The wind howled as it enveloped the stone edifice, squeezing through the meager windows with eager fingertips, grasping at whatever they could reach. It ruffled Rabastan's hair, slicing through the thin tunic wrapped around his torso, and cutting into his too lean flesh. He shivered violently, teeth clacking against each other as he tucked his body into the only corner that didn't seem to be pitted with fissures to let the air through. It did little to abate the chill that seemed to perpetually sit in his bones, but blocked some of the new eddies blowing in.
Azkaban was cold on the warmest day of the warmest summer they had reportedly ever had, and it was absolutely frigid in the middle of winter. It was damp, and dank, and seemed to leech the comfort out of any furniture, or clothing, or food, or even book that was passed their way. Not that they were offered much – a mattress that had been well used before it had ended up in his cell, lined with similarly recycled sheets that were washed only once a month. In theory, he'd been given a blanket, but it too had been worn to only a thin shadow of what it had once been even before it had been laid in his cell. Clothing consisted of tunics that were too big and trousers that were too small. If there were socks in the prison he had certainly never seen them. Food was usually cool by the time it reached them in the maximum security ward of the prison, lumpy and alternately too hard or too mushy, and designed strictly to keep them alive.
At times, he contemplated not eating. Allowing his body to finish wasting away into the nothing it seemed to be becoming. There were no mirrors, but he wasn't blind. Even in the dim light his eyes could see his wrists and knees protruding in ways they hadn't before, his ribs sticking out above a concave waist. The only thing that kept him going was the small hope that one day he would be free again, away from these walls and able to breathe fresh air. No more mildew, no more dirt, no more shivering against a too soft mattress, trying to steal warmth from sheets that had never really had any. Warm sunlight, soft beds, the smell of the garden as it bloomed in spring.
He suspected that the true cruelty of Azkaban was not it's frigid stone walls, or solitary confinement, or even the dementors. It was that there were small compulsion charms spelled into the framework that kept prisoners from taking their own lives to escape it's misery. When someone became so despondent that they were ready to give it all up, the compulsions would activate, bringing forth some small rememberence of things that were happy, and bright, and light that tiny lamp of hope that they might be seen again. And the prisoner would drop the knife, untie the ropes, pick up the spoon and go on living another day.
He could smell the storm coming as it raced unhindered across the surrounding water, and he braced himself against the wall behind him. When the wind picked up like this, the old building would creak, bending and pulsating with the wind. The ground would shift beneath them, an old ship weathering the waves on a violent sea, heaving to save herself from cracking apart. It was a terrifying experience, and fear laced through his gut even after so many years of feeling her struggle to stay together in the face of a savage strorm.
He couldn't tell if it was ocean spray, or sharp raindrops that stung his skin as they were thrust through the vertical windows above him. His hair became plastered against his head, and he wimpered as he felt the wall shift behind him, groaning at the tempest as it set itself upon them. The ground beneath his legs shifted like quicksand, and he curled his hands into fists that left little half moons on his palms. Biting his lip, he tasted iron in his mouth, blood trickling down his lip.
Light flashed, lighting up the inside of his cell, and he could hear screams from down the block. Cackling laughter followed – Bellatrix, he knew. A loud boom of thunder followed close behind, so close that it rattled the top of the building. The groans and screams from other prisoners rose up as the storm continued, but he refused to join in. Tried to tell himself it was just a storm, and they had survived every one in the past, they would survive this one, too.
There was a soft scuffling noise at the end of the hall, and his heart stuttered against his ribcage. It would be of the utmost cruelty for the jailors to do this now, but do it they would. It wasn't the first time they had released dementors in the middle of a storm. A low moan lifted up around him, and he grabbed his blanket, trying to pull it over his head before they saw him. He was a moment too late. Black, wispy hands clawed at him, and soulless eyes caught his attention before he could stop himself from looking.
The memory was an old one. Rodolphus had curly hair, and pulled Rabastan into bed next to him when he'd just barely been out of nappies.
"It's ok, Bast," whispered his brother's voice, arms around his shoulders, "It's just a storm. It'll be over soon"
The memory tore out of his head ruthlessly as the dementor pulled it away, removing a shred of soul Rabastan would never see again. His hands flew up, grasping uselessly at his temples, his ears, and a scream tore up from the depths of his marrow through his lips, begging for mercy.
"RABASTAN"
He jolted suddenly awake at the sound of his voice, sitting abruptly upright, blinking sightlessly for a moment before his vision cleared. In front of him were worried chestnut eyes, and a wild tangle of hair that it took a moment for him to place.
"Hermione?" he gravelled, looking around. They were still in the cave, a small fire started a few feet away from him. The flames flickered dimly, casting light and shadows on the walls around them. A small pile of kindling sat next to it, barely enough to sustain the weak blaze.
"Are you ok?" she asked, expression guarded but worried. He wrinkled his nose, flexing his fingers. The arm that had been beneath him was icy, and his fingers prickled with the return of blood.
"I'm..." he paused, his dream coming back to him and he shivered, "I'm cold"
She nodded, worrying her lower lip between her teeth, "Me, too. The fire just isn't strong enough, and I can't find enough dry wood"
He nodded, clearing his throat as he looked down, a small jolt of relief taking him by surprise as he realized he was wearing real clothing and not what he had been issued in Azkaban. He felt off kilter, like he'd stepped through time and space and ended up someplace both familiar and not at the same time, "Not much we can do for it, I suppose"
"No," she replied, before shifting between her feet nervously, "Though..."
He raised an eyebrow, rubbing his tingling hand through his hair, "Though?"
She worried her lip again, regarding him quietly, as if she were trying to decide whether or not to tell him her idea.
"Go ahead, Granger. It can't be worse than anything else I've heard," he pushed, gesturing gracelessly at her.
"When Harry, Ron and I were on the run, we couldn't always build a fire. Sometimes it was too dangerous, and we were afraid we'd be spotted," she started hesitantly. He motioned for her to continue, "To stay warm, we used body heat"
The last six words came out in a rush, as if she wouldn't say them if she didn't say them quickly. He felt his whole body pause, and both brows jumped towards his hairline, "I'm sorry, are you saying - "
"NOT LIKE THAT!" she didn't exactly shout it, but it wasn't quiet, either, "We were clothed, and nothing... Well, we would just sleep next to each other. Close enough to share body heat so we wouldn't freeze"
He rubbed his hair again, looking around the cave, contemplating the idea. While perhaps they didn't have the closest of relationships, there wasn't a strong reason why he felt he needed to die of cold here in Norway, either. He'd prefer to die in his own bed at home, should the occasion arise, warm and full of food.
"We don't have to... I just thought... " she muttered, and it struck him how out of character her anxiety was. It made him uncomfortable and he shook his head.
"No. It's a good idea. Or at least a better idea than freezing to death," he replied, wry grin twisting the edge of his mouth. He looked around where he had chosen to rest – a stone ledge a few feet above the ground of the cave. Her expression was quiet as she looked back at him, "Where would we...I mean..How..?"
Hermione reached quietly into the bag by her feet, pulling out a worn, but cozy looking blanket. She turned, sitting on the ledge next to him before wordlessly moving them both around so that he was behind her and they both laid on their sides. She flopped the blanket over the both of them – it's length just barely touching his ankles and tucking under her arms, "I'm sorry, it's not much, but it..."
He placed a hand on her shoulder, leaning his head down on the arm tucked beneath his body. The nearness of her body was already chasing the chill from his body, and despite it's tattered appearance the blanket was helping to store heat around them, "It's fine. It'll do fine"
She sighed deeply against him, bodly relaxing minutely. They laid in silence for a moment, the only noise in the cave the soft crackling of the struggling fire. He could feel her slacken slowly, body relaxing as she eased towards sleep.
"You know Granger," he said lowly, close to her ear a few minutes later, "If you wanted to sleep with me, all you had to do was ask"
She groaned, pinching his thigh, and he yelped with a laugh.
"I assure you, Bast, when I want you in my bed, you'll know it," she replied, drowsiness coloring her voice. He smiled with closed lips behind her.
"When?" he needled, and she yawned, ending with a huff.
"Probably more of an if. But, stranger things have happened," she muttered back, rubbing her free hand over her face.
"Stranger than this?"
Hermione chuckled, body shuddering against his, "Bast, this doesn't even reach my top ten list of strange things to happen"
He opened his mouth to respond, but paused as he felt her reach back and pat his thigh, "Shush. Just go to sleep. You can torment me more in the morning"
His lips curled into an amused smile as he settled, allowing his body to lean against hers as they accepted the slumber that eased into them. The last sound he heard before he drifted off was a contented sigh from the witch in front of him.
