Snow is falling and the bare trees stand like skeletal sentinels, dark against the gloomy grey sky. The sun is gone, obscured by countless clouds. Christmas Eve is about happiness, excitement and fun. But all is cold, all is frightening, all is dark. It's wrong.
He fears the night and what the morning brings. He fears everything now, and it shows. It shows on his pale face and in his green eyes. It shows in his stature and the thick clothes he wears in hope of protection and warmth. It shows in that troubled expression.
And she knows it. Her face is just as white and there is fear in those soft chestnut eyes. Her curly brown hair has grown wild, and is half-hidden into a knitted purple hat. Pale hands are snuggled into her armpits, her arms folded protectively.
'Do you think they'd be in there, Hermione?'
It's a simple question, and as they look into the snowy graveyard she watches him, her face contemplating an answer. Gravestones loom threateningly and clawed branches partly obscure their way. Neither feels welcome.
Tingles run down his spine. It could all be there. An answer, a history. Does he want to know? He could carry on with Hermione, back along the snowy path between dark houses, back to the cramped tent and back to warmth. But they were here, and neither were going back. And they both knew it.
She would be there. She would always be there. Her arms unfold and one slight hand entangles his. It's small and delicate but he draws affection and heat from it as though there was a fire lapping at his fingers.
She whispers; 'yeah ... I think they would.'
A/N: so ... yeah. I had a sudden burst of inspiration, sooo why not, eh?
Inspiration:
Godric's Hollow Graveyard – Alexandre Desplat
My love is always there – Alexandre Desplat
I advise you listen as you read!