A/N: This one-shot was originally meant to be a submission for D/Hr Advent 2016. Unfortunately, I exceeded the 5000-word limit by, well, a lot. The organisers graciously offered me more time to edit, but I ran out of time. So I'm posting the story here instead. The theme I was originally given was 'Jack Frost'.

There is a short epilogue (not prologue! sorry for the confusion earlier!) yet to be posted, which has already been written. I'll aim to do that in the coming days. There is closure coming.

Coldheart

The human body is not built for survival in extreme cold.

There are exceptions. Or rather, the exceptional, for whom survival is a matter of biological adaptation, ingenuity and no small amount of tenacity. The Saami, the Nenets, Khanty, Evenk and the Chukchi. The Aleut, Yupik and the Inuit. Most of the world's people, however, live in comparatively temperate climates.

The year that Malfoy and I were lost, the average global temperature was a pleasant 14 degrees Celsius.

Though we seem to be doing our best to make the planet slightly more inhospitable with every passing year.

Harry's first mission was, in his own words, a simple case of fetch.

An artefact had been stolen from the magical wing of the Nylen and Statens Historiska Museum. The Swedes had tracked it to the UK – Scotland to be exact.

When the Ministry learned that the thieves in question were hiding out in the Forbidden Forest, there was no question that they would send Harry. It was overkill to enlist the Boy Who Lived to retrieve a rather homely, Mesolithic knife, but the Ministry was working on its international diplomacy. Occasionally, you had to make a statement and nothing said Maintenance of Magical Trade Agreements with Wealthy European Neighbours like sending Harry Potter to fetch your missing Stone Age tool.

Harry laid out the plan. Apparate in. Ambush unsuspecting Death Eaters. Grab artefact.

"And then get the hell out," he explained, stabbing his index finger into the center of the map, for emphasis. "Nothing fancy. All the Minister wants is this sodding artefact."

"What is it, anyway?" Ron asked.

All eyes turned to me. This was the reason that I, the walking textbook, was coming along. I leafed through the paperwork. "A knife, apparently."

Ron snorted. "All this for a ruddy knife?"

In reality, none of us were overly concerned. We knew the Forbidden Forest like the back of our hands (if the back of your hand was unmappable, magical terrain that could kill you). We were well trained and outnumbered this particular rabble of thieving Death Eaters, three to one.

Unfortunately, no one thought to look up the weather.

It was a blizzard, but it might as well have been a firestorm because breathing in was like swallowing flames. My throat felt scorched. My lungs contracted painfully in my chest, as if attempting to shrivel away from the intense cold of the air outside my body.

There are always a few moments of disorientation proceeding Apparation. This sensation was exacerbated by the fact that visibility was non-existent. If it wasn't for gravity, it would have been impossible to tell up from down. Calling out to the team didn't work because the wind sucked away any noise I made.

No matter. There is a well-earned confidence that comes with being able to wield magic. We can arrest a fall, we can slow death and manipulate time.

I am a witch.

What is a mere storm?

My wand was in my hands for only a second before it quite literally evaporated.

The shock of being so unexpectedly and efficiently disarmed was profound. Time seemed to slow down. I could see strands of my long hair float about my face, as if I was underwater. Snowflakes hung in the air, crystalline and oddly magnified by air that was suddenly as thick as treacle. I was in my own private snowglobe. The world outside looked bent and distorted. I could see ice and wind lashing at the invisible barrier that contained me.

There was a presence. The sense of being surrounded, of being completely helpless. I was a butterfly pinned to a board.

A strange sound built up around me. It had weight to it. My brain struggled to process the noise. Was it a voice? Three voices? A hundred? It was the wind whipping through the sparse perennial canopies. It was a swarm of bees. The susurration grew and grew until it was the howl of the storm itself, but the voices were coming from inside my own head. They spoke in English and at the same time, impossibly, every language.

The sensation was beyond enduring. I dropped to my knees, my hands over my head.

HE WAITS. HE WAITS. HE WAITS. HE WAITS. HE WAITS. HE WAITS. HE WAITS. HE WAITS. HE WAITS. HE WAITS. HE WAITS. HE WAITS. HE WAITS. HE WAITS. HE WAITS. HE WAITS. HE WAITS. HE WAITS. HE WAITS. HE WAITS.

HE WAITS.

HE WAITS.

What happens when you're cold?

I can answer this question with textbook precision. I can tell you about thermoreceptors, the peripheral nervous system and the role of the hypothalamus. I can tell you that goosebumps are an evolutionary throwback to when we were covered with thick, insulating pelts.

But this isn't what people want to hear about when they ask what happened to us.

No. They want the survival story – the tale of Malfoy and I versus the Elements, armed with nothing but a lifelong enmity to warm ourselves.

And our wits, of course.

Collect tinder, twigs and branches in different sizes. Make a tiny teepee using the twigs first, arranging your tinder carefully in the center. Not too much as to smother newborn flames that sprout, not too little as to expose the flames to an overabundance of air. If you have a lighter or matches, good for you. If you have spectacles, a camera or binoculars, you can use the lens to focus the Sun's rays onto the tinder, igniting it. The punted base of an aluminum soft drink can works just as well after a bit of a polish to turn the concave bottom into a heat-focusing parabola.

I had none of these implements, but I did have wandless magic.

One of the first thing you learn in magic (usually accidentally), is to start fires. This is all well and good, but what they don't teach you is how to bloody maintain them.

I was and was not in the Forbidden Forest.

I realised this quickly. The landscape was familiar, but it was like a painting someone had rendered based only on my detailed description. My surroundings were a patchwork of my memories of the Forest, cobbled together, repeated in places. Fake, but real enough to hurt you.

There was no end. I trekked for kilometers, foraging for what few edible flora I could find, drinking cold water from a stream. Exhausted and starving, I found one of Hagrid's old supply shacks on the fourth day. All Hogwarts' students knew these temporary hovels were dotted here and there, like Hagrid's version of breadcrumbs to show you how far he had ventured into the forest. The shack was real enough and I was grateful for it.

There was a grimy window and a fireplace that didn't open into a chimney so much as a hole cut into the slanted roof. The flume was blocked up, but this was not insurmountable.

I lit a fire and then collapsed onto dusty blankets that smelled heavily of dog. Fang, I thought, as hot tears of homesickness and exhaustion welled up in the corners of my eyes.

Draco Malfoy quite literally ran into me the next day.

I might have been ecstatic to see another living soul in this phantom prison, if it wasn't for the fact he tried to kill me.

He flung me to the ground, wrapped his hands around my throat and began to squeeze. The maddening, terrifying strength of an enraged, fully grown man is something to behold.

Equally impressive, I like to think, is the ability of an enraged, terrified woman to grab the nearest moss-covered rock and pound said man in the head until he lets her go.

Being bookish has saved my life many times. I knew there would be hibernating bear-snails to dig up under the frozen banks of the stream, even if my fingernails broke and bled from the rough, hard ground. I ate the first few snails raw, I was that ravenous. And then I cooked the rest. They tasted like bog peat.

Idly, I tossed the discarded shells back into the icy water and saw that fish were coming to investigate, nudging at the shells. They were silver and covered in spines. I ran through my mental encyclopedia of magical creatures.

Freshwater iceshrake. Edible. It seemed I would survive after all.

Still no sign of Malfoy, though something…someone else was watching me. Always. Even when I was sleeping. The feeling never left. I tried talking to it, cajoling it, screaming at it. Swearing at it.

I begged it.

No reply.

So, there were two of us here.

But why? Why us? Malfoy had been taken from his group as well. Where were we? Who brought us here?

What was this place?

My poor, abused throat took time to heal from Malfoy's assault. I wore those bruises for days. The next time I ran into the son of a bitch, I was going to murder him right back.

On day twenty-three of my apparent kidnapping and magical confinement, I found my fellow prisoner unconscious beside the stream that I had started thinking of as my stream. Ergo, he had no business being there, unconscious or not.

Malfoy looked dead, but he groaned when I prodded him none too gently with a stick.

He was in bad shape – gashes, bites, and what looked like fever rash. It occurred to me that I was staring down at one of the most wanted men in the wizarding UK. Not so fearsome now, eh, Death Eater?

He was dressed in threadbare robes and was carrying a bag. I pulled it from him and hurriedly inspected the contents. Camping gear. I snorted. How lucky for some of us to have been stranded with survival supplies! At the bottom of the bag, rolled up in a scarf, I found the artefact that was the reason I had been seconded to Harry's fateful mission. This had to be the knife the Swedes wanted back so badly. The thing fairly screamed eldritch.

It had a curious black handle made from smooth stone, and a blade fashioned from some unidentifiable substance that resembled glass. It had the colour, hue and semi-opaque consistency of well, ice…

An ancient iceknife?

What else was in the bag? I continued rummaging and saw that Malfoy had been foraging and hunting, just like me. This was evidenced by the Malaclaw shell poking out of a pocket.

I sat on the ground beside him, threw back my head and laughed. What. An. Idiot.

He tried to kill me again, in the middle of the night, after I had dragged his sorry, Malaclaw-poisoned arse back to the safety and warmth of the shack.

I didn't want to spend too much time processing why I saved his ungrateful life, but it had to do with common human decency and the growing fear that we really were trapped in this cursed place together.

Under such circumstances, a former enemy is better than nothing, correct?

I felt the blade of that uncanny knife against my throat even before my eyes opened. For all that it looked like ice, the blade seemed to hold the warmth of his body, which was substantial. He was still riddled with Malaclaw fever, with pupils so widely dilated that his grey eyes were nearly black. He was pale, his lips pulled tight and white with pain. The blade of the knife pierced my skin and blood beaded at my neck. I was about to bring my knee up to permanently damage the Malfoy family baubles when the look on his face gave me pause.

He was observing me with utter incredulity, as if unsure if I was real, and then his eyes lowered to the line of blood pooling at my neck. I watched as he lifted one shaky hand to my clavicle, smearing away the welt of blood with the burning hot pad of his thumb.

And then he rather helpfully passed out on top of me.

There were times when I caught Malfoy staring, and because he was who he was, he would not bother to divert his gaze or attempt to disguise his loathing. Sometimes, the looks were so intense, I could practically feel the hate on my skin, like a suffocating, noxious slick.

In those early weeks, I went to sleep each night wondering if the last thing I would see were the gaps in the ceiling where the stars peeked through.

Were they even real stars? Could Malfoy be trusted not to harm me while I slept?

Such mysteries.

But then I would open my eyes in the morning, the Sun or some facsimile of it would rise, and we would begin our tasks. Conversation was kept to a minimum. It was simple necessity that maintained our unlikely alliance. Hate would just have to take a backseat.

There was much to do. We mended the gaps in the ceiling, so we weren't in danger of freezing to death from the wind that leached inside at night. There was the constant foraging for food. On some days, we found nothing at all and went hungry.

And of course, we continued to investigate the scale of our confinement, scratching a map on the walls of the shack using the sooty end of a stick. We took stock of every detail, and mentally catalogued the effect of our wandless magic. Our prison needed to be better understood, its integrity systematically tested. In this, we were united with a singlemindedness that made me forget who he was on some days.

"You're not a complete moron," he offered.

I'd used a combination of wandless magic and iceshrake skins to create a net.

I gave him a withering look. "Please stop. You'll have me blushing."

Binding was basic wandless magic. Attach A to B. Keeping things stuck together for long stretches required proper wandwork, unfortunately, so I would have to remember to maintain the upkeep.

He wasn't finished with his petty insults. "The Muggles must consider you a marvel."

"It's easier to be competent in most things when you're not inbred," I replied, tossing him the net. "Will that do?"

He tested the strength and stretch. "It'll do."

We had zero experience with setting traps that were not designed to catch people. But we had our considerable brainpower and it helped that we were completely committed to not dying of starvation. Neither of us would get over the embarrassment.

After several days of trial and error, Malfoy fashioned a deadfall trap consisting of three branches and a small boulder, which I helped him roll into place. Balancing the trigger was the hardest part.

That first meal of roasted bird (Merlin only knew what kind) was eaten in companionable silence, so happy were we to taste something else besides snails and fish.

In the spirit of successful camaraderie, I wanted to say something about a job well done, but I couldn't bring myself to utter anything nice to the man.

The feeling was quite mutual.

In the beginning, all he seemed inclined to say to me was, "If I wanted your opinion, I'd ask for it."

However, given our circumstances, it wasn't very long before we had to exchange more than just insults. Opinions were the next logical step. This happened without much fanfare.

I accidentally set off one of his traps by stepping into it, resulting in my landing flat on my face in the snow. It wasn't entirely my fault, for we'd agreed that no traps should be set this close to the shack, in case our lures attracted unwanted predators.

He didn't even slow his stride as he walked past my disheveled self, though he did ask if I was always this much of an imbecile.

I dusted off my snow-caked backside and then flipped him the finger. I suppose that counted as an opinion?

Our invisible captor continued to watch us.

It was omnipresent, though it never interfered with anything we did. I think Malfoy was getting used to it, but the constant observation wore on me.

"Why do you think we're here?" he asked.

I knew what he was really asking, but I was not in the mood to be agreeable.

"I'm here to bring back that dagger you stole." I glanced at the odd blade he insisted on carrying around with him. It never dulled. "I'm assuming you were hiding out in the Forest because you're a thief and a murderer."

"The stealing is unavoidable. It's hard making a living as an outlaw."

I smiled blandly at him, hoping animosity would disguise the fact I was rather unsettled by what felt like almost playful banter. "Try obeying the law, Malfoy. It'll do wonders for your resume."

"I haven't actually killed anyone..."

I stared at him, suspicious.

"Yet," he added.

"It certainly wouldn't have been for lack of trying," I muttered, under my breath.

He was silent for a moment. "You surprised me in the forest, that first time. I wasn't sure you were real. I thought you were—"

"Whatever it is that's keeping us here?"

He nodded, frowning as he stared out the murky glass window of the shack. "It's always watching. I can feel it even now, behind my eyes."

I was close enough to arrest him, incapacitate him, hurt him.

"We'll find a way out," I said, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to touch him on the arm. A simple reassuring act.

While I seemed able to put aside our complicated history in order to cooperate, he was not so quick to let it go. He stared down at my hand, as if I was contaminating his person.

Malfoy made snowshoes.

It was quite clever, really, though I would never tell him so. The shoes consisted of two flexible branches, bent into a pear shape. The ends were tied together using torn strips of clothing and iceshrake skin, with smaller branches crossing over the frame. He interweaved the strips to secure the mesh of smaller branches in place, and added straps for feet.

When he was done he threw me a pair and said, rather imperiously, "If you fall behind, I'm going to leave you."

To be fair, his strides were twice as long as mine.

Draco Malfoy was trussed up in mind-forged manacles marketed as birthright. Prejudice, distrust and xenophobia thrive on stagnation and insularity. Perspective is the enemy because it exposes.

Thus, I endeavored to expose him to a wide variety of my copious opinions on these topics.

After all, where could he go? He was a captive audience.

Hah.

Also there was absolutely nothing to do at night. The boredom would have been oppressive, if not for our arguments.

The blizzard lasted for three days, during which our food supplies were depleted and we were reduced to eating river snails. On the fourth day, the snowfall stopped. Our traps were hopelessly buried, so we relied on our backup larder – my stream.

The water was frozen, though I slapped Malfoy's arm with excitement when I spotted fish zipping about under the ice. In my distracted state, I failed to watch my footing. One moment I was standing beside him, the next moment, I was under the water.

The shock was immense. I felt like every nerve ending in my body was screaming in agony. I instinctively reached up to grab the edge of the ice that I had fallen through, but my palms felt nothing but an impenetrable ceiling. The current of the stream had carried me along so quickly. I didn't even know which direction to swim towards. Panic set in, as I clawed at the ice above my head, banging on it with my fists.

Above me, I could vaguely make out movement magnified through the lens of the ice, backlit by the Sun. There was a deafening crack.

I saw Malfoy's iceknife puncture the ice and slice through it like it was made of jelly. There was barely any time to wonder at this before I was hauled out of the water.

Hypothermia sets in as soon as the body's internal thermostat dips south of 34 degrees Celsius. It's important to restore core body temperature as soon as possible.

Oh, and whatever you do, for God's sake, avoid getting wet.

I couldn't have protested even if I'd wanted to, convinced that if I opened my mouth, my chattering teeth would shatter. I was so desperate for warmth that the temporary indignity of being stripped bare by Draco Malfoy was negligible. There is a unique pain in being that cold.

He shoved me close enough to the fire to singe my hair, and then dressed me in every piece of clothing we had and it still seemed to make no difference. A lethargy overtook me. I yawned, thinking how easy it would be to go to sleep and knew that if I did, I would not wake up. I realised Malfoy had to be borderline hypothermic as well, because I'd managed to soak him through to the skin when he carried me all the way back to the shack.

He stood there for a moment – thinking, scowling at me, before proceeding to remove all the clothing he'd just put on me. Scratch that idea, I suppose? I remained mute and unresponsive, a jostled rag doll. But I did manage a weak questioning noise when he began pulling off his wet clothes as well.

If the shock of falling into icy water was intolerable, it was nothing to the searing heat of his body as we made skin to skin contact. He folded me – arms, legs and all – into his bare lap and then pulled his cloak around us, holding the ends slightly open to let the heat from the fire slip inside.

As my wits gradually returned, I knew Draco Malfoy had just saved my life. I guess this made us even?

"Is it safe to sleep now?" I whispered, so tired, but afraid to close my eyes.

"Yes," he said. "It's safe."

His smugness at catching not just one, not two, but a total of eight, bearded snowdragons was not to be tolerated. The little lizards tasted like boiled shoes, but their flesh was fatty, and their skin could be dried for later consumption. It was all his years of experience in skulking about as a wanted criminal, no doubt, for he could move without making a sound.

Sneakiness ought not to be considered a virtue.

The wind tore down the roof.

It was an utterly miserable night. We worked for hours to fix it and were numb and silent with exhaustion by daybreak. It was simultaneously the strangest and yet most unsurprising thing when Malfoy shuffled across the floor and pulled me into his arms.

There was no life to be saved on this occasion. He had no excuse. Nor had I.

The warmth of his body had become so familiar over the months. He had becoming familiar. I knew his scent. I knew his hands and their nimbleness, the lines of his body, his gait. I had studied his profile. I could feel the beat of his heart against my back and his steady breathing.

We were not Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger in that moment. Those names had less meaning with each passing day.

High places did not scare him.

Malfoy squinted up at the tree, using his hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the afternoon light. "I'm going to climb that and take a look around."

I watched, my heart in my mouth, as he did just that.

He had many questions.

About Muggles, about me, about my parents, about the world. He asked his questions with a curiosity that was almost clinical, as if gathering evidence for some future unkind conclusion. I was conditioned to prepare for inevitable insults. They didn't always come.

I had questions, too, though asking them was like swimming through a minefield.

Malfoy's childhood was a false promise. It had been easy to buy into the premise. Lucius gets no extra points for creativity. All he needed to do, to raise a bigot in his image, was to sell a story only a child could believe.

I have no doubt Abraxus Malfoy had raised Lucius similarly. And I wondered when Lucius had cottoned on to the massive lie of it all. When had he perfected the art of cognitive dissonance? Contrary to what Ron might like to think, the Malfoys are not exactly inbred fools. Lucius was exceptionally devious and Draco…well, Draco had been academically gifted. This aptitude had been wasting away while he languished in whatever dark, dank, hidey-holes he'd been forced into, over the years.

I remember well enough the besotted look on his face during our classes. He flew like the wind; almost as good as Harry. These things made him happy. But almost in real time, you could see reality kick in. The sneer would return and then the light and love of learning and flying and growing up would be repackaged to the world as competition.

After all, it is only apt that a Malfoy would excel at most things he did because he was better than you. Anything else would expose the lie, wouldn't it?

It was no wonder he hated me so much.

The fish flew through the air and slapped me on the side of the face before making its escape.

"See how funny you find that when you go hungry tonight," I grumbled.

Malfoy leaned in and touched my face, showing me the souvenir the fish had left behind. A silver fish scale.

"Watch and learn," he said, with a wink.

Oh, I watched. And I learned more than I cared to. I watched the small frown of concentration as he attached the snail meat to the end of a long, thin, flexible pole, wrapping the flesh around tightly so no clever fish could steal it away.

In short order, a sizeable iceshrake was flipped out of the water.

"Dinner," he said, smiling.

I woke up that morning and went about my usual tasks. I hummed a song, the title of which escaped me. It was noon before it occurred to me that I didn't even know what day it was any more, though I was vaguely aware of the month in the way that a person is vaguely aware that water is wet.

Malfoy was collecting firewood when I walked up to him.

"What day is it?"

He set down the pile of branches and then wiped the flat edge of the iceknife against his sleeve, cleaning the wood-dust from it. It looked like he was stalling for time.

"What day," he repeated, more statement than question. He seemed annoyed I asked. "Does it matter?"

I frowned at him. "Of course it matters." I was impatient to hear his response. "What is it?"

The expression on his face was unreadable. He collected the firewood and walked back into the shack, leaving me standing there, staring after him in disbelief.

He didn't know either.

On another occasion, I asked him for his mother's name and watched the alarmed bafflement settle across his face. I knew exactly how he was feeling because I was feeling it too. I couldn't even remember what my own mother looked like.

Something sinister was happening to us the longer we stayed in the Forest.

"We're forgetting," I insisted.

I understood why Malfoy was angry, but I didn't understand why it was directed at me every time I reminded him that we were prisoners.

It made sense that the escapism of our current predicament might appeal to him, given the harsh realities that awaited him outside.

Not so for me. I had a life beyond this.

I wanted to go home.

The spirit and the body was willing, but on some days, the mind could not process the fact that there seemed to be no end to the Forest. A fact that was as impossible as it was apparent.

I did what I tend to do in seemingly impossible situations. I did not give up.

I stood before the map we had made, sooty stick in hand. We were running out of walls to draw on.

"We're not going to die here," I whispered to myself.

But in such close confines, Malfoy heard me anyway. He ceased mending the nets and walked the five strides it took to reach me. He wrapped his arms around me from behind, but I wriggled free from his grasp. A petulant way of expressing my anger at him, yes, but I didn't know how else to process my growing feelings of despair.

I stomped the snow from my shoes before entering the shack. Malfoy was whittling fishing spears with a ferocity that would have been concerning if he hadn't become so adept at it now. His light eyes took me in, his gaze intense and discerning. I busied myself at the fire, anything to avoid that prying, silver stare.

"You need to tell me when you're heading out."

His admonishment was valid. It was thoughtless of me to disappear for hours without telling him. "Then consider this forward notice. I'm heading out tomorrow, and the day after as well."

"I'll go with you next time."

"Why?" I asked. "You stopped looking for a way out months ago."

He was leaning on the edge of the windowsill, ankles crossed at the end of his long legs. The ever-present iceknife in one hand, a wickedly sharp fishing spear in the other. He was alien and forbidden, while at the same time familiar and dear. My mind struggled to integrate these incompatible perceptions of him. I told myself that my feelings, like the Forest, was just an elaborate glamour. That was the only explanation that made sense at the time. Nothing here was real, right?

The expression on his face could best be described as slowly thinning patience. "I have not stopped looking," he enunciated.

"You don't want to go back," I accused.

He put the spear down. "Don't presume to tell me what I do or do not want."

"Do you want me?"

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"It's a simple question. Do you want me?"

He wasn't going to answer. There was no way he was going to answer such a ridiculous question and I was momentarily mortified for having asked it, effectively pointing out the flaming pink elephant in the room. Or shack, rather.

"Yes," he said, presently, with a voice that had been filtered through gravel. "I want you."

My face was a brilliant shade of red, but it wasn't just from the highly personal nature of the conversation. "How do you even know what you're feeling is real? How do we know it's not part of—" I threw my hands up in the air "—all this?"

Malfoy was whippet fast when he felt the need. Visibly angry, he stabbed his knife into the windowsill with such force, a third of the blade was embedded, and then he was across the room and upon me.

His large, rough-palmed hand captured mine and forced it between us. I was no wilting daisy, so I forced myself to meet his gaze as I felt the abundant evidence of his wanting. The whole exercise ought to have been nothing more than superficial and crude, but after months of tip-toeing around each other, the effect was as much emotional as it was physical.

"Does that feel real to you?" he asked, with menace.

I wrenched my hand free and ran back outside. For the first time since we'd been trapped there, I was thankful for the cold.

My daily, private scouting missions continued. I was determined to find some order in the randomness of our environment. This was clearly magic, but no glamour of this magnitude could be maintained for so long without cutting some corners. And quite often, where there were corners, there were also exits.

I'm not sure when my desperation slipped into obsession.

There were no more permutations to try. No more combinations of wandless magic, explorations, mapping. Was it time to give up and carve out some version of contentment here in this pretend Forest?

I was done.

Wordlessly, I handed Malfoy the baton of my obsession, with some relief. I daresay he handled it with more stoicism then I had shown. After all, he'd had years of practice in not being able to do the one thing we wanted so badly – to go home.

I'm ashamed to say that I retreated inside of myself quite a bit during those final weeks of captivity. It did something to me, to not be able to think and plan my way out of a predicament, especially since time was no obstacle. We had all the time in the world. The trouble was that there were no clues with which to find mental purchase. Or if there were, I had not registered them. The apparent failure of my intellect was galling. I felt foggy and useless.

I kept up with my share of the chores, but it was Malfoy that set out in the early morning, sometimes only returning just before sun down. I didn't see the point anymore. I could always tell from the dark expression on his face that he had found yet more new terrain to add to our map. We hardly spoke during this time, and even though we shared the very small space of the shack, we were proverbial ships in the night.

I knew something had gone awry when he came home from a scouting trip well after dark, something both of us were very careful to avoid, given the illuminative limits of wandless magic.

I was sick with worry, but something kept me from sitting up and asking him what had happened. I feigned sleep, and whatever he had discovered must not have been important enough to warrant waking me up.

After these long trips, he would sit in front of the fire, twirling the damned knife in his hands.

I wondered what Harry was doing. I wondered if another birthday had come and gone. I wondered if Malfoy would be the last thing I saw before I died. I wondered if that was a bad thing.

I ran, but he caught up to me and grabbed me by the elbow, spinning me around.

"Where are you going?"

"I give up," I said.

"The hell you do!"

"This is hell, Malfoy. We're in it."

He was so tired. I could see it. I felt terrible for adding to his concerns, but I was going out of my mind.

He opened his mouth to yell at me some more, but then stopped. His expression gentled. "Come back home with me."

I stared at the Death Eater I'd been living with for the last…I didn't even know how long we'd been away from the world. Time didn't happen here like it did outside. In the real world, Draco Malfoy didn't care about me, not one whit. Everything in this place was all...wrong.

"That isn't our home and I don't even know you!" I screamed at him.

That angered him. I'd hurt him, even. I didn't think that was possible.

Something inside him snapped. Maybe that was what was wrong with me? I hadn't snapped. I'd just been stretched out too thin, skipping past breaking altogether. He grabbed a handful of my worn coat and hauled me to him with such force my teeth clicked painfully together. One strong hand buried in the back of my hair, pulling my head back. I wondered what it said about us that our various cathartic moments often arrived on the heels of violence.

He kissed me. The kiss was months and weeks and days in the making. It was like we were trying to crawl inside each other.

When he was done, I was boneless, breathless, and he was still so very angry.

"What's my name?" he whispered against my swollen mouth, and there was a tinge of panic in his voice, as if he was worried I'd forgotten that, too.

I answered him.

It was a backward fairy tale. His kiss didn't free me from the spell, but instead drew me further in and patched up the cracks. It was like he'd inadvertently severed the last fragile threads that connected us to reality, and for a time, we were happy. So happy.

I didn't even care that the thing…our captor, watched.

There was a routine to life in endless winter. Shack maintenance, firewood collecting, foraging, checking the traps, drying meat, storing food, mending, boiling water. Making love.

There was something else we were supposed to be doing, but I didn't care anymore. Malfoy came home from his scouting missions and I was at the door to welcome him. I failed to notice how closely he'd been watching me lately, how gaunt he had become, and that there was a melancholy to his affection for me.

I never asked what he did all day.

"It's Yule tomorrow," he remarked carefully, over dinner.

"Is it?" I asked. The food was delicious.

He didn't come home.

I was frantic. If I hadn't been so worried, I would have noticed that I wasn't being observed any longer.

I set out at first light, slipping on the snowshoes he had made for me and repaired numerous times. I searched for hours, finally finding faint signs of his tracks leading to a clearing that was completely unknown to me - likely one of the new areas he had traversed.

It was in the middle of the day, but the sunlight was almost entirely blocked out by the intermingling, twisting branches of dead trees high above. They formed a domed ceiling, allowing only a few shafts of penetrating sunlight to cut through. It was like being in a cathedral. Or a mausoleum.

I saw him kneeling in the middle of this uncanny place, his head tilted upwards, almost as if in prayer.

"Malfoy?" I said. I don't know why I was whispering.

He turned just as a familiar feeling assailed me. I remembered this all too well from the first time it happened on the day we'd been taken.

I couldn't move. I was rooted to the ground, shaking. The reptilian parts of my brain wanted me to scurry away and hide from the powerful, malignant thing that had been keeping us like pets, observing us like bacteria, warping our hold over reality, manipulating us.

My magic was called forth, out of pure instinct of self-preservation, or perhaps in response to the presence of its ilk. I felt my power course through me, itching to be channeled from my hands. But without a conduit, it was raw, imprecise and bottle-necked.

"We have an agreement, do we not?" I heard Malfoy say.

He was having a conversation with the entity? I was having trouble staying conscious, let alone possessing the capacity to speak.

Merlin, the voice. The voices. They…it answered.

YES.

I didn't understand what was happening until I saw the iceknife. The knife that had brought us both to the Forest.

Malfoy was on his feet now, looking at me. The expression on his face made me cry. Clarity and memory, things which had been so muted in my mind since our capture, returned. The spell had been lifted and the fog with it. Malfoy had solved the riddle. I belatedly realised he had solved it some time ago and had been working towards a resolution.

Though apparently not for us both.

"It's done," he said. "I'm sending you home, Granger."

Yes, I did want to go home! Home was the shack. Our shack. But I knew he didn't mean that, and I knew that home was elsewhere. And we had been here for so long in this fey prison, that after putting up a fight, I'd eventually forgotten.

The light of the knife grew and grew until it seemed to take up physical space. But in that light, I saw Malfoy as a dark outline. I saw him turn the knife and bring the point into his chest.