1

When you first look at the house, you see nothing more than a worn-down cabin. Ice glazes the dirty windows, and snow cushions the weak wooden frame that appears as though a strong enough wind could topple it over. We have carved a path in the waist-high snow leading to the front door which is battered and old with the brown paint chipping away on the edges. Walking along this path, as you near the old building, you can hear the roof's groan as it sags from the weight of last night's snow, or the snaps of the wooden joints as it sways in the wind.

The inside of the building is as cold as the outside. The wooden floors are knobbly and constantly wet from the snow that has blown in through the cracks in the walls. Next to the entryway is a meek little living room with a moldy old couch that has no definite color in front of an empty fireplace that has not held a fire for years. Continuing down the hall, you'll reach a junction of three doorways. The one on your right leads you to the kitchen and a round wooden table with four chairs stationed around it and no food in sight. The first door on your left is to a small bedroom with one bed and a desk. The final door leads to a larger room with two beds and a door to the outside.

To the left of the front door through which you came is another sitting area with lumpy old armchairs scattared haphazardly about the room. The walls throughout the house are bare. There are no rugs on the ground. The ceiling leaks. There is no way to keep warm at night except for the threadbare blanket that you cling to in your sleep as you pray for the nightmares to go away.

This house, this lonesome, dirty house, has been my home for the past year. For a year I've been eternally cold, with each passing day sucking more of my will to live from my now frail body. Food is scarce, and when we do find some, we ration it out and save it, though saving it for what, I do not know. Maybe for when we really need it. Maybe for when the Death Eaters finally find us, and we can eat our last meal of stale bits of bread and moldy cheese. "We'll eat like royalty," Ginny muttered once as she stored some bread in her pockets. "That's what will happen. Food fit for a king."

But I know that we'll be found one day. Voldemort's power has increased tenfold, and one day he's bound to stumble upon our humble little cabin. Maybe he won't even bother looking inside and just burn it and us to ashes. What a pleasant thought. At least I'll be warm before I die.

Ron and Ginny share the house with me. We were lucky. We got out alive. A lot of people couldn't escape the castle.

Ron and Ginny are my only family now. My parents were murdered, I know that much. A letter from the Ministry a day before the Hogwarts attack informed me of that. Voldemort didn't even bother killing them himself. Bellatrix Lestrange did it with a group of the then recently escaped Azkaban prisoners. There was no evidence of torture or a struggle. I like to think that my parents died peacefully, and that they were proud of me when they saw what I was fighting against.

Sometimes I'm glad that I know my parent's fate. It's better than worrying with all the questions that never seem to diminish in size.

I haven't seen Harry since the day that the snow started a year ago. The day that Hogwarts was taken. He swore to me, once the attack had begun, that he would find me. He swore that he would survive. That was right before he ran down to the Entrance Hall to battle the ocean of Death Eaters. Ron, Ginny, and I, meanwhile, escaped through Harry's tunnel to Honeydukes and have been running ever since.

We do not know our exact location. We are miles from any town or sign of civilization, on the edge of a wild, thick forest. To our north is the beginnings of a mountain range, where the hills become steeper in size. These are the mountains that hide Hogwarts. To our south are the trees.

This is my home, and it will remain so until my final hour when I will battle the Death Eaters in a losing fight, certain of my death, but just as certain of my beliefs and the fact that good triumphs over evil, in the end.

-

A hand on my shoulder snaps me out of my reverie. I glance upwards and nod to my companion.

"Couldn't sleep again, Hermione?" Ron asks, taking the seat across from me at the kitchen table.

I look down at the mug of coffee in my hands and shake my head. No, sleep, like everything else in my life, does not come easy. I'm haunted constantly by the faces and cries of the dead and dying so long ago at the Hogwarts attack. In my sleep I hear them asking for help, asking for me to save them, but I can't, and I watch them die all over again. If I don't dream of the casualties, I dream of Harry. I dream of the last time he held my hand, the last time his lips brushed mine, and then I dream of him battling Voldemort. And dying.

"I reckon it's going to snow again tomorrow," Ron says conversationally.

Of course it's going to snow. It's snowed every day for the past year. Snow is the silent curse, in my mind. You do not know it's there until you've stepped out into it and sunken in to your neck. Story of my life.

I nod to Ron. No point in sparking an argument with him now. Too early. And I'm too tired anyway.

"You really should try to sleep," Ron says.

I look up at him. "You're not sleeping."

"I've slept more than you."

I lean over my drink again and clutch it tighter in my trembling hands. The steam from our breath is visible in the freezing air, but I have long ago learned to ignore the cold. "When do you think Harry will get here?"

"Oh, any day now," Ron says, giving me a weak smile.

It is a common ritual for us to talk about Harry as though he has just gone on vacation, and is due to return. Neither of us have really accepted the fact that he could be. . . dead. The empty seat at the kitchen table is left for Harry, and we are careful to never sit in it.

Whenever we are feeling particularly downcast, one of us asks the other when Harry will come back. It reignites hope.

Ron is now twiddling his thumbs, staring at the scratched wooden surface with a dazed expression relaxing his features.

I catch myself staring at him sometimes. He never talks to me about what he's feeling, but his eyes say it all. He doesn't know how his family is, whether they're dead or alive, and I know he thinks about them constantly. Then, on top of that, he thinks about Harry. He thinks about Harry a lot, it seems. Harry was like a brother to him. Is like a brother to him.

I remind myself that Harry isn't necessarily. . . dead. But just thinking about him again makes my breath catch in my throat, and all I can think is: He promised.

I stand up quickly, the chair screeching on the floor. "I'm going for a walk," I say softly.

I disappear into the bedroom I share with Ginny quickly and gather up my coat and scarf. I use the back door to exit the house.

It is pitch black outside, and there is a biting wind sweeping through the land, immediately stinging my eyes. I wrap the scarf tighter around my neck and squint against the wind. I stumble along in the snow, not daring to light my wand yet. If Death Eaters are in this area, they would see the light. It's risky enough leaving the house, but I need to be alone, before I break from holding everything in.

With my arms stretched out in front of me, I eventually locate a tree. I walk on, from tree to tree, until I'm sure I'm fairly deep in the forest.

"Lumos!" I whisper.

The light burns my eyes for a second, but they adjust quickly. I walk further into the forest, and after a while, the wind is no longer blowing harshly, the trunks of the surrounding trees blocking it.

I walk for a bit, and then stumble to my knees. For a moment I just stare at the fresh, powdery snow beneath me. So calm. So pure. I slash it out of the way with my fingers and collapse.

I hold my head in my hands as I cry, all of the emotions I've been holding inside for so long are exploding out of me now. I'm crying for my parents, for Harry, for Hogwarts, for all of those people who died. I'm crying for Ron, for Ginny, for me.

I'm crying because I can't handle it anymore. I can't stand hiding out anymore, running all the time. Freedom? This is no freedom. We're prisoners who think they're free. But we're not free. We can't do anything. We can't even get warm. Once again, Voldemort wins.

I've never made noise when I cried before, but this time is different. My heart is breaking, and it hurts, and I scream.

My body is breaking. My lungs can't get oxygen. My eyes are tearing up so badly that I can't see. I beat the ground with my fists and take in a sharp breath before screaming again.

Here, at least, I can be weak, and no one will know, except for these ancient trees around me, and I know they won't betray me. I have to be strong.

An hour later, I wipe my eyes and head back to the cabin.

And so is my life.

-

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A/N It's short, I know, but the chapters will get longer. They always do. Review, tell me what you think.