Disclaimer: This dark-fluff-smut piece is extremely heavy in spots. Consider yourself informed that this is mature adult content and rated M for a reason. All characters are of age. By continuing to read further, you confirm you are 18+.

Author's Note I: A special thank you to beforeyouspeak and undomybackzip for their unwavering support as I tackled this story. This is a gifty fic for the lovely imperfectionisunderrated / bellatrixshorcrux. She requested a fluffy Bellamione oneshot, involving Xmas, and ice skating. Er...and I wrote her a dark!fluff fic, barely meeting the parameters, and exceeding 20K words. So. Here ya go.

They coped, some more poorly than others.

Draco, absurdly enough, took to tinkering with the house. Apparently, he'd discovered the satisfaction of using sledgehammers. Extensions to the house, he informed them, were in order. Narcissa remained their impregnable structure, but she took up cooking. In another era Bellatrix would have disparaged, and deemed it plebeian. But that age was long dead in winter ground. As such, she took glee in decapitating carrots and other unfortunate vegetables. And Hermione found an abundance of soup came her way.

Wordlessly.

There was a quiet acceptance of things that weren't accepted amongst them. Ron would have shit himself to know she stargazed silently with the boy. Always many feet apart, always after dark. She found his constellation. Moments without words, only starlight. Sometimes she brought beer. Once, Draco finagled agreement and got her to try a cigar. (Something about aunt-nephew bonding. She'd slugged him for that absurd reference.) It would have been beyond Ronald's capacity to understand that they searched for something unknown. Teaspoon, that one. They hadn't parted well. But she missed him. She missed them both. Her boys.

And then there was her dark one.

Bella seemed prone to felling trees under moon. Many nights Hermione awoke cold, at the cracks of cackles and a bed far too empty. She let her arms chill during window vigil, and watched the wand light. It illuminated the despondency her lover refused in the day. The flashes. And too many of her handprints now covered the glass, smudging sorrow and love. Eventually, the stairs would creak…the doorknob would bang wall in the night. And then handprints would desperately fuck her into sound, promising life. And in the morning, they'd have unnecessary wood, for the fireplace they didn't need to heat. But did anyway. And Hermione couldn't help but find tragic beauty in such dysfunction. The house didn't speak to Bellatrix's mourning. She'd defected His cause in heart long ago, and sides soon after. But Bella had had a Master. So the mourning still dawned. Hermione took to watching sunrise with the witch, kissing lips that wielded sin on the porch, and then rocked Hermione's hips into oblivion. And the sky would turn rose gold.

Some paved forward.

Minerva, she knew, had spearheaded the Hogwarts repair project. Luna said the woman was like a "dozebulder." At this, Hermione found hope in the things that remained the same. And she grasped at the beginnings of sanity when Bellatrix warmed their bed and bones, and promised her a soul. They didn't process their journey to this place. They didn't define. They just were. Wild hands drove Hermione to such heights, where all bad was forgotten and horror was killed, as she came and came. Clinging to Bella, like books to shelves, she prayed Pandora covers would stay shut.

Some things remained absurd.

The need for secrecy was minimal, as the Order no longer ran their discombobulated operation. The need for secrecy was paramount, for safety. On official record, only three were privy. (Four, if you counted Minerva; the blasted witch knew everything. Five, if you counted Dumbledore, deceased and portrait hung in castle.) Of course, Hermione was well aware that the Ministry was not a beacon of confidentiality. Nor was Kingsley. And Bellatrix was…Bellatrix. Therefore, the happenings after war-dust had settled were a complete secret. So, naturally the whole wizarding world knew. Sans the crucial details, of course. Of course. The Daily Prophet made their lives hell. Bellatrix was skewered, but it was Hermione's tears they produced. An awful ink. Still. She couldn't deny the slaps on wrist, the legal luck that the Dark Lord's last, best lieutenant managed to cluck. Freedom was never said to be paradise. But it was theirs.

War was over, but it wasn't.

The new Headmistress told story enough to the world, with biweekly visits to Malfoy Manor…her side clearly drawn. Minerva was matter-a-fact in her silence to the press and gossipmongers; she had no urge to further any blather, be it correct or not. (The witch also seemed to enjoy denying Albus conversation, punishment for his idiotic death.) Molly, however, was hotheaded in this aspect. So much so, that even Percy asked the matriarch to can her trap (shouted actually), albeit to no avail. And while Minerva held to silent truth, Molly held to loud mouth suppositions. Albus merely held. Hermione had hammered in the wall nail herself. She couldn't look at him. And no one knew what to say to Severus, his robes no less portentous in frame. The Gryffindor was glad death took him, and not her accidental lover. Hermione guilted over this, shamed-faced, until Bellatrix had kicked the shins of her brooding. It had been a lively lowbrow mix of truth, insult, and nuance; a quintessential cocktail.

"Life is for the living, my dear, and Severus died long ago. This was merely his chosen…congruence. Now stop mopping, Mudpup. You can cheer up the oiled git on Tuesday when you assist McGrumpy with the damned castle walls."

Bella, bored, had flicked her wand and produced playing cards — tits and ass prevalent on their backs. She'd chuckled at her lover's pinched face.

"I'm sure you'll have fun charming them into portrait limbo. And I'm sure he'll just have fun. Do ask him for me, if masturbation's lost its fun."

Disgusted and amused, Hermione had done just that. He'd "confiscated" the cards, of course. But she assumed Severus enjoyed ordering her to detention. At least she could give him perceived joy, short-lived or not. But alas, McGonagall informed the late professor that his deceased state precluded disciplinary power. And that detention was impossible when there was no Hogwarts in session to house it. Then she'd sent a nasty howler to Bella. Something about corrupting her favorite student, and issues with anatomical artistry.

"Have much experience with pussy then, do you?" Had been Bella's off-color and punny response. Hermione quite imagined Minerva might have fumed or chortled at that.

Though in a roundabout way, this solidified that the best witches of the last three ages were once again on friendlier terms…apparently. Or so the Slytherin assumed. It reminded Bellatrix of her own school daze, surreal as it was. Others, however, were not on such treacle terms.

Time had done nothing good for the Golden Trio. Splintered metals.

Winter came, in more ways than one. Revelations of double-crossers, spies…and Hermione's loyalties were apparently too much for the boys. She could not call them men. Men wouldn't act as if the world were ending, when it so clearly again had begun. But even without them, she healed. The pain of death never quite went away, but Hermione found that the smell dissipated. And though days sometimes gloomed, they did so less often. She found winter to be a blessed cold, birthing clarity of mind and steadfast declarations in snow. New skin burgeoned, at the forest of curls in her trembling and slick hands. Library hours found her peace. And Bellatrix Black was hers, white as the woodland snow, black as the nights they shared.

They moved forward. They clung more often. They clung less. And more.

And one day, Hermione could barely smell war anymore. She'd walked into the drawing room, and for the first time only saw sunlight filters. There was song to be found again, in the kitchen. The hallways. Bella still felled trees, but under the daystar. In it she seemed to find a productivity close to mirth (a relative comparison, mind you). Still, stranger things happened by the woodpile. Hermione went to hysterics, after catching the witch mouthing words to Heigh-Ho. Clearly, the woman had raided her film collection. And really, there was no good way to explain to the ex-villain, how quaint and queer a picture that was, even sans dwarfs. However, the Gryffindor couldn't help but crack a smile every time the fire popped. The white ash smelled like home in her nostrils, no longer like bodies. In more playful times, she'd hum the tune, just to jape her lover…pulling for that scowl she so did adore. The first time it happened, at breakfast, Narcissa had spat out her tea, spritzing it across the table onto Draco's lap. But the woman's face had lit (Draco's had sworn). The Malfoys, Cissy in particular, exerted a strange sunshine. (At this Hermione wondered, at a small blonde girl, blithe, that once was…or so Bella told her.) And Draco was keen, and sold the excess wood at market, to a home goods vendor.

Long December.

And there was reason to believe that maybe this year would be better than the last. So it was, Hermione found herself alone in Diagon Alley, in the Christmas crowds. Well, Solstice crowds to be more accurate. The wizarding world was unsurprisingly Pagan. Only muggle-borns seemed to hold fast to their holiday. And Hermione was that. Her parents hadn't been very religious. But they'd had a tree. And their specific traditions. And with them in Aus— gone, she'd rather annoyed herself with a full-fledged Christmas spirit. It certainly annoyed Bella.

This vexed morning, curls had flung the Gryffindor out the manor, with ember words.

"On your Dumbly's grave, I swear I'll fuck you with the fire poker if you don't take your cheer out of this house! Out, out Muddy!" She had shooed the girl to doorframe, before a final fondness of "Out, dear," whispered against lips.

Bellatrix had a way with words. And lips. Offensive sweet things, kept all wrapped up and snug in careless packaging, but well-meaning inside. But Hermione had gone, her ears catching the blonde snickers drifting from sitting room. And Bella's hypocritical,

"Shut it, Cissy. That's my wife you're sassing. And Dray-dray, don't make me explain to Blaise what pokers are good for."

Amused and fearing, Hermione had gone.

Flourish and Blotts was unchanged, dusty and wonder-filled as always. The tomes welcomed Hermione with a silence she hadn't known she sought. Arm-laden with new worlds to absorb, she purchased her escapes and made out the door.

In retrospect, she should have flooed.

The day was crisp, and lured. And even in her absence, she had Bella's company. The cloak on her body, the ring kissing air. The snowflakes lodged in her hair. They whispered confidence. In the street, the people stared. Children cried. A year and a half, apparently, was not enough time for the world. Not if she expected to be treated like the schoolgirl she once was. But then again, she wasn't. Still. Though the animosity was expected, she would rather the poets dream. Perhaps it was the chill, but she didn't take heed. She did well with mint days; they offered a je ne sais quoi. Her step bounced, and cobbles chuckled. In retrospect, she should have never gone to the shoppe. But the mint was refreshing.

The Weasley joke shoppe.

Hermione stood outside, as if proximity to the building's laughter was enough. Her longing was interrupted, by an exit and a door slam. Linked arm in arm, and too reminiscent of innocence, were the Patil twins. Padma had unlinked arms, letting her sister scurry pass. Parvati. They had never been close. But they hadn't been far.

"Granger." Rushed passing.

But from the weak smile Parvati gave her, they now had a galaxy span between them. Hermione only rated last name, from the girl who'd grown up not even two beds away. And it wasn't even the correct surname. Even with Bella's cold all around her, fitting her mouth like magic toothpaste, Hermione flushed and looked down. She hadn't expected the warmth on her chin, raising it, nor the affectionate regard the woman gave her. Padma.

"Up." The Ravenclaw whispered. "Stay up…Black." A crescent smile fleeted.

Gently, the mittened hand grasped her forearm in farewell, leaving with sharp eyes and an encouraging nod.

Hermione Black watched her go.

And recalled why she'd always preferred Ravenclaw to Gryffindor. Once again, she was painfully reminded, of another reason to take after Minerva. In kind, she too avoided Dumbledore. He'd meddled. And denied her true house. That piece of information had broken her. For her house wasn't hers, neither of them. Disclosure had come by vindictive way of Neville Longbottom, who apparently had a none-too-mum grandmum. The Order apparently had…put things into action, long ago. Trading her path, in lieu of giving Harry a minder.

The night the story broke, Bella had found only one option.

It had been an interesting exchange: dark witch supporting hysterical girl, and knocking on McGonagall's door. It had flung open, and old master and apprentice had intimate regard for the first time in decades. It wasn't the first time they had seen each other, since the new alliance. Quite the contrary. But Bella hadn't acknowledged their actual relationship…until now. She wore a particular look. One Minerva hadn't seen since the woman's school years. It had taken simple words from Bellatrix, and the world both rewound and tipped.

"The Sorting Hat. Your bloody meddlesome fools…Tea. We need some fucking tea."

Roughly, a once eater kissed the professor's cheek, and then thrust her hysterical chit into academic arms. And Bellatrix Black crossed the professor's threshold in a way McGonagall thought lost to them. But now found, Minerva let not rug but time sweep them clean, acknowledging them both once again as her apprentices. Apparently defection, howlers, and shrewd marriage swayed even the most lion of hearts.

The Patils.

Hermione watched their forms. Watched long after the flurry had swallowed them into snowscape. But the laughter still rang. And for the first time in a long while, she sought to join it. And pushed the door open. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes hadn't changed. Sure the product lines were new, mixed in with old staples. The main floor display had been rearranged. But the essence was the same. Red hair flashed inbetween shelves and the hustle of customers. Cheer about her, she forgot what life had wrought. And like adage, George and Ron at the front desk were red-sky at night. Sailing to, Hermione took delight.

But it was morning. She should have taken warning.

Her mouth sparkled, years of well-tended teeth beaming toward camaraderie. Knee-high armor shed slush (her boots) and she wasn't tentative. The excited trudge was childhood and the proprietor caught sight first. And though his grin still held shadows, the delight was genuine. The twins had always held space in Hermione's heart; she mourned for the Fred-hole it now housed. But George, by George, she was glad to see the living. His arms opened and she made to fill them, this brother. A laugh bubbled up as meters closed. Until the only partition between family was ai—

Lights. Wall. Pain.

Hurried feet, customers scadattling. The door swinging open and shut too many times.

Her right side smashed, and head cracked, on the wood. Pain burnt behind eyes. A sharp snap and her pinky broke, caught at a funny angle. She thought George cradled her head, supporting her crumple to floor; his hands seemed to stick to her hairline. Fuzzily, this confused Hermione. But mostly there was an aura of mushrooms and green light. She floated in vertigo, unclear on concepts and existence. The moments took time to steady. Time must have passed, it must have. For she greyed-in and out for years. But when she came to, only seconds had gone, and it was skirmish that met her.

"Mate, are you bloody off your rocker?!" A voice hardened, nothing like the candied nuts he sold. George's wand trained on threat.

Her bones dug into floorboards and she quite thought it odd that the skin of her knees felt grit. Winter dampness. Her jeans must have ripped. Trembling she consulted her banging head with hand. It pulled away hot with pain and red. Eyes struggled to refocus, and the sight she found shattered lenses.

Her once boyfriend. Failed as that was.

"She's fraternizing with the enemy!" Scarlet as his hair, Ron snarled incredulous vitriol. His teeth seemed incisive.

Despite the exigent situation, George found skewed amusement.

"Even if I entertained agreeing with that…you really think then, that your best solution is an unprovoked attack on Bellatrix Lestrange's wife? You need to sort out your strategic failings."

He wondered how thick his brother could get. Bellatrix was a volatile volcano in everyday form; the witch would be impulsively lethal when in lo—when married. Ron merely brandished his wand; George, the only wall between Hermione and further hex.

In the corner, pale lips trembled correction.

"Black," whispered out her lips.

A correction that neither man heard. Black. They were Blacks. Bella. She wanted Bella. She curled up to the wall, fetal, and tried to stay awake as concussion called. His humor had been in hope of diffusion. George was well conscious of the girl (woman) huddled and hexed in his shoppe. She'd made him a cake once. He recalled frosting, and wondered when war had destroyed the people he knew.

"Bloody hell, Ron, your priorities suck."

But his voice muffled, or her ears did. After that, Hermione missed minutes, shell-shocked, due to the dueling pains that accosted. Consciousness flittered in and out. Vaguely, her mind disoriented. Drifted. A long ago lesson from muggle grammar school; something about bananas. Her desk had nice sharp pencils. And then the classroom started raining…she thought it odd that her nose and head dripped the wrong colors. And Curious George…why was the monkey shouting…

"…been eight months, you bugger! Get over your fucking prick, she'd happily fuck McGonagall before you. Hell. So would Lavender."

Clearly it had escalated.

The crackle of spells accompanied such classy words. And outside the shoppe, the rubbernecking spectators had an obscene light show, flashing neon signs on the snow. No one thought to alert the Aurors. She tested her body, hissing, knowing she wouldn't have a better chance. Movement was still a problem. Foggily, Hermione assessed, but her thoughts chopped. Her head managed to understand.

'Weasleys. Hex. Concussion. Dislocation. Duel. Bella. Bella. Bella. Need Bella.'

Gritting her teeth she attempted at wand in jean pocket, and hissed as her shoulder screamed. She ignored the dislocation, and willed her fingers to move. Seconds, really. But it felt like hours until hand finally found wood. The hold was weak. But there. Okay. Feet. She needed to find her feet.

Unfortunately, that required exertion…the noisy kind. It caught attention.

George wasn't prepared for mudslinging. Literal and otherwise. But Ron hadn't been on a Horcrux hunt and learned nothing. This particular spell shot underneath his arm, spewing muck and sludge.

Mud.

It coated the witch head to toe. Everything stopped, suspended. And George broke stance, horrified, looking between his brother and Hermione. The witch, had found legs, and slumped against the wall. Her lips quivered, hands numbed. She spat out a mouthful.

Drip.

Somewhere outside in the distance, carolers dinged bells.

Drip.

The silence imbrued badly.

Blood drip.

Mud drip.

Mud. Blood. The slurs mixed, and found the floor. Their human source was rickety on feet, with empty eyes and dirtied jeans. Soaked hair dripped red-browns and streaked her face warred. She cradled her injured arm, wand awkward but steady in left hand. Her modified Reducto was well aimed and well powered. Well controlled. It struck Ron square on the heart, and blasted him clear across the room…a domino starter, toppling display cases.

Three breaths were too loud in the war room. From the floor, a bated one baited.

"Filthy Mudblood dyke. That's all you are, an ugly bitch for an enemy witch. I hope she fucks out your insides and uses them to shine Malfoy's boots."

Hermione's soul splattered against the wall, amongst the missed spell contents.

"She won't even want you now. Mudspell will remind her what you are. Dirty."

She locked eyes with George. He knew the crack before it happened, and he prayed to the gods of yore that she wouldn't splinch.

"Immobulus…"

Ron froze in space, odium and awful still coating his features. And the limpest Patronus that George had ever produced sprinted off to McGonagall. The Ministry could have its politics later.

Author's Note II: R & R, my dearies. If you follow/favorite me (tumblr or Fanfic account) AND review each chapter of this story, I'll be inclined to write you a drabble of your choosing. Brownie points for those who understood the play on words regarding this chapter's title.

(Credits for entire story: Counting Crows – A Long December; Edwin McCain – I'll Be; Damien Rice – 9 Crimes; Don McLean – American Pie; Florence + the Machine – Howl, No Light, No Light; Green Day – Longview; Gregory Maguire – Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West; The Harry Potter movies; Idina Menzel (Frozen) – Let it Go; J.K. Rowling – the Harry Potter series, Once Upon a Time, the TV show; Sholom Secunda – Dona Dona; Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs,the Disney movie; Sweeney Todd, the movie; Third Eye Blind – Semi-Charmed Life; Walt Whitman – I Sing the Body Electric; The Wizard of Oz, the movie)