It initially started as a snowball fight and they fought until everyone else surrendered, too cold and too wet to continue. The snow kept falling as the sounds of laughter and good-natured arguing and snide-natured sarcasm faded, everyone disappearing into the castle.

Except for them. Instead they slipped away in a way they didn't know that was still possible, not speaking at all. They didn't need to speak, didn't need words to weave through trampled snow and new-fallen powder, crunching ice and decorating their clothes and faces with drifting flakes.

And then they were there, where they'd wanted to be, the three of them huddled together in a quiet sort of peace. All of them present and accounted for, Hermione's chilled hands sliding over Harry's scar as Ron's fingers pulled her hair aside so he could kiss the sweep of her neck.

They were fingers and hands and tongues and skin, cloaked with a warming spell as they fumbled with purpose and need, desperation and contentment. The snow built a curtain around them as they kissed and touched and moaned into each other. Ron and Harry held her against the wall and kissed her forehead, her face. Ron licked Harry's palm as Hermione sucked on his fingers. Harry pushed up Ron's jumper as Hermione unbuttoned his shirt, kissing the rough pounding through his pale skin.

They tumbled together and tumbled apart, breathing clouds of smoke as they spoke of hot chocolate and the warm fire and the silence that would greet them in the Common Room soon enough. There would be a blanket and a couch comfortable enough for three. There would be joking and teasing and reprimanding and searching fingers and stroking hands and, in the end, the snow would continue falling outside the window and they'd keep beating it back with their warmth.