Disclaimer: All characters and places mentioned and/or hinted at belong to J.K. Rowling, not me. I'm just borrowing them for a short time.
Author's Note: As mentioned in the summary, One Last Cigarette was inspired by a line from Deep Water by another rowan. Go read it as soon as you are finished with this one.
"You're the only one that I -" Streak of frost crawling up the window. "No, that's not what I mean. What I mean is that it's -" Ice in a silver goblet crashing to the floor. "It's not wrong with you, like it is with the others." Flakes of snow covering every imperfection. "With them, it's fire, and raging . . . But this is hidden, like -"
"Like winter." Voice as sharp as a frozen razor, about as irresistible, too. "And since you figure that not everyone burns, they have to have at some point felt cold, like you do with me."
Why did grey always see past the other colours so clearly? "Yes." A short answer that said all the right things. You were the green of spring, the one that emerged from the depths of below-zero temperatures untouched, survived its slumber, so why were there these lingering tendrils in your mind? Green and white, emerald and crystal, like spearmint running from a hot July day.
"Was that all you wanted?" Stranded, impatient, in the midst of the Arctic Ocean.
"No," you say, pushing your body firm against his as you lean in for a kiss, not too sweet, not too rough.
Cold like an icicle, but melts a thousand times quicker. He backs you up against a table? a desk? the both of you somehow already naked and hard but his lips are chalky blue and yours are laughing red and though you've done this a hundred times you let him lead. There's life inside you, heat, and he wants it even if he doesn't think so and since tomorrow the game is up you allow him in.
It is a desk and the bottle of ink beside your joined hands wobbles around the edge, then falls and shatters, little pieces of a broken jar shining in a pool of silver. And as he's inside you for what might be the last time, you wonder why there's no colour in his mind, just this sharp, accurate white/black with its quills and wands and books.
He knows there's shade of impossible scarlets in you, he's seen you bleed them, and if for a moment he can feel them, run his fingers through the crimson stained paint, then he'll reach his hand around and bring you with him. And in your climax you both forget the bleak world that he's trapped in and the dark mass in your heart as you come and die simultaneously on his throne of ice.
He stands and hands you your jeans and t-shirt once you've both recovered, sneering with distaste at the sheer complexity of the outfit, with its blues, and greens, and reds. He dresses in a palate of tame, stark shades, buttoning meticulously as you brush back your hair with a run of your fingers.
The pretense of calm, cool, and collected has vanished, and his eyes dart to yours. "It's a fire out there - summer."
"Yes, I know," you answer softly, waiting to see if he has more to say before going on, "but they need us out there. We'll regret it if we don't go."
He wants to say, "Maybe you will." but the words aren't there, locked away with his frozen touch. Instead he nods and moves to the door and whispers to demons only he can see, "I wonder who of us will make it back alive." before leaving you standing in a room that takes shape the moment he's gone.
And you think briefly, "Harry is lucky to have you on his side." then follow him out to war.