He lay in his four-poster, wrapped in quilts next to a cracked window. The breeze chilled his face, but his legs, close to the dormitory fireplace, were uncomfortably warm. The wind whistled through the tiny opening, and he thought it sounded almost like a human voice for a split second. Ron yawned sleepily, tracing the stone wall with his freckled fingers. Then- there it was again. That haunting note. But it persisted a little longer than the wind blew. If sounds had color, he decided, this one would be a cold, dark ice with a flame inside waiting to escape.

He kicked off his quilts, flinching at the sudden chill against his bare feet. In the dark of the boys' dormitory, he located his slippers and dressing gown, taking along one of the many quilts for good measure. He tried not to break a leg on his way to the door, and slowly, silently made his way down the stone spiral staircase.

On the last step, he saw the firelight from the Common Room flicker against the landing. Someone else was up, too. He heard that piercing, whispering, above all coldly beautiful, voice, and there were words, with a sort of ancient beauty in them.

"A sword he sweeps

from swathing cloak

into standing stem

stabs it swiftly:

'Who dares to draw,

doom unfearing,

the gift of Grímnir

gleaming deadly?'"

He stood stock still, hearing her voice skip the rhythm of the words out, shaping them with inflections of urgency and sorrow. Nothing he had heard before could ever compare to this song of this song of swords and honor. He listened to the tale of Sigmund and Sígny and Siggeir, as they were variously married off, killed, and slowly eaten by wolves. Such a gruesome story, he thought as he sat on the bottom cold stone step, but there was somehow a delicious joy in the way she softly read it aloud, half whispering.

It seemed to come to an end with

"'I lived in loathing,

now lief I die.'"

Ron felt the spell of her voice break, heard a book close and a deep sigh, than a cough. He would know that sigh anywhere, but that couldn't be possible. Never before had… but maybe it was her secret. It was best not to tell.

The next night, he heard it again, the gleaming, high notes seeping into his brain like sunlight reflecting off snow straight into his eyes, blinding him to anything else. Ron made his way out again, down the stairs, and in a sudden impulsive move, stepped into the room.

She stopped, her voice strangled midnote, the slap of the book closing echoing off the stone walls.

"Hermione?"

She fought the horrible red blush rising to her cheeks. "What are you doing up?"

"Same as you, I expect. Couldn't sleep." Ron shrugged, strawberry blonde eyelashes closing over bright blue eyes as her yawned. His auburn hair was sticking up in places, and she felt her heart crack along the same lines it had broken and healed too many times. "What are you reading?"

Hermione hesitated a moment or two before answering, "The Legend of Sigurd and Gudrún. I got it for Christmas." She was suddenly aware that it was a very nerdy thing to be reading, and she had the feeling that his eyes would glaze over if she explained that she sang poetry instead of reading it and circled all the alliteration she found, and counted syllables for fun….

He flopped down next to her on the worn couch, his arm just touching hers. "I heard you singing. Was that the song?"

Well, that was it. "Yes, sorry I woke you, I'll just go up to bed now." She made to get up, but he tugged on her sleeve until she sighed as if she was annoyed. A tiny smile started in the corner of her mouth as she settled back down beside Ron and passed him the book.

Examining it carefully, he rifled through the pages, noting all the little notes she had made in the margins. "Did you make up the tunes? Or is it an actual song?"

"I made it up a little," Hermione admitted, "but some of it was just tunes that seemed to fit. The real thing's in either Norwegian or Finnish, I forget. But I think this is a wizard's story, or there were at least wizards involved. It was written by Muggles a few hundred years ago."

There was a comfortable silence between the two of them, Hermione watching the dying fire and Ron skimming the book of lays.

"Sing it again," he asked suddenly.

Hermione's ears burned. "I…I can't…not the same tune, and definitely not in front of you."

Ron handed her the book, blushing himself. "I'm sorry, never mind. I just…it was so beautiful when I heard you before. You have a lovely voice."

Before she could protest, he was already taking the stone stairs two at a time back to his bed.