Cold

Snow filled the world.

Ron remembered the day when the Slytherins had pushed Snape out into the snow. All the other teachers were long gone - fled to London, or back home, or killed by one of the ravening mobs of schoolboys when they had tried to regain control. But Snape had stayed with the Slytherins, to help and advise them. When he realised how truly murderous they had become, he'd tried to escape to Gryffindor Tower.

Draco Malfoy and his pack of goons had caught him before he'd even left the dungeons. Divested of his wand, Snape had frozen helplessly in the winter nightmare. For days, the boys could see his glassy gaze and iced up hair whenever they looked out of a nearby window. Until a new snow had fallen, and tidied away his corpse.

Draco Malfoy liked to give friendly warnings.

Of course, the snow itself didn't imprison them in the castle. The Gryffindors could have melted a path with their wands, and those with broomsticks could have escaped from a tower window when the sky was clear. The snow was just... a reminder. A reminder that the outside world had washed its hands of the renegade students, and was patiently waiting for them to die off. A reminder that every escape route was patrolled, both the Gryffindor and the Slytherin sides keeping watch (for as the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs had abandoned their own houses and joined up with one of the stronger two in an attempt to survive, Hogwarts now had only two Houses struggling for dominion).

Ron reckoned that in summer, more would probably have attempted the escape, lured by the sweet-tasting air and the sight of a green horizon. Maybe the vicious snow was a good thing, after all.

Harry hadn't been afraid of the snow...

Ron turned away from the window, blinking back tears. He had to stop thinking about Harry. He had to concentrate on keeping himself alive. He was hungry.

Ron remembered the furore when the food ran out, the stampede to the kitchen. He could still see Colin Creevey's anguished face, shaking a house-elf until its teeth rattled, demanding food.

Ron remembered Dean Thomas's tranquil face as he pried the unfortunate elf out of Colin's grasp. He'd gently explained to Colin that the house-elves didn't actually create the food, and that it would do no good to threaten them.

Then Dean had turned to the shaken elf, pointed his wand, and intoned: "Engorgio ad centum."

When it lay the length of the enormous kitchen, too racked by the growing pains to do more than wail, Dean had cut its throat. There'd been enough to last Dean's band of Gryffindors for nearly a week.

House-elf hadn't actually tasted too bad, Ron reflected as he walked down the dusty corridor. And you certainly got used to it after a while.

Perhaps, one day he would get used to everything. Knowing Harry was dead. Not knowing whether Hermione was dead or not. Knowing that Blaise Zabini had caught Harry on the verge of escape, rising out of the snow to knock Harry off his broom. Knowing that Harry's body had been taken back to the Slytherin dungeons by Zabini.

Eat, hunt, kill, fortify, sleep, repeat. Sometimes Ron felt that the only things that kept him alive were the fear and the need for revenge on Zabini.

He entered what had once been the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady was gone, knifed by an enterprising Slytherin some weeks ago. In place of a painting and a password now stood two grim Gryffindors, armed with knives and makeshift truncheons. They let him pass without a word.

Inside were five Gryffindor boys, Dean Thomas among them. He must have sent the others out scouting, Ron thought.

"Ron, where have you been?"

"I was... just out." Ron felt embarrassed. "I wanted to look out a window..." He trailed off.

"Ron, you can't just wander around on your own. Hunt in packs, remember?"

That was what made Dean such a good leader, Ron thought. He didn't feel cabin fever, and he didn't feel paranoia. Who would have thought that quiet, artistic Dean Thomas, with his innocent blue eyes hidden behind round-rimmed glasses, would be the only one of them to know what to do in a war zone? He was sensible. Ruthless, when he had to be, but practical and sensible.

"I'm sorry," Ron said easily. "I'll be more careful in future."

Dean nodded, and gave Ron a small smile. The boys huddled against the wall sighed involuntarily, and relaxed a little. They looked almost like dogs to Ron - lean, hunting dogs, stretched rigid with nervy tension. They needed to get out. They needed a victory.

Ron shuddered. He felt exactly the same way himself. Thank heavens for Dean - Dean doesn't let it get to him. Dean knows what to do.

The Gryffindor boys sprang up, thumps and screams came from outside the door, and Ron wasn't sure which had come first. He turned to face the door, his heart pounding. Dean still hadn't moved.

A sound unpleasantly like that of a head slamming against a flagstone, and Blaise Zabini entered the common room. His bulky frame was almost too big for the doorway, and he held both of the guards' truncheons in his hands.

Zabini.

"You murdering bastard!" Ron yelled. "What the fuck do you think you're doing here?"

"Causing wholesale destruction and spreading blind terror among the Gryffindors, of course," Zabini responded. He leaned lazily against the wall, his truncheons held at the ready.

"You killed Harry," Ron said softly. He picked up an old chair. "If you think we're going to let you leave here alive..."

"Oh, Potter?" Zabini said. He sounded amused. "Yes, I remember - he lasted us quite a few days before the bones were picked clean. Pity he was always so small, really..."

Ron smashed the chair against the ground, and flung himself at Zabini with a snarl. He wanted to drive the stump right through his neck and pin him to the wall. He wanted to poke his eyes out and let the pulpy remains drip into his mouth. He wanted to kill him.

Zabini defended well, keeping Ron at bay with his truncheons. His back was against the wall, and Ron couldn't find an opening.

I need to get him to move!

"Hey, Zabini! You fight like a girl! What, do you want a screw or something?"

Zabini narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "Why, yes... I suppose that could work." He moved towards Ron in a flash and pinioned Ron's hands in his large ones. Their weapons clattered to the ground.

What does he mean? Ron thought frantically. I can't get loose! Dean, help me!

"Dean, help me!" Ron gasped, as Zabini shoved him to the ground. He could see the boys pressing themselves against the wall in a vain attempt to hide themselves - and Dean, sitting cross-legged and calm, staring pensively at Ron.

"Ron, it's not a good idea to attack somebody stronger than you on your own," Dean called out to him as Zabini began to drag him away. "You need to learn how to plan properly, and how to work as part of a team. I'm sure you'll be much more cautious later."

Another collective sigh of relief from the frightened cadre, and Ron was dragged from the room, over the prone bodies of the young guards.

And as the juddering rhythm of humiliation stabbed through him, in the darkened room where he had once learned Defence Against the Dark Arts, Ron could see nothing but the serene expression on Dean's face. For a moment, Dean had looked almost regretful.