A/N: Thanks to those of you that are following, and particularly to regular reviewers garnet86, coures, smithback, mega700201 and tneha. Any kind of feedback, good bad or indifferent, is really appreciated. At this point, I'm particularly interested in your opinion on the character of Death and how much you'd like to see of him at this stage. Any thoughts?

~oOo~

"Father says it's a disgrace they're letting her stay here. He considered moving me to Durmstrang, but he says it isn't a good time, what with the war coming. Honestly, I'd prefer that to some vile muggle disease."

Abraxas and Einar had been having the same conversation every other day since Granger had been admitted to the hospital wing, and it was getting old. He tuned them out with difficulty, since they were walking one on each side of him. Being flanked by his… friends… certainly had some advantages, but he still preferred to be alone. Today, though, that had been impossible – they were determined to drag him along to the fair.

Tom had seen a fairground over the summer; they hadn't been allowed in, not having the money or the time, but he had seen it all the same. It was made up of lots of coloured tents next to the beach – candy floss and a carousel and a helter skelter. Donkey rides on the sand.

In his mind, he was struggling to imagine any of those things in the middle of Scotland on the sixteenth of December. The Headmaster had simply announced that there would be no lessons on the last day of term, instead, a frost fair. It didn't seem to come as a surprise, particularly to the older students, from which he inferred that he was one of the only ones who didn't know what to expect.

Tom didn't like not knowing what to expect – but he also didn't like revealing ignorance, so he refrained from asking anyone.

"Just drop it," said Einar, who was apparently getting bored of the subject too. "Slughorn says she won't be allowed back to lessons for ages, even after she tests clear. The governors are too scared. There's no way anyone's going to catch it."

When his spell had hit Granger, she went out cold almost immediately. For a fraction of a second, he experienced a feeling of terror that he might have just killed her in front of a large handful of witnesses. Nobody had ever reacted that way to the spell – all it did was cause the sensation of pain – some got sick after, but there was never any serious damage. He had even cast it on himself once out of curiosity.

After a few seconds, in which the Hufflepuff girl began screaming, he had remembered to end the spell, but Granger remained unmoving. In the confusion, he eventually arrived at the perfect solution: Professor Slughorn. His office was very near, and he was predictably sympathetic to poor Tom, the boy who had found his friend collapsed on the floor in the corridor.

It was an easy ride after that; one minute he had been worried about getting expelled for killing the girl, the next he was being applauded for helping her get to the hospital wing. It was clear that half the teachers now thought that he was Granger's only friend – all he had to do to maintain the ruse was visit once every few days and ask if he could see her yet. Nobody else ever did.

Sorry, dear, the nurse always said. I can't let anyone near her just yet. Headmaster's orders. He's very worried that someone else might get ill.

Snow was falling outside, as it had been on and off for a few weeks now. Having mastered a warming charm, he felt pretty smug when the others began to shiver in their expensive scarves. They walked briskly, crossing the quad and stepping out onto the lawns.

Tom liked to think that he was a difficult person to surprise, especially after the last few months, but the view that rose up before him was, well, surprising.

The lake, which had been choppy and steely-gray just yesterday, was flat and bright white – though the more noteworthy thing was that there were currently at least a hundred people stood on it. Well, moving across it. Nearby on the shore a large marquee had been erected, the canvas charmed with swirling snowflake motifs. A sweet sort of smell was wafting up from it, and the jumbled sound of dozens of shouting, laughing, whooping voices was getting louder.

Abraxas and Einar were still walking fast, and he lengthened his stride so as not to get left behind. As they descended the hill, the people on the lake came into focus and he could see skates on their feet.

He had read about ice skating in books, of course – even seen pictures – but it was so far out of his sphere of awareness he had never imagined that real people actually did it. Up close, it looked increasingly terrifying. The others had begun yet another bragging conversation, this time about the skating parties at their stupidly huge houses. He realised with a sinking feeling that he was the only one that had never tried it before. The idea that even Fudge might be better than him at something was like a physical pain. He tried to think of an excuse that would allow him to leave – without becoming a laughing stock – but his mind was horribly blank, and the marquee was coming closer and closer.

Inside, an obscene number of levitating Christmas decorations made it hard to move around. The others headed straight for Professor Tofty, who was stood in front of a small mountain of skates. He tried to lose himself in the crowd around the stand giving out toffee apples, but Conrad noticed and called him back over.

The Burke boy was clearly not as rich as Malfoy or Lestrange, though Tom gathered that his family was highly respected. He did not seem to be motivated by money or power, and Tom struggled to know what to make of him. Sometimes he caught him staring, and it was a bit disconcerting.

"It's easy," Conrad said, under his breath. Nobody else could hear, but Tom's fists clenched all the same. How did Burke know he was nervous? He could think of no response, and settled for acting like he hadn't heard.

"Don't try to walk, just push off and glide. Don't look at your feet. If you hold someone's hand, it's much easier – the girls will think it's normal if you ask one of them. That's what the others will do."

It was such an effort to process the information without displaying an expression, but he managed it. He nodded stiffly, trying to be nonchalant. Why would Conrad be telling him this? It seemed like good advice, but maybe it was a trick.

All too soon, they were being ushered behind the mountain of skates where another opening in the tent led directly onto the ice. Abraxas went through first, with an extravagant flourish that did nothing to calm Tom's frantically beating heart. Einar was just as graceful. If only he could think of something, something at least to distract from his imminent horrendous failure.

~oOo~

As the weeks passed, Hermione began to feel better. The cough was still there, and the pain, but a bit less than before. Even the freezing temperature, though extremely unpleasant, no longer bothered her quite so much. With her returning strength came her focus, and soon she was making good progress with her wandless, non verbal spells.

Her teachers, though they never visited in person, began to set her some essays from the first week of December. The tediousness of completing them was nothing compared with the fact that it meant she was finally allowed all of her things back – Nurse Jeffries, true to her word, had transformed the end of the hospital wing into her personal area. Where at first she had only her bed and bedside table, surrounded by the curtain, there was now three beds' worth of space cleared and separated from the rest of the ward by a transfigured partition wall.

The extension of her space meant she had acquired the hospital wing's largest window, which allowed a view of a good slice of the grounds. A desk had been placed in front of it, and it was a pleasant place to work. With all her meals brought to her, she could almost imagine she was in some sort of hotel if she tried hard enough.

Every day after breakfast, in another recent improvement, Tiggy would return to accompany her on a walk. It was oddly liberating, strolling through the grounds while everybody else was stuck in lessons. Ironically, it was warmer outside, too – or rather, she was allowed to wear her outer robe and walk fast enough not to feel the chill.

On the last day of term, the nurse was reluctant to let them outdoors, but they promised to stay well away from the fair.

"Miss Hermione is not getting to have any of the fun things," said Tiggy sadly, once she had apparated them to the edge of the forest. It was an area they had walked in relatively little previously, and Hermione sensed the elf was wary of the dark trees.

"Oh, Tiggy, it's okay. I'd just as soon be here with you." The little elf stopped dead, gazing up at her with an incredulous sort of expression. Then, quite without warning, she burst into tears. Hermione had never really got the hang of elf moods – never really known the right thing to say. Every time she upset Tiggy, she had visions of S.P.E.W and how none of the elves in her original time had ever wanted to talk to her.

"No! Don't cry! I'm sorry. I just meant - it's nice, to be with a friend. Please..." She patted the little creature's back in a way she hoped was affectionate, and eventually the great big sobs subsided into occasional sniffles.

"M-miss Hermione is Tiggy's f-friend?"

"Of course we're friends. Friends enjoy spending time together, and they care about each other and they help each other out. That's what we do… except you don't let me help you out very much." Tiggy's eyes were even wider than usual.

"B-bad Tiggy?" She was shifting from foot to foot, wringing her Hogwarts tea towel between her hands and Hermione recognised the signs of a punishment coming on. It was encouraging that the elf had asked it like a question, though, instead of just jumping straight into hitting herself.

"No, silly. You're a good friend. And you know what I've said – no punishments. That's not the way friends are." Tiggy smiled a shy sort of smile.

"Miss Hermione is the nicest witch Tiggy has met."

They began to walk along in a companionable sort of silence, snow crunching satisfyingly underfoot. After a while, Hermione said,

"Can you tell me about the frost fair?"

As it turned out, there was no subject Tiggy liked more. She spoke with great enthusiasm about how the Professors froze over part of the lake and made it all shiny, and then everyone would skate on it until they got too cold to carry on. And then they would come into the tent, where there was a big charmed fire with real salamanders, and have soup and sing carols with the orchestra. And there would be sweets and snowball fights and snowman competitions and even the Professors would join in. And when it got dark there would be fireworks and afterwards they would all go inside for a special supper.

By the time the little elf had finished regaling her with anecdotes from last year's festivities and taken several big breaths, the lake had come into view. Though it was barely nine in the morning, there were already a handful of older students swirling gracefully around the ice. It looked like fun; she had tried it once, at the birthday party of a friend from primary school, but that was quite literally in another lifetime.

Hermione did not notice Tiggy had left her side until she returned with a crack. A toffee apple on a stick was clutched proudly in her fist, and she held it out, beaming.

"Oh! Thank you." To be honest, even if her parents hadn't lectured her repeatedly about the dangers of excessive sugar consumption, she wouldn't have been particularly keen on toffee apples. Nevertheless, she took it gladly so as not to seem rude. It was very sweet for Tiggy to try and include her in the fair, after all. They meandered down towards the lake, Hermione passing down chunks of toffee as they broke away from the apple. The way Tiggy ate them indicated that the treat itself was as novel and enjoyable as the method by which it was acquired.

A marquee was visible now, and a steady line of students were filtering down the hill towards it.

"Mistress Jeffries would not be wanting us to be going any further," said Tiggy, and Hermione somehow appreciated the way she had chosen to say 'us', rather than 'you'. She nodded. Just ahead, the line of trees they were following met the water's edge, and it was not much further along that the patch of ice began, stretching as far as the eye could see. The ice was separated from the water only by a raised edge a couple of feet high, and she wondered idly if anyone had ever fallen in.

It was chilly outside, when one stopped moving about, but since the indoor alternative was just as cold she decided to settle in for a while and watch the skaters. Some of the pairs were really quite good. She wondered what had happened to the tradition – Ginny and Luna would have loved it, though perhaps Ron and Harry wouldn't have been so keen.

A range of surprised and angry noises erupted from the area where the lake met the rear of the marquee – turning her head, she made out a small heap on the ice. The heap rearranged itself, rather ungracefully, until two figures began to try and stand up. They were joined, unsteadily, by another figure who she did not struggle to recognise even at that distance. Tom. He offered his hand to help up someone who turned out to be Lestrange, and she could imagine the smug look he would undoubtedly be wearing. The second figure did not receive a helping hand, which meant it must be Fudge. For a brief moment she felt sorry for the unfortunate boy.

Tom and Lestrange happened to be heading towards her, and she could see that they were following Malfoy. The two purebloods were moving effortlessly, posture rigid. Tom was doing his best to emulate their movements, with a surprising amount of success. She gritted her teeth. Being away for so many weeks meant that she had been unable to observe him worming his way into their circles. It needed to be stopped.

~oOo~

There was a sickening crunch as Fudge collided with Lestrange, then the ice. Although the effect was precisely as he had intended – allowing him to glide out of the tent unobserved – the nature of the sound was still disturbing. Who knew that water could become so particularly solid?

Helping Einar to his feet was a gloating opportunity too good to miss, and the boy was so preoccupied with checking nobody was laughing at him that he didn't even seem to notice Tom's complete lack of skating ability. As they went to catch up to Abraxas, he observed their movements and copied carefully.

Soon they were joined by Antonin, Conrad and Fudge, and the conversation turned to partners.

"You should ask Aisha," said Fudge. "I've seen you looking at her." Abraxas made a scoffing noise.

"Don't be ridiculous. She spends all day hanging around with that mudblood. We had the Black cousins at the Manor over the summer; I'll ask one of them."

Lucretia and Walburga Black seemed to come up in Abraxas' conversation quite a lot. They were in the year above, and Tom thought that they seemed dull and vain – but then, he thought that about most people.

"Walburga is promised to Lucretia's brother," said Einar, as if announcing the weather. "Ask Lucretia. She's better looking anyway."

Over the weeks of being – often unwillingly – included in their discussions, Tom had learned a lot about the elite of Wizarding society. It seemed that arranged marriages were very common, and the pool of acceptable partners was incredibly small. While he could never imagine wanting to marry, there were girls here whose influence might benefit him quite nicely, so he would be stupid not to take this opportunity to win one over.

Seeing his quarry arrive onto the ice, he moved in her direction and arranged his most flattering smile onto his face. As he passed her friends, he nodded politely which seemed to induce a fit of giggling.

"Cassandra, would you allow me to escort you?" It was a line he'd just heard an older boy use, and it must have been the right thing to say, because the Fawley girl was blushing.

"Oh – Tom! Of course." She offered her hand, and her glove felt soft against his bare skin. It had probably cost more than every piece of clothing that he had ever owned.

"You look particularly lovely today," he said, and she looked surprised and blushed even further. Perhaps that type of compliment was not usual – he didn't have a lot of reference – but it seemed to produce the desired sort of effect. She patted her short blonde hair nervously with her free hand; it was smooth at the roots but curled into a neat style at her neck, held back from her face with a pin decorated with miniature snowflakes. How maddeningly appropriate.

They began to skate, and Conrad was right; it was easier with a partner. He stopped thinking, instead just following the rhythm and keeping up with the pair circulating in front of them. It was almost enjoyable.

The last thing he was aware of was the ice approaching at an alarming rate.

~oOo~

"Cassie! My darling. It's alright now, you're safe, Mummy and Daddy and Helena are here and we're going to take you home and you'll be right as rain in time for Christmas. I promise, oh, my poor baby–"

The charmed partition wall did nothing to prevent the shrill babbling of Mrs Fawley from reaching Hermione's exasperated ears. From time to time, she heard a man's voice attempt to say something consoling, but it was worse than ineffectual.

In truth, as stuck up and bigoted as Cassandra Fawley undoubtedly was, she had not meant to hurt her. The plan, such as it had been, was merely to embarrass Tom in front of those he was trying to impress; the whole skating situation was ideal, nobody would suspect any cause of the accident other than lack of skill. The fact that his fall had occurred at just the right moment to fling Cassandra out of the turn and straight over the edge of the ice was merely… unfortunate.

Apart from having been dunked in a freezing lake, there was nothing wrong with her anyway. It was certainly no cause for that much whinging. Tom, whose wrist had been broken, hadn't said a word.

When the chattering finally died down, she turned back to the Defence homework she had just started, and noticed a chocolate frog card had appeared on top of it.

Minister Hector Fawley was first elected to office in 1925, and says his proudest achievement to date is the creation of the Department for Magical Culture and the Arts. In his spare time, Minister Fawley enjoys ballroom dancing with his wife and watching quidditch with his two daughters.

She turned it over, expecting to see some sort of flippant comment in Death's cursive script. There was nothing.

Under the heading Correct Duelling Etiquette, she wrote hastily why are you here?

There was a slight delay, in which she heard the faintest huff of annoyance before her quill was stolen out of her hand. Letters appeared shakily on the parchment – he must be leaning over her shoulder, and she had the oddest urge to reach out and touch him. To prove she wasn't making it up.

I'm bored.

~oOo~