It had taken him years. Years to realise that the cold inside him was freezing more than his heart. All his emotions – hate, despair, love – had been fixed by the lack of warmth. And it wasn't until he found the warmth that this became clear. She had been persuasive, insistent, and completely unstoppable. She had invaded his house, his life, and finally his heart.
One cold winter's night, she had stopped over for dinner and stayed to discuss work matters. As he finished putting away the washing up they had completed together, she decided that the antiquated kitchen chairs were just too uncomfortable, and went into the abandoned front room and lit the fire from wood and coal that had obvious sat there for years. He was dragged to the aging sofa to sit in front of the flames, as the room's temperature slowly rose, from allowing their breath to condense to an almost-comfortable fug. The chimney was not drawing as well as it ought, but the slight smoky scent in the room was strangely comforting, and he could almost feel his heart starting to melt and stir.
Then she sat on the sofa beside him, kicked off her shoes, and held out her hands to the flames. A draught under the ill-hung front door made them dance, and she shivered and drew her shoeless feet up and tucked them under her. He turned to say something, and his shifting made the sofa cushions subside even more than they had already. Her already-precarious balance was lost completely, and she found herself falling against him. He had his arms up to stop her, but they instead enfolded her, drawing her to lie in his arms.
"Oh. Sorry – I'll move."
"Don't. Wait there."
Severus righted Hermione, then got up. She watched him as he headed out of the room, and she heard the creaking as he ascended the stairs that ran between the two rooms. Two up, two down – a typical mill-town house one step up from the slums they had replaced over a hundred years ago, and without many modern conveniences. A moan of wind from outside presaged another draught under the door and across the floor, and she wondered why he hadn't fixed the gap years ago – then remembered that he hadn't used this room in years either.
A minute later he reappeared, an old patchwork quilt in his arms. He put it over the back of the sofa, and took a moment to lay some more coal on the fire before retaking his seat. She looked questioningly at him, then he reached out his arms and drew her back down to lean against him. The quilt soon lay over them, and the warmth from both her and the fire gradually seeped through his body, reanimating him. The quilt itself had a slight scent of mildew, lavender and mothballs, and lay heavily, inviting the bodies underneath to rearrange themselves until the pair were lying along the sofa, he underneath, her lying on top with her head on his chest.
And, deep inside him, he felt something hard and cold start to soften and melt. Gently, halting, he lifted his hand and stroked her head, and she snuggled closer into his robes.
"Am I squashing you?"
"Not at all. I …"
He hesitated, the words feeling quite alien. She raised herself and looked at him, and he found his expression twisting into an unfamiliar smile of contentment.
"I'm surprisingly comfortable."
"Good." And she snuggled back down and looked into the flames. "We should do this more often."
"Perhaps we should."