Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the other characters or plots created by J.K. Rowling. This plot however is mine even if there isn't one.
Hermione sat staring at the pristine white snow that covered the back lawn of her small cottage. It had been falling for many hours. If asked Hermione would be, for once answerless; unable to tell the exact number of hours she'd sat watching the snow descend from the clouds, for she had been watching since the first snowflake hit the ground.
She sat few feet away from the back doors, beside the desk, in front of the hearth. She could watch the flames licking the logs, watch the wood slowly turn black or listen to the fire slowly eating away at the limbs of a dead tree; but she found the peaceful fall of white flakes much more soothing. The gentle swirling as the wind spun them from the straight path they might have chosen.
So entranced, was she, by the fall of snowflakes, that she did not hear the opening of the door. Though the squeal of old, rusted metal was loud; nor did she hear the heavy footsteps upon the hardwood floor walking slowly, purposefully towards her. Only when the fire attacked a log and sparks flew did she become aware of the stranger as he swore, inside her house.
He was dressed in dark robes and they made his pale hair stand out starkly in contrast. His grey eyes looked almost black, almost dead, but there was a spark of vengeance that lightened the dismal colour. His mouth was twisted in a sneer; a replica of his father. But she didn't need to examine him to know he looked the same as when she had last seen him.
Unchanged down to the tar black shoes and the silver mask he held nonchalantly in his hand. Hermione reached for the wand she knew was inside the desk beside her. He waited until it was in her hand before disarming her. He broke in half before walking towards her. He bent slightly to stroke her face with one long, pale finger; she shivered.
He laughed.
"Of course, who wishes to be touched by their death?"
He turned to the window. He was not scared to have Hermione behind his back. He watched the white flakes of snow on the field behind her little cabin home; saw them settle on the evergreen trees that were planted so close to her fence. Hermione sat watching him watch the snowflakes. She let him have one moment of peace before death.
The sound of a gunshot, the shatter of breaking glass as a body fell through it. Silence. She stepped through the jagged edges that remained of the clear door, tread carefully over the broken pieces of glass that lay in the snow and came to stand at his black boots.
She stared at him for a long moment, eyes roving over the unmoving mass of flesh among the glittering glass. She avoided the wound and looked at his eyes. They were dead and lifeless now but they were a lighter grey then they ever had been in life. Then she walked back to the chair in front of the fire, sat in it, and continued watching the flakes falling.
The snow wasn't white anymore.
Yeah I don't really think there was any point to that but I felt like writing it so as you can see... I did. But though there was no point please review anyways just to be nice