her all the curses she put on it were a credit to her overachieving nature because they were alone most of the time. But again, better be safe than sorry wasn't just a nice sounding phrase. It had merit.

Hermione took a sip of her tea, smacking her lips together when she burned them slightly. Her free hand was gliding down all the complex formulas, the binding circles and numbers along with the runes forming a beautiful string of magic. She allowed herself to feel proud for a few seconds.

Then she found the abstract wards. The first ones were basic. Muggle-repelling, anti-apparating and wrong-locating spells stood next to weather-safe and disorientating charms. The last one Dean came up with. He said that though not all members of the magical community world wide were supporters of the new regime in Great Britain they should probably stay away from foreign witches and wizards as best as they could. They would be in danger knowing about the first three people on the most-wanted list. In fact, the charm was pretty simple. It worked just like a Muggle-repelling spell but was tweaked just so to use a basic form of Legimency to put the wish to go into any magical brain.

The runes and arithmancy following weren't as simple anymore. The Fidelus wasn't included though. Hermione hadn't figured out how to include it in there to work properly. If added the Fidelus made the ward system unstable and though she was powerful enough to counter the effects, she didn't want to risk it. She didn't want to put her faith in something that could fall down like a card house in a breeze just because she lost her concentration. It would have given them more peace of mind but as her father liked to say: you win some, you lose some.

She sneezed, her magic surging through her veins and then ebbed away again. Panic was slowly building inside of her. The witch knew that disabling some of the spells would maybe cause a chain reaction she needed at least a day to calculate. But something told her she hadn't got the time. And some wards were better than none. A howl roared alongside the wind, causing the hair at the back of her neck to stand on end. She hoped Dean got Seamus safely to Poppy.

Pushing away distracting thoughts, she concentrated again on the long binding of runes and numbers written neatly on the pages. Quickly calculating the risk in her head, she sighed. Keeping her wards intact against other witches and wizards would need a too high flow of steady magic. She wasn't sure if she would be capable of it. Her expedition with Dean took a lot out of her and now coming down with a cold…

The witch knew she was strong, her magical core a massive well of energy. But she couldn't do anything if the cold had a too high impact on it, if her magical core was blocked by the viruses. She couldn't guarantee that her wards would hold. Sighing, the conclusion already danced in the forefront of her mind. She needed to disable most spells concerning other humans. Particularly witches and wizards. If her magic started to fluctuate, it wouldn't be able to hold against other magical cores that advanced. She felt safe to say that the wolves were another matter. Though magical as well, their abilities were dormant so far from the full moon.

A second later she made her decision, pulling her wand out of her hair where she secured it to hold the large tome. Taking a deep breath she closed her eyes, feeling along the seams of her warding system, tweaking here and there to check the stability, she got to work. Not only keeping the warding up but also pulling up the magic to unchain a few of the bindings took more out of her than she first thought.

When she came up again - out of her mind - she blinked, feeling dizziness and nausea coursing through her veins and stomach. Her head sank down between her knees and she started to breath, counting her in- and exhales like Seamus taught her. Godric bless him, she thought and remembered a time when all she could do when panic overwhelmed her was flee into a closed off room and hiding there until her blood pressure was back to normal. It wasn't effective or convenient. Not to talk about the humiliation she would have felt if someone found her. A panicked Hermione wasn't a good sign and she was an idol and the strong shoulder for longer than she could think back.

The nausea slowly ebbed away and in its wake tiredness and the pounding headache that vanished only recently came back full force. She wasn't able to make it back to her bedroom and instead laid more comfortably down on her sofa. Before she knew it, she was fast asleep.

Giving up entered his mind more than once. True, he was a strong man. Determined. Single-minded when the need arose. And powerful. Many of his brethren envied him for the blood coursing through his veins - or at least for the strength of his magical core. He wasn't ambitious enough to really make use of it. His father taught him to play his cards close to the chest and he himself thought that being underestimated by some stupid followers or overlooked by the more clever ones was just the way he wanted it to be.

Especially after his second stay in Azkaban. Something changed him then. Made him second guess his beliefs. Not his actions, though. His grandfather told him to always live with the consequences of his actions. The lives he took, the pain he dealt out and received - all of these things made him into the man he was now. He wasn't sure yet if he or even his family would be proud of the man he became.

His mother would probably weep if she could see him. Mangled, scars crossing his skin, out of his mind and still brilliant at the same time. Potential he never thought he had, but his mother believed in dearly, gone to waste. Bitterness joined his tingling limbs and made him swallow hard. His stomach churned painfully. He was aware enough to know that it was a mixture of failure, the strength it took him to go on and disappointment letting him feel this way.

And maybe, if he would let himself sink into the snow, let the storm swallow him whole, he would find himself in front of his mother again. She would probably chastise him for his actions and decisions but in the end she would envelop him in her arms. He would place his chin atop her head of black, wild curls because she was just that small. His nose picked up her scent - lavender and something sharp that was distinctively her.

He shook his head and felt himself sink onto his knees. Closing his eyes, he pulled up his walls, drowned out the roaring winds, the biting ice on his face and hands. In his mindscape he saw his magical core. It was still bright, still intact, but so small that he could probably hold it in both his hands.

Go on, he demanded of himself but couldn't fight the part of him that just wanted everything to end. His lungs hurt from the cold. His ribcage was bruised and every intake filled him with pain. His feet though secured in boots made for this weather couldn't keep them warm. Not when everything else of him was freezing cold.

Anger suddenly pulsed through him, called on him to not give up. To not let himself be weak and take the easy way out. He didn't know where it came from but it felt like himself and an extrinsic influence he could dismiss without a second thought. Securing his scarf again around his face and taking a breath as deep as possible he pushed himself up. Just a bit longer, he told himself but couldn't explain why he even bothered.

What would await him if he survived? He was excluded from the Death Eaters. His betrayal - his illness as he had dubbed it - was finally out in the open. He took Voldemort's torture and his decree to kill him on sight with a head held high. Just as his grandfather told him.

But where did it leave him? He had family. Cousins and second cousins, some magical, some Muggle. But could he live with himself after everything he did because he thought it right at one point in time?

Musings like that wouldn't find him shelter, he told himself angrily and pushed onward. Onward to what, he didn't know.

By the time she woke up night had already fallen. Resting did her some good. As did the shower she took after starting her meal. She emerged feeling better and a swish with her wand told her the fever had gone down. To be sure she closed her eyes a moment and searched for the place where her magical core resided. It was still pulsing instead of calm, but the flow was steady enough.

Her emotions were running wild though. And just because she threw a glance at the calendar hanging on her fridge. The 30th of October. Hermione cringed thinking about all the things that the once holy feast brought her. Brought for everyone she once held dear. Harry and Ron said their last goodbye on that day. Harry lost his parents, Sirius and Remus their best friend. And the Marauders learned what betrayal really meant. The young witch herself - she was tortured a second time. On Halloween. And couldn't save her boys. The date hung like a sword of Damocles above her head.

Normally she would drink herself stupid enough to forget but not enough to lose control. Dean would find her buried in a Quidditch shirt of Harry's and a bright orange blanket wrapped around her. He would pull her out of the mess she would make. A mess that to her was everything but. It was a neatly assorted pile of photos and letters and memories. Of what ifs and whens and maybes.

On the next day - somber, sad and broken - she would tell him that everyone had their coping mechanism and hers was just a bit extreme. He would nod and let it slide. In the last years they built another routine out of it. This year, though.

Dean wouldn't be around to pull together her broken life. He wouldn't hold her in her sleep and tell her that Seamus wished for her to spend the time with them. And she would… probably drink herself stupid enough to forget but not to lose control.

Hermione - after letting the young wizard go - finally realized how alone she really was. Cabin fever wasn't what she was afraid of. She wasn't afraid of the memories either. At least in them she could be with Ron and Harry again, eating pumpkin pasties and chocolate frogs and sugar quills. She was afraid of what would come afterwards.

She never told Dean but having him around on the first of November helped. A lot. Something told her he wouldn't be around.

Hermione sighed and shook her head. It wouldn't do to start depressing her now when there were so many things to do before this day she wished would be erased from calendars and the human memory altogether. And she definitely wished for all the things that happened on Halloween to never have happened.

"Come on, Granger." She muttered to herself and half an hour later - after cleaning the dishes and enjoying the fulfillment of a warm soup in her tummy, she took her research and the needed books and made herself comfortable on the fur in front of the roaring fire.

Hours past without her notice while she tried again - like a hundred and more times before - to find a way to finally end the monster that called itself Voldemort. Everything she got so far were empty leads and insane theories. It seemed that magic and nature did everything in their power to erase the wizarding world once and for all. Because that was where they were headed. Apart from the Muggleborn killing and the half-blood enslaving, the inbreeding would lead to a generation of squibs. To mental illness and physical deformation.

Maybe the utopy that scared her the most was a bit extreme as well. There still was the magical community in the US. Though the last reports she read were suggesting that most of the magic people living in North America weren't too opposed to Voldemort's ideas. She could yell and curse and insult them, but she knew it wouldn't serve anyone and just make her lose hope she barely had.

Tiredness and the returning feverish feeling let her stop late in the night. Hermione didn't stop to clean up her research and just - like a sleepwalker - ended up face down in her bed. Maybe, her last conscious thought was, she overestimated her immune system.

In the distance - and he felt like his common sense finally left him - he saw light. Barely through the thick storm, but there. And with it he felt a new hope raising in his chest, warming him to the tips of his fingers. Something pulled him to it like the moth to the light. He felt like an insect anyway and the mental comparison didn't feel too off.

He stumbled again because he couldn't coordinate his feet correctly anymore. His nose was burning, his skin crawling and a part of him knew that the freezing started to eat away at him. He thought it would have began sooner.

Under his breath - the bit he could spare - he counted his steps to concentrate on not slipping, on not giving up when help was so close. Howling caused him to stop short. There, just below the light he could make out shadows. Reappearing shadows.

A shudder, not from the cold, raced down his spine. He had to think and fast. Though the storm hadn't eased up a bit, he sure as hell knew that wolves - their natural habitat this country and this weather - could still make out his scent. Especially because blood clung to parts of him like a second skin. Concentrating he felt that one wound was bleeding still, too.

He marched onward, his eyes singling in on the light. Slowly, like a lifeline appearing in the mist, he could make out a hut. Its windows and doors seemed to be snowbound. Cursing softly, he changed his direction. Maybe the wind could cover his tracks at least until he could find an entrance. He would worry about the inhabitants later. His first priority was himself. It made him feel better that he could still put effort into himself. Maybe he was redeemable in his own eyes. That had to be enough for the moment.

Behind the hut he soon saw a few trees. If someone could call them that. Their stem were thin, their base covered in snow. Twigs and branches seemed to be broken off, their remains scattered on the ground under snow or carried away in the wind. Maybe he could find a bit of safety beneath them. It was worth a shot.

His feet dragged but he grit his teeth, ignored all the pain and guilt and despair clouding his eyes and mind. When he reached the small assembling of trees he rested a short moment against one. His breath still rattled, the wet sound far more recognizable than before. His knees were barely able to hold him up.

Hurry, something whispered and it was his only warning when suddenly a howl pierced the air behind him. Turning around, eyes wide he only got a second to roll out of the way. The wolf - a massive beast with grey and white fur - collided with his shoulder, letting him stumble painfully against the tree and sink down into the snow dazed.

The growling was only a few feet away and he scrambled as fast as his beaten body could back to his feet. He looked around and found himself fixed with eyes far too intelligent for any animal. He knew who was responsible for this abomination.

"Greyback", he muttered hatefully. He slowly moved, careful where he put his feet. A part of him was astonished that he still had the ability to move with such agility when he was at the end of his strength. Maybe the adrenaline pulsing through him helped him enough to concentrate. That or a more primitive part of him took over.

The hut was at his back and he made sure to circle enough that he could watch out of the corner of his eyes for an entrance. It was a risk he was willing to take. It would put more distance between himself and safety but his logic taking over made clear that it was his only chance if he didn't want to end as wolf-food.

There, he thought excitedly. He didn't move, though. His eyes held the wolf's for a moment longer, trying to frighten it with his own dominance. Maybe he should have listened to Professor Grubby-Plank because the wolf picked up the growling again - more menacing than before. It yipped and he knew this was his last chance.

With energy he didn't know he still had he sprinted, caught himself when he was close to slipping on the ice hidden beneath the snow. He stretched a hand forward, a simple fire spell entering his mind. The snow before the door evaporated in a hot fog, burning his cheeks when he ran through it.

He wasn't fast enough though. He felt a sharp pain running through his leg where the wolf got to him. The sudden hindrance to move - the animal was exceptionally strong - propelled him forward and right through the door.

Turning on his back he watched the wolf let go only to prepare to jump him. He closed his eyes, ironical words filtering into his panicked mind:

Just as you decided you wanted to live….

But the wolf never reached him. Instead it yelped and sprinted away.

He was too surprised to react, his brain too tired to understand what just happened. Instead he leaned back and knew no more.

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