Copyright: What elements of this story that I own, and are not the property of anyone else, are licensed CC-BY-NC-SA. That means that you can take anything in this story, up to and including the whole thing, and use it however you like, as long as you promise me three things:
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Well folks, it's been a while. I could explain why it's been so long since my last update, but it's a story you've hear before. Let's just get on with the show.

Today's prompt: How does your character react to temperature changes such as extreme heat and cold?

If you'd asked me this prompt as a question, I could have answered it years ago. Unfortunately, putting that information into a story proved more difficult. Fortunately, I've had some very extreme weather lately, which proved to be an inspiration. Enjoy the show!

London's climate was typically considered "mild": winter never got too cold, summer never got too hot, and every day had a better-than-average chance of rain. Alas the operant word is "had", because this particular winter was anything but mild. 'Snowmageddon,' proclaimed the muggle media, 'The Big Freeze'; blisteringly cold temperatures and driving snow rocked the city, and kept all but the most dedicated and/or insane of residents indoors.

Which is just as well, because a dark figure was presently making a less-than-straight path down Whitehall, muttering a constant stream of words that would have been most concerning to any mothers of impressionable children that may, on any other day, have been nearby.

But no such mothers were about to protest, and this dark figure continued, unaccosted, cursing and sputtering all down Whitehall, until finally disappearing – quite literally – into a telephone box of all things.

"Bugger the snow," our mysterious figure grumbled, pushing through the mighty oaken doors of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. "And bugger the cold, too. Warming charm was a damned waste of time. Ben, I ask you:" she – for the figure was indeed a she – proclaimed: "How, in a just and fair universe, can it get so bloody cold?"

"I wish I knew, Miss Granger." The young man behind the desk replied, watching with a thin smile as his boss extricated herself from a truly unholy quantity of scarves, earmuffs, hats, gloves, mittens, overcoats, undercoats, sweaters, jumpers, galoshes, and boots. "If the weather bothers you so much, you should Floo or Apparate into the office."

Free of her woollen bondage, the young woman fired her secretary a dirty look as she tied back unruly brown hair, the more unruly for her static-charged head-wrappings. "I like the Tube, Ben. I just bought a marvellous book about Alan Turing, and without my daily commute I don't know when I'd have the time to read it."

Ben just grinned. "I guess you're stuck with the snow, then."

"That doesn't mean I have to like it." Hermione retorted icily.

"Bloody fucking wind." Hermione grumbled as she entered the small, two-story house she had recently moved into with Harry, forcing the door shut against the very howling winds outside. Though grateful to be sheltered from the unforgiving elements, it nonetheless occurred to her that the current temperature of the house was woefully inadequate for defrosting her poor fingers, to say nothing of the rest of her.

"Harry?" She called out, "Are you home?"

"I'm upstairs," a voice called back. "Early shift, remember? I've been home all afternoon."

Hermione bristled. He'd been in the house all bloody afternoon with the temperature down so low? "Evidently we're going to have to establish some ground rules," Hermione thought as she stalked up the stairs, ready to give her live-in boyfriend a piece of her mind.

But the sight that greeted her as she rounded the corner into his – their – bedroom rendered all her protestations moot. Harry was sitting in bed, wrapped up in quilts and blankets, two steaming – literally steaming – mugs hovering beside him. As much as Hermione wanted to chew him out, the scene he presented just looked too…warm.

"Come on," he prodded lazily, "Get in here. It's a hell of a lot warmer under the blankets."

Hermione couldn't argue with that logic, and within seconds she was out of her nice work clothes and in bed, drowning in blankets.

"Oy," Harry yelled, half-teasingly, pulling his feet back from her. "Your toes are cold."

"That's what you get for not turning up the heat." She replied, grabbing his feet with her own.

"Touché," Harry said, wrapping his arms around her. "Worth it, though."

Hermione couldn't agree more. Maybe there was a silver lining to these low temperatures, after all.

"I can just about remember when London had pleasant weather." Hermione Granger thought to herself as she stumbled down Whitehall, sweating more than she had ever dreamed possible. She had survived "Snowmageddon" – somehow; March had been like a lion and left like a lamb, April showers had brought May flowers, and then June heat had killed them.

It was a mighty, oppressive heat beating down on her this morning, or so Hermione thought, glaring at the throngs of tourists who clearly disagreed. Despite the crowds, Hermione had no difficulty on her walk; something about her appearance encouraged the Muggles to give her a wide berth – perhaps it was her dangerously flushed face.

Or perhaps it was the smell of sweat eating through her perfume. In retrospect Hermione's attire, a smart black business suit, was perhaps not the most appropriate for a day as hot as this, and she could feel the rivers of sweat rolling down her back and soaking through her shirt. But she had seen what some other women wore to beat the heat – crop tops and microshorts and flip-flopping sandals – and Hermione Granger would be having none of that; she would rather die than show so much skin in public and, as Harry had reminded her on many previous occasions, she may just live to prove it.

But that didn't matter to her. She may be uncomfortable, she may be irritable, she may be slowly ruining her suit, but Hermione Granger would not be beaten, least of all by the weather.

It was thoughts such as these that sustained her until she disappeared into that old red telephone box into the blissfully air-conditioned Ministry of Magic. "Thank heavens Magical Maintenance keeps those cooling charms going." Hermione grumbled to her secretary, a wordless charm scouring the sweat from her skin and clothes both. "Ben, I ask you: How, in a just and fair universe, can it get so bloody hot?"

"Wish I knew, Miss Granger." Ben replied with a grin. He didn't take his boss's unhappy tone personally. He used to; back when he'd first started, he'd cowered for three weeks until someone told him that Director Granger wasn't mad at him, she was mad that the weather didn't bend to her will. Ever since then he'd found it more amusing than anything else, especially since she gave the same speech every time, and he wasn't afraid to tease her about it. "If the weather bothers you so much, you should Floo or Apparate into the office."

Hermione shot him a dirty look. "I like the Tube, Ben. It's the only place I get to read anymore."

"Finished that Tuttle book, then?"

"Turing." She corrected. "And no; kept dropping the damned book this morning. Bloody thing just slips right out of my fingers."

"I guess you're stuck with the heat, then." Ben grinned.

"That doesn't mean I have to like it." Hermione retorted icily.

"Fucking sun." Hermione cursed as she shut the door of hers and Harry's small house. As grateful as she was to be shielded from the tyranny of the sunlight, the house was little better; a dry, suffocating heat permeated it, so thick that she struggled to breathe.

It occurred to her then that Harry was working the afternoon shift at St. Mungo's that day; he'd been gone since noon, and it was now half-six, and Harry never left a fan running when he left a room.

Hermione mulled her options. Clearing the air out of the house would be a trivial charm, but the dead air would have to go somewhere, and she'd rather not have the Muggle neighbours wondering about vents of warm air rushing past. Again.

Hermione's face broke out into a slow grin as another, altogether different idea struck her. With only the barest pause to open a couple of windows, she rushed upstairs and within minutes was lowering herself into a deliciously cold bath.

"Oh, this is heavenly." She muttered to herself, delighting in how the water lapped soothingly against her skin. Magic was a wonderful thing, but it could never replace feelings like this. Maybe there was a silver lining to these warm temperatures, after all.