"White lips, pale face, breathing in the snow flakes, burnt lungs, sour taste. Light's gone, day's end, struggling to pay rent, long nights, strange men. And they say, she's in the class A Team, stuck in her daydream, been this way since eighteen but lately her face seems slowly sinking, wasting, crumbling like pastries, but they scream 'the worst things in life come free to us….'"

"Hermione…Hermione!"

Hermione blinked and looked up at him, smiling sheepishly once she realized that Harry was looking expectantly at her from behind a pile of books. "Uhm, sorry, Harry, what were you saying?"

Harry snorted and rolled his eyes, "I was saying that I needed a word that was more pretentious sounding than 'doohickey,' but still weird enough to pass in Divination."

Hermione sighed, settling her chin in her hand; her eyes glazing back over as her voice trailed off, "Thingamajig, whatsit, doodad, whatchamacallit…."

"Thingamajig sounds much more profound," Harry hummed, tapping his quill to his chin and scribbling against his parchment, "So what were you thinking about?"

"Sorry?" she blinked again, Harry looking up to arch an eyebrow and lean closer. "Oh, Harry, it's nothing, really."

"Now, see, if I didn't know you – and I'd like to think that I do – I would accept that and move on," Harry decided, reaching out to bump her legs with his feet, "However, since I do know you – what is it?"

She sighed and chewed on a nail, "I was thinking about my wedding."

Harry blinked in surprise, dropping his legs and sitting up straighter, moving some books out of the way, "Pardon?"

She blushed and frowned, "Well, you asked, didn't you?"

"Yes, but that wasn't what I was expecting," he grinned, readjusting his glasses, "Who's the lucky bloke?"

"Oh, I have no idea," she stated flippantly, "I was thinking about the dress."

"You know, I saw a girl in Muggle London who had this scarf, it was like parchment, I asked her what was on it and she said that it was a couple of chapters from the Hobbit, and so I asked where she got it because I thought of you, but maybe you could – "

Hermione blinked as she gasped, cutting him off, "I could get Hogwarts: A History on my wedding gown."

Harry sniffed indignantly, "No, you can't."

"Oh?" she arched an eyebrow and frowned at him, "And why, Mister Potter, can't I?"

He grimaced and looked apologetically to her, "Your birthday's this Saturday."

Hermione blinked before she beamed, "You got me a scarf with Hogwarts: A History written on it?"

"Shh, at least act surprised," he insisted with a pout, "Even if it is just for me."

Hermione grinned wider at him before leaning over the table and pecking his cheek, "Thank you, Harry."

Harry smiled back, "You're welcome, Hermione."

"Hermione? Hermione!"

Harry skidded to a stop by her side, staring at the pale face looking up at the snowy night sky in surprise, pressing his fingers against the skin and finding it frozen. Her hair was like spilled coffee against a white table cloth, snow tangling in her brown curls and sticking, since there was no heat to melt it away.

"No, no, Hermione, please," Harry insisted, feeling oxygen leave his lungs and having him gasp for air, burning as a sour taste came to his mouth, clenching his jaw and blinking tears out of his eyes, taking her hands in his and rubbing fervently, trying to bring pink back into the pale skin.

She, Harry and Ron had been hunting Horcruxes, and Death Eaters had stumbled upon them. The three had split up, and Ron was back at the camp, checking to make sure that the Death Eaters hadn't taken anything, and Harry had gone to look for Hermione. And he'd found her, after six hours, he'd found her in a clearing, pale and still, snow swirling around her, as if in a snow globe.

"Her-my-knee – no," he choked, sobbing as he curled protectively around her, his chest heaving as air was rapidly displaced, wind stinging his face as tears poured out, moving hair away from her face. "I – need – you. Please." Getting no response, Harry felt his world spinning and tilting.

Hour later, when he was feeling detached and numb, he stood in her room in the tent while Ron went to mourn her at her grave, which Harry had dug in the clearing where he'd found her, picking away through snow and ice. He sat on the edge of her bed, smelling gingerbread and ink and parchment, and felt that he had been hit squarely in the chest when he saw a scarf that resembled parchment, and broke down all over again, sobbing in the dark with the scarf held tightly in his fist.

"Hey, Harry, fancy getting a pint tonight?"

Harry turned, halfway through putting on his – her – scarf, and blinked at Kurt, who was fresh-faced and eager looking, a lanky, scruffy looking blonde that Harry had somewhat befriended at his job.

"Ahh, nah, sorry, figure I'd stay in tonight," Harry said, eyeing the group of Kurt's friends, which were looking at Harry as if he were some sort of extraterrestrial being. If they had been in the Wizarding World, this would've been understandable enough, but Harry had gotten a job as a clerk at a small, Muggle bookshop somewhere in Manchester, and so therefore couldn't find a reason why these strange, pimply blokes were looking at him as if he were on fire.

"Oh, well," Kurt only slightly deflated, hanging his apron up before pepping up again, "Maybe some other night, huh?"

"Sure," he nodded absently, waving to Kurt and the weird blokes, burying his mouth and nose into the scarf as he trudged away from the bookshop and towards his flat, snow and wind stinging at his face, although all he could smell was the faint scent of gingerbread. Harry stuffed his fists into his pockets, letting his mind wander as he passed a small dress shop with a large, poufy wedding dress on display. He pulled the scarf away slightly, crossing his eyes to read the small print, settling it back over half of his face once he came to the lobby of his flat, pulling bills out of his post box and grimacing when he saw a bright yellow envelope demanding his attention.

Harry settled down into his armchair, tugging his jacket off but unwinding the scarf, moving it to find the beginning, running his fingers over the letters. He curled himself up, positioning himself towards the window, watching the snow drift in large flakes, the darkness seeming to close in around him, the light of the lamp keeping it at bay.

"I miss you," Harry murmured, his fingers skimming across the letters, like a blind man reading braille. He settled his head against the back of the chair, staring out at the snow, and reached up to flick off the lamp and let the darkness swallow him.

"It's too cold outside for angels to fly. Angels to fly…to fly…to fly. Angels die…."