Upon A Winter's Eve
A pale glow of distant moonlight settled comfortably on a winding country lane, with the tranquil orb itself hanging from the black canvas overhead. As a gentle breeze rustled through the tall, unkempt grass, the slightest hint of white flakes could be seen floating drowsily downwards.
Puddles of frozen water on the paths crackled and the tapered leaves on the holly bush that lined the mud-spattered fences, wavered with the changing weather.
Only a small child looking out of a farmhouse cottage in glee at the falling snow would have noticed the lone figure taking slow, un-meditated steps along the icy lane. Of course, at Christmastime, there is rarely any other thing but trees, stars and angels weighing on such a young one's mind. One would think this was as it should be.
Hermione Granger was also of this opinion, but for a different reason. Nobody would be looking for her on an evening such as this. Returning to England had wracked her nerves enough, and the fact that it was the eve of Christmas eased her slightly. Surely no one would be looking for her tonight. The cover of snow gave her extra security.
At times, she wished she'd been able to complete her training to become an Animagus. How easy it would be to masquerade with an alias that would have been undetected- in the time of her learning, she, and anyone else, would have had to be a fool to register with the Ministry. Too many had been hauled into imprisonment under suspicion of being involved in espionage for the Dark Lord.
She had fired her third Unforgivable that night, sending it flying at the nearest Death-Eater she could. It didn't occur to her that she felt no regret, no sorrow. Only grim satisfaction. Another was dead. They said you had to be firm of purpose to cast one, and if Malfoy, Goyle and LeStrange weren't deserving of that from her, they should have killed her instead.
Taking a breath, she had quickly glanced around, doing a mental 'still alive' check; Remus. Ron. Snape. Arthur. Charlie. Ginny. Tonks. Harry.
Harry. Her eyes widened. Approaching the scene of the battle were several members of the Ministry. She closed her eyes momentarily. She had to do something. If their attention was diverted…
Realising that she'd stopped in thought, she picked up her stiff, weary feet and began to tread along, as fatigued and despondent as before. Eventually, she had to agree with what her feet were telling her insistently; she couldn't go on forever. The air was cold, and her threadbare cardigan that she wore under thin robes, did little, if anything, to warm her shivering skin.
Shielding her face against the gently falling snow, she looked across the horizon. Hidden in the shadow of a dense copse of thicket and shady, overhanging trees was a tall house, supported by grey slabs of ancient stone. Evidently, it was isolated from the rest of the world, and most probably deprived of an owner. The plants that must have been meticulously placed many years ago in the beds under the jutting-out window ledges on the ground floor, were now dishevelled and close to death, if not already cold.
She recognised the style of the house. Many times had her parents taken to famous homes of writers, inventors, artists and historical figures and she recognised it's tall greatness, iron railings and even the odd gargoyle or two. This house boasted two such stone figures; ravens with steely gazes, perched high on a piece of overhanging roof.
Hermione was surprised someone had left such a grand old maison so deserted and in great need of maintenance. Perhaps an elderly person dwelled there and didn't feel the need to tend to its requirements.
Spirited by the chance of sleep, Hermione dragged her poor feet onwards over the field. The crops no longer grew there, as it was winter, and the mud underfoot, which would have been sodden during the autumn months, crunched as she walked.
She soon reached the iron gates and found with a slight shiver, they were embellished with a twisted serpent, which writhed between the bars, seemingly animate, though it remained quiet still. Unwillingly, she was reminded of Hogwarts and the great green and silver crest of Slytherin house. This home would have been fitting for many of its members, she thought.
Hermione gave the gate that's padlock had long since fallen to the ground, a push, and it swung grudgingly forwards with a screech. She winced and didn't bother to close it again. Her aching head didn't need further noise than it had just endured.
She carried on forward, tentatively now, her furtive eyes searching the house and what she could see of its garden behind it. There was a large wooden building, what she assumed to have previously been a stable. There was no high whinnying or stamping of hooves now. If she found that the house was actually occupied and she couldn't spend the night there, she'd simply ask if she could slumber there for a few hours until she was called to continue on again.
She approached the door and peered through the window beside it, which gave her a view in what appeared to be the main parlour. An unfinished game of chess sat on the square card table, and beside the table was a green wing chair. She closed her eyes, imagining one of the past inhabitants to be perched on the edge of the chair, their elbows resting firmly on the small surface, their eager eyes perusing the board in a thirst to win.
The entire room was covered in a thick layer of cloudy dust. Obviously, no one had lived there or used his room for a great deal of time.
Smiling slightly, she went nearer to the door. Her head was aching terribly now and she longed to lie down and rest her pained feet. Just as she reached into the deep pocket of her robes to retrieve her wand, her eyes caught sight of a plaque over the door, engraved deeply with the following words-
Integellus et Celsus
She frowned. She supposed it must be Latin. Normally her enquiring mind would make some sense of it, but tonight, she couldn't bear even to think more than she had to.
Hermione raised her wand at the silver lock on the door.
"Alohomora."
She stumbled slightly as the magic washed over her, but nothing made her recoil more as the heavy door swung inwards, and a tall, shadowed man stood awaiting her, pure mistrust written plainly on his pale face. Hermione looked up and gasped.
"What the devil do you think you're doing?" asked an angry voice.
 She would have run away, but her legs would no longer carry her and the magic she had used in such a state, had drained her. Her eyes closed and she fell heavily downwards, unaware of an arm grabbing her before she hit the ground.