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The Coldest Night


“Don’t forget your jumper, it’ll be cold out tonight,” Sirius said, stuffing his arms into his leather jacket.

“I won’t forget it,” Remus replied. In fact, he was tugging it on over his head even as Sirius reminded him to bring it along. Remus put the Map into his bag, along with the History of Magic textbook, and a thermos Sirius had gone to fetch from the House Elves in the kitchens early that morning.

“Here, put my tapes in there,” Sirius said, holding out the stack of 8-track cartridges James had given him, and winding his longer-than-life Gryffindor scarf around his neck three or four times.

The wind was howling around the tower, whistling about the windows and depositing gobs of snow against the panes in the stone frame. The clouds were obscuring the sky nearly completely, and peering out the window, Remus couldn’t even see the grounds. “It’s terrible out there,” he murmured.

Sirius nodded.

“I’ll understand if you don’t wanna come out tonight,” Remus said.

“I want to,” Sirius answered. He was digging through the stuff in James’s trunk that he hadn’t brought home with him until he found James’s dragonhide gloves in the bottom. “Here,” he said, tossing them to Remus. “James won’t mind if you use these tonight. You’ll need them.” He dug out the pair James had given him from his own trunk, and tugged them onto his fingers as Remus pulled on James’s.

Remus peered out the window again, squinting through the snow, unable to see even the darkness of the Forbidden Forest through the storm. He wondered how they were going to get across the grounds to the Whomping Willow in the mess. He put one hand against the glass, wiping away the condensation and frost growing even on the inside.

Suddenly Sirius was there, wrapping Remus’s scarf about his neck. “You okay, Moony?” he asked.

Remus nodded vigorously.

“Alright, mate. Just checking.” Sirius smiled and he tied Remus’s scarf into a little knot at his neck carefully, flinging the two ends over his shoulders. “There you are, properly bundled up. Come along, Moony. Let’s get out to the shack so you can go furry safely.”

The pair of them ventured on down the stairs to the entrance hall. There were so few students in the castle that they barely had to sneak when going to the door. Sirius grabbed the handle and yanked the door opened. The moment he did, the wind nearly blew them both down it was so vicious. It was icy cold, the sort of cold that froze up the lungs when inhaled. They stepped outside and were instantly up to their knees in snow, blinded by the white swirls of it that spun through the night. Sirius lit his wand and reached out a hand for Remus’s, their fingers twined as they made their way down the steps of the castle.

The walk from the castle, across the grounds to the Whomping Willow had never seemed so long. Sirius clutched onto Remus, legitimately afraid of losing him in the midst of the storm, struggling to see, feeling flakes of snow freeze on his eyelashes with every blink. Somehow or another, they made it to the shelter of the Willow, which was feeling so attacked by the snow that it didn’t even seem to notice the two boys that ran madly beneath it’s branches - which was brilliantly lucky, seeing as Sirius was sure neither he nor Remus could ever have found a way to hit that knot in this blizzard. He slapped it with his palm in the dragon-hide gloves and tugged Remus through the door into the tunnel, pulling the lever to keep the snow from following them underground.

“Bloody hell, that’s a storm or is that a storm?!” Sirius exclaimed, shaking himself off so that the snow clinging to him flew off in every direction.

Remus dusted himself a bit more carefully, his nose hot pink from the cold. “Absolutely terrible,” he shivered.

“Awe, Moony.” Sirius reached over and swept his palms over Remus’s shoulders, banishing the snow off him. He smiled, then, and waved for Rey to follow along as they made their way off through the dark tunnel to the Shrieking Shack.




Peter woke up to the screeching wind, laying in his bed, sweating profusely. The air in his bedroom was so cold that he could see his breath when he exhaled and the cloud hung about before his mouth… yet he was sweating and hot as though he were in the heart of a tropical rain forest. He swept his palm over his neck and he pulled off his pyjama top used it to mop up the sweat that pooled all over his torso. Peter’s eyes were leaking tears, staining his face. He didn’t know what to do to stop the horrible dreams that were haunting him… He had great bags under his eyes and his body trembled from a lack of sleep. The dream had occurred at least once a night every single night since he’d been home - sometimes twice - and it always resulted in the same thing, Peter, awake, sweat drenched, crying out for his mum.

The worst part of the dream, Peter thought, was how it felt more like a memory than a dream; the realism was so very strong… and it was always preceded by that funny voice that hissed through the dark, sounding impossibly close…

He heard something in the hall. A door creaked… and a moment later as shadow passed the bottom frame of his door. His first reaction was that it was whoever it was that called his name in that horrible voice - but then he realized how foolish that was, and he shook the thought of it out of his head. It had to be Maggie, because of the direction the shadow had come from and gone. But it was the middle of the night… what would Maggie be doing awake now? Peter hesitated and then took up a fresh t-shirt from his drawer and pulled it on over his head as he unlocked his door (he’d taken to setting several protective charms about his room in fear of the voice that called to him in the night). He snuck down the hall to the stairs.

Maggie was in the living room, Peter saw her as he was peering between the rungs of the bannister steps as he crept along. She was walking funnily, dreamily, and she came to stand before the fireplace, where the smoldering remains of the fire that had burned, crackling all night long. She looked about and finally reached out and took hold of the box of floo powder they kept on the mantel.

Peter wondered at this, and continued down the steps. He’d just gotten to the door or the living room, when he stopped - for there was a splash of yellow-green light - the floo powder activating - and then it all went dark.

Peter leaned ‘round the frame, wide eyed, and saw the living room was completely empty.

“Maggie?” he called quietly… but no Maggie anywhere.

She’d floo’d off some place.

But where? And - and since when did little squib Maggie know how to use the floo network? Was that even allowed? Even possible? Had Cecil shown her, out of his desperation to avoid leaving the house? Peter walked over to the couch and sat, determined to wait until Maggie returned so that he could find out where it was that she’d gone…

Peeeeter…..

He grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it to his chest, squeezing his eyes shut tight. He’d hear it whether he was here waiting for Maggie or if he was locked up in his bedroom anyway, so rather than run to his safety, he stayed exactly where he was, and trembled with fear.

Peeeeeter….

At some point, he fell asleep… long before Maggie returned… and he dreamed of that blast iron gate and the looming mansion and the hooded figure and Voldemort’s voice and finally, his mum… refusing to call out his name, even as Voldemort commanded her to, and hexed her when she did not do it…




Hundreds of miles away… past that very iron gate, in that very looming house… in the parlor… the cage was lowered and Voldemort raised his wand, “Crucio!” he said, his wand tip nearly touching her skin, which increased the strength of the spell, touching it to her arm which he had pulled through the cage bars and clutched so that even as he applied the spell and her knees went out from beneath her, she dangled and writhed helplessly, hanging by her limb held fast in his grip. “Crucio!” he repeated and her screams drowned out the word. After several long moments, Voldemort dropped her arm and she crashed to the floor of the cage, trembling and throwing up as her nervous system quaked.

Voldemort paced.

Regaining her strength enough to speak, Honey Pettigrew pushed herself to lean against the bars of the cage on her knees, her pale face staring out between the bars, her eyes sad and her voice broke over the words, “You’ll drive me mad with that curse before I’ll do what you ask of me…” she said thickly.

Voldemort turned to glare at her. “Is it madness you want?”

“I won’t let you hurt my little boy,” she answered, and a small trickle of blood leaked from her nose.

Voldemort laughed a low, eerie chortle. “Oh Honey Pettigrew. I don’t care if I do drive you mad. You are nothing but a pawn to me, nothing but a piece in this game of chess I am playing… You’re less than disposable. I intend to kill you. But I don’t intend to kill your boy. I have far greater plans for him… He will serve me, and he will call me his Lord and he will do anything I ask of him out of adoration. He’d kill you himself if I told him to… and if you keep up this cheek,” he added, hissing, “I’ll do just that. Just to teach you a lesson. And then you can stare into the eyes of your little boy as he murders you. How would you like that, Honey Pettigrew?”

She was sobbing.

“Call. Your. Son.”

“N - never,” she replied. “You cannot have him, I’ll never betray him! Even if you forced him to kill me, even then... I wouldn’t be looking into my son’s eyes - I’d really be looking into yours.”

“Crucio!”

And Honey fell to the floor of her cage.




Sirius and Remus sat in the bedroom of the Shrieking Shack - one of the cartridges playing on the stereo in an attempt to drown out the whistling of the wind. They’d piled several duvets over themselves on the bed, each sitting up so that they had a bit of a tent, with their own heads acting as the tent poles, and their body heat warming the space, though each had kept on their thick jumpers and jackets and scarves and gloves. They had a chess set between them and were playing quietly as they shivered. Remus had his arms pulled up in his jumper as Sirius contemplated the board - always slow, always calculating a myriad of options before he actually made any moves. Remus rocked himself slightly.

“I’m so bloody cold,” he murmured.

Sirius bit his lower lip.

“I don’t reckon I’ve ever been this cold out here,” Remus continued. “This is the coldest night in the history of the world, I’m - I’m sure of it.”

Sirius looked up from the board. Remus’s lips were practically blue. Sirius frowned. “Moony…” he pushed the chess set aside, not caring that it upset the pieces and the board slid out from beneath their tent walls and over the side of the bed. He crawled over and pulled Remus into his chest, “Bloody hell, Moony, you’re like ice,” he said thickly, “Cold as stone…” He held Remus tight feeling the shiver and tremble of him and tried to think what the hell to do. They had probably another half an hour before the transformation when Sirius was hoping that the wolf’s system would be better equipped to handle the frigid temperatures than Remus was as a boy. The thick fur the wolf had alone should help… but what to do for now? Remus was trembling.

“Here.” Sirius undid his long, thick scarf, wrapping it about Remus’s neck and shoulders over his own scarf, and he unzipped his leather jacket, shrugging it off and pulling it carefully around Remus’s shoulders. He was freezing now, but if it would help Rey then he didn’t care… Remus was too weakened to protest, he whimpered and curled into a ball and Sirius did the best he could to hold all of him.

Finally, Sirius turned into Snuffles and he laid himself right on top of Remus, his muzzle warm in Remus’s neck, and Remus clutched into the fur of the dog, his fingers tight in knots in him. “Whatever would I do w- without you?” he stammered into the dog’s hairy neck. He could feel the warmth of him melting over his skin. “Don’t ever leave me…” he whispered.

If Sirius could have spoken, he would’ve promised not to ever, ever leave Remus… would’ve promised to be there for him for all of his life, every single day of it… but, being Snuffles, he couldn’t do it.