A/N: So, this is one of those late-night (psh, who am I kidding? Late? Since when is 1:55 late anymore?) drabbles that I'm not even bothering to re-consider. It's quite an accomplishment for me to actually FINISH an idea that I start so I think I'll just go ahead and post. :P So there.
Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling and I do not own any of her characters, including but not limited to, Harry Potter and Ronald Billius Weasley.
The rays of light stream in and suddenly he is awake. He begins to wish he'd stayed asleep; it's no colder insight than out, he reflects as he stares out the window to the skeletons of trees, clothed in rags of snow.
Harry's blood is turning to ice in his veins. He needs heat like a man in a northern winter. There is a certain level of cold you can never understand until you've experienced it, that kind of cold where your skin burns, your limbs become cold and dead at their core, and you can feel the blood in your veins crystallize and oh it burns, like your veins have turned to acid. And this is the cold Harry feels now, grasping at thin sheets that provide no protection from the biting chill.
Something next to him stirs.
And suddenly two hands have reached around his torso and have attached themselves firmly on his chest, like a set of defibrillators, shocking him back to life. And someone pulls close to him, flooding him with warmth, and lodges their head in the crook of his neck and vibrant, fiery bronze hair spills over his vision.
Harry turns his head to cast a tentative glance at the smiling face next to him
" 'Morning," the words come out of the big, oafish grin, as sunlight plays across those ginger-colored lashes.
A grin spreads across Harry's face like a weed growing in the late spring.
" 'Morning," he whispers back.
The redhead lavishes a few kisses on his neck.
"Merry Christmas, Harry."
PS: if you're thinking, "Whoah damn, this sucked"... please TELL me. I want to know if I suck. //cough//