Cold cold it's so cold

He could barely bring himself to move anymore. His boots dragged against the path which was rapidly filling with snow. His fingers, raw red, were exposed to the harsh blizzard swirling around him.

His cloak did not fly around him in the strong north wind; it had frozen into long creases. The lights of what must have been Hagrid's hut shined feebly through the thick snow, guiding him towards the castle.

So cold

It occurred to him to use his wand to produce some heat, but his frostbit fingers scrabbled fruitlessly against the clasps of his cloak. The neatly shoveled path was disappearing faster than he could walk. He staggered along, looking like a drunkard emerging from the local tavern.

One of his boots smashed against a chunk of ice protruding from the ground, sending him sprawling. He looked up and saw the steps of Hagrid's hut only a few yards away.

The wind pulled back the hood of the heavy cloak. His head was bowed against the elements as he attempted to drag himself to the front door of the hut.

Buried deep in the snow were his bare hands. They splashed tiny arcs of blood every time he brought them slowly above the mounting snow.

In a show of amazing tenacity, he pulled himself up the stairs to the small but warm hut, the only sanctuary to the storm.

Why am I so cold

Blood froze on his hands as quickly as it leaked out of the breaks in his skin. In the minutes his hair had been out in the open, it was as stiff as the rest of him.

He reached up a battered hand and grasped a window ledge as hard as he could. Several times he slipped, leaving crimson marks across the wood. Slowly but surely, he made his way to his knees, slumping against the wall of the hut. Weakly, he clawed at the panes, streaking them red like grotesque stained glass.

Hagrid must have been asleep or busy because he didn't notice, despite his valiant efforts. Defeated, he collapsed on the stoop. As if he were a common shrub, snow covered him until he looked like nothing more than a lump under the white blanket.

Christmas dawned brightly. The ferocious storm of the previous night had cleared, leaving the sky a light blue.

At Hogwarts, breakfast had been subdued. Professor Dumbledore was not his normal, cheery Christmas self. He was rather preoccupied. Most of the professors were, with the exception of Professor Snape, who was absent.

"Greasy bat probably doesn't even know it's Christmas," Ron said darkly as he donned his new Weasley sweater and scarf.

"Yeah, probably," agreed Harry. He too was pulling on his new Weasley jumper.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had remained in Hogwarts over Christmas vacation. Times were getting more perilous with each passing day. It wasn't safe for Harry– or any of his friends– to be too far from the safehold that was Hogwarts.

The threesome were going down to visit Hagrid now, having ate breakfast and opened their presents.

"Do you think Hagrid will want us to visit Grawp?" asked Ron anxiously as he and Harry followed Hermione. She was melting the snow with her wand.

Harry snorted, but Hermione didn't look concerned.

"You heard Hagrid. He said Grawp was coming along nicely. Said he knew more words and everything," she said.

"He also said Norbert was cute and Blasted-Ended Skrewt were harmless."

Ron and Hermione bickered, as usual, all the way to Hagrid's. Harry ignored them and pounded on the door. He heard Hagrid thump over.

"Merry Christmas!" Harry, Ron, and Hermione said in unison. As soon as the door began to open, Ron and Hermione had dropped their argument over Hagrid.

Hagrid grinned. "And a merry Christmas to you three, too. Come in, come in, just about to make meself a cup of tea."

He ushered them in and poured them some tea.

"So how's Grawp?" asked Ron, slightly sarcastically.

"Grawpy?" repeated Hagrid, lighting up. "Oh, he's just great. Don't even try to hurt me nomore." He gestured toward his now bruise-free face.

They continued talking until Hermione's attention was drawn in another direction. She stared at the window facing the Forbidden Forest, seemingly confused.

"Hagrid," she said slowly. "What's that smeared on your window?"

"What are you talking about, Hermione?"

She pointed toward the window. "Your window over there, there's red stuff all over it. Look like blood . . . "

Hagrid heaved himself up and examined the window closely.

"That is blood. Some bird prolly hit the window," said Hagrid, rubbing at the glass, even though the blood was on the other side.

Hermione frowned. "That's an awful lot of blood for just a little bird. Have you shoveled over there yet? Maybe what hit it is still laying there."

"Grawpy broke my shovel the other day when I was trying to show him how to dig. Haven't got anything to shovel with."

Hermione stood up and pulled on her mittens. "Well, I'm going to go see what it is."

Harry and Ron stood up with her.

"We'll be back in a second, Hagrid."

"Yeah, we're just going to dig this thing up."

The sun was high in the sky now, reflecting on the fresh snowfall. Upon walking outside, Harry, Ron, and Hermione threw their gloved hands over their eyes.

"Bloody hell, that's bright!" Ron exclaimed. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Don't be such a baby. Come on and help me."

She bent over by the window. Sure enough, there was an irregular lump in the snow just blow it. Looking somewhat scared, more concerned, she dropped to her knees and began pawing at the pile.

Soon, a small patch of black was exposed. She glanced back at Ron and Harry, who immediately joined her and began pushing the snow away.

"It's all bloody over he--"

With a look of horror on his face, he picked up an ice-covered, abraded hand. The sleeve of the black robe had been pushed back slightly, revealing an appalling piece of artwork on the inside of the forearm.

Hermione screamed.

If breakfast was a subdued affair, Christmas dinner was more like a funeral than a happy holiday occasion. Dumbledore wasn't even present. Every other professor barely talked, and when they did, it was nothing more than quiet whispers. Among the students, it was pretty much exactly the opposite.

The only students that knew of what happened were Harry, Ron and Hermione. The rest of the student body laughed and joked cheerfully.

Harry and Ron pretended to not be bothered, pretended to be happy with Christmas, and pretended to shove food in their mouths. Hermione didn't even try to pretend. She prodded at her food uninterestedly with her fork.

"Come on, Hermione," Harry said quietly. "There's nothing you can do about it anyway. Better to just forget it and try to enjoy what's left of Christmas."

"Enjoy what's left of Christmas? Didn't you see him? Didn't you see? Didn't you see his face, or his hands. . ." she broke off, shaking her head as if trying to rid herself of the ghastly images.

"Hermione," Harry began, resting a hand awkwardly on her shoulder. But she shrugged it off, pushing her full plate of food away.

"I'm going back to Gryffindor tower. See you guys later," she said, swinging her feet over the bench and walking quickly from the Great Hall.

Harry and Ron exchanged worried looks, but continued eating. It would probably be better to just leave her be until she wanted to talk first.

I'm still cold so cold

He moved his hands slowly, expecting to feel open sores grating against crystals of ice. Instead he felt nothing.

God, are my hands cut off?

His eyes shot open, wide with horror. He was still unable to move. He strained to get up, but something was keeping him down.

Though his eyes were open, everything around him blurred together. He could only make out vague shapes and he could hear nothing. It felt like his mind was wading through ice water, numb and dense.

Someone was hovering over him. Who?

"Poppy, he's waking up," the voice said, sounding far away.

Suddenly the nothingness in his hands vanished, replaced with sharp, agonizing pain.