Chapter 5

The night's chill seeped into Silwen's bones as she leaned against the door, huddling in her frail fragments of school robes, trying fruitlessly to gain warmth. In the lamplight, she watched her breath ascend into the night sky like a frosty cloud. Even though she closed her eyes and felt her body gratefully accept the offer of rest, her mind still refused. Morning would come early, she told herself, but her mind stubbornly stayed awake like a petulant child avoiding consequences, sprinting around every corner of thought. Yet with each new turn, dread crept on her thoughts more and more often with dawn's dreaded approach.

Sighing, Silwen gave up her dream of sleep, smiling sadly at the Christmas Eve night,letting her body rest as her mind traveled to whatever star of thought it wanted to land on. As the night progressed, the chill soaked into her cloak, and soon made Silwen's teeth chatter far too animatedly to each other to be enjoying themselves. When they ended up biting her tongue, Silwen bravely exposed her fingers to the icy, biting, air and held her jaw silent. She tried to breathe warm air into her fingers, but even then her breath came out cold. With a shiver, she realized that she had no warmth in her to give to her fingers.

One hour had passed, she saw, looking at the moon's position. Only one hour. How many more would she be able to endure? Not very many before hypothermia arrived, judging by how she couldn't feel several of her extremities anymore. At least it wasn't raining or windy-she wouldn't have lasted for more than two hours. Count hippogriffs, she thought. Perhaps something that boring could lull her to sleep.

Then suddenly, CREAK. The door swung open, letting a blast of warm air rush over Silwen, who fell back-almost onto the floorboards in shock, when warm arms caught her at the last second. "Happy Christmas, Sil," whispered a voice. A voice like a small candle in a freezing room. A voice filled with worry, and love. Not Voldemort's. Not Dumbledore's. And regrettably not Snape's. Yet Silwen was too weary to listen to her uncle's intense manner of speaking when things were at their worst. What she needed was someone...soft like embers, not scorching like a fire... What she needed was-

"Draco. How–why are you out here?" she said in a whisper that creaked worse than the door. Draco sat down beside her, wrapping themselves in a heated blanket he brought with him.

"The Dark Lord sent me to show you exactly why you want to succeed and what you will lose if you fail." Just listening to him brought strength back into her depleted body.

"I know already what I'm risking if I-if I fail. He's just playing the carrot-donkey game."

"You aren't going to fail, Sil. Everything is going to be all right."

In response, Silwen leaned against Draco's shoulder, remaining silent.

Attempting to quiet Silwen's fears, he wrapped his arm around Silwen and she then leaned into his chest, letting all of her remaining tears flood onto Draco and the blanket. For some time, Draco held her in silence, letting his beloved cry on his shoulder. The warmth emulating from Draco melted slowly into Silwen, replacing the chill that before was irrepressible. The night turned into a happier one and far more pleasant for the both of them; they were together–if only for a few hours.

"I can't lose you, Draco. And I can't lose my Uncle."

He rested his head against hers and replied, "You won't have to. I will be set free when you get the wand, and Severus will survive this. If anyone can, it's him or no one–or you. But you will survive your part. You have to."

New tears of his own splashed on top of Silwen's silken hair as he imagined the possibility of losing her if he was in her place.

"But you don't know that. I may have great casting skill–but I don't have my wand, Draco. Without it, I'm completely defenseless! I'm Voldemort's... Voldemort's entertainment, and all he wants from us–me is a good show," she whispered.

"Sil! Don't diminish yourself! You are so much more than just spells and 'entertainment'!" He paused, then went on, blushing. "Did you know, I've noticed and loved how you care about the losing Quidditch team. And what about your potions? I know that only half the potions you learned, you learned from Severus or from any other teacher! The other half you taught yourself! You are so much more than Voldemort's pet!"

Disparagingly, Silwen replied, "All great playwrights have memorable characters and unique abilities as well as curses."

Angrily, Draco turned Silwen face to face, his blue eyes flashing in righteous indignation. "Stop it! Stop–"

Then suddenly Silwen cut him off, kissing him softly on the lips, smothering the rest of his admonishment. Just as softly, Draco responded. Gently, he drew her her nearer to him. After a few seconds, they broke off, smiling in the night.

"Aren't you tired?" he asked. "I can sing you to sleep if you'd like." Playfully, Silwen shuddered.

"Preferably not, I've had enough donkey's brays and crow's caws in the past months to last me until at least next June. ... I dare you to fall asleep first," she chuckled. "The first one asleep wins a galleon."

"Fine," he murmured, hugging her to his waist with both arms, pulling her almost onto his lap. Timidly, Silwen's arm reached around his waist and strengthened their connection.

"Good night, my darling." "Good-good night, Draco." Draco did not sing, but he hummed softly, his chest moving up and down, rocking her to sleep.

For a few hours, it felt like nothing was wrong. As if when tomorrow's morn would come, and they'd wake up in the Slytherin Common Room-as if everything was normal. It felt like a shared dream, a past almost forgotten, but forever felt in their hearts. Together the were sustained by the other, cherished by the other, complete.

As the morning rays hit, bringing a new day, Silwen felt her heart was wrench itself in twain as she left on the broom, leaving part of her heart with the sleeping boy that had stolen it. It took every atom in her mind to will her body to rise, and to wedge herself out of her sanctuary. On her knees, she gently combed his night tousled hair, and kissed his forehead lightly enough so she did not wake him. If he woke, it would be nigh impossible to leave him.

No tears came; no tears equated her feelings of loss, of anxiety. As Silwen flew away, she did not dare to glance back, squashing the temptation to do so. To look once more on the face she loved. She feared that if she did, Draco like Eurydice, would be forced to disappear. And Silwen would rather remember him sleeping there, waiting for her, than gone. She wanted to remember him asleep and in peace, not awake and distraught.