Chapter 7: Winter Frost

Day by day, the term ground downhill toward the holidays. A surge of homework – Potions homework to be exact, and a term project in Transfiguration – combined with a nagging feeling of guilt about the trouble the cloak had caused for McGonagall, had kept Harry from any more spying on Snape. Even Quidditch practice had become tedious. With no game to look forward to until Springtime, the team spent their time in drills and in training the reserves, all of whom were coming along steadily. For himself, Harry felt stuck in a rut, knowing that he ought to be improving but somehow not knowing how; on the other hand Ron was rapidly growing more skillful and confident.

As the days passed, each one grayer and chillier than the next, Harry began to understand something of what Hagrid had gone through in those terrible weeks after Dumbledore's death. Every time he went in to the dining hall and saw Snape at the Headmaster's place, it reopened the wound. If only he had kept his promise to Hagrid and told Dumbledore his suspicions earlier, perhaps the tragedy could have been averted. Again and again he went over the events of that day in his head, thinking what he could have done differently, trying out different possibilities until he could no longer keep track of them. He blamed himself for not bringing help in time and was nagged by the feeling that because of the fight, Dumbledore had died disappointed with him. He thought of all the questions he had never had a chance to ask Dumbledore, and of all the things Dumbledore knew about his parents that he would never find out.

Of course Hagrid was feeling better now, thought Harry enviously. Ever since the note about Fawkes had come from Filch, telling the groundskeeper to get the ruddy bird out of the owlery before it burnt the place down, the spring had come back into his step and the twinkle into his eye. The last time they had seen Hagrid he had been knitting a cap and muffler for Rodney. Compared to the usual scale of his knitting, the fine yarn and narrow needles looked impossibly small in his hands.

It had taken several days for the dye to wear off the Weasley twins and the Slytherin team – long enough, in fact, that the next Monday Harry was startled to see Bulstrode and Zabini in class without their familiar green markings. Still, he couldn't spend much time thinking about that; midterm examinations were coming up, and then the winter break. He had been pleased to find that Cho was planning to stay over for the holidays at Hogwarts. Her mother was preparing a big show on Savile Row, and her father was going to test for rokudan, whatever that was, with someone named Aikikai Hombu from the Kobayashi Sensei, or perhaps it was the other way round. Takushiki had been impressed, so he supposed it was something important.

Fred and George, still in disgrace with their parents, had signed up to stay too, and Ron had promised to keep an eye on them, or try to. Harry, of course, was staying; nothing could have induced him to go back to the Dursleys for a moment longer than necessary. Hermione was still deciding whether to keep them company or to join her parents on a family vacation in Trinidad. "It's probably the last time my grandmother can make the trip," she explained. "And I have masses of cousins there that I've never met."

"Well, have fun," said Harry, wishing that he could go. He had a brief vision of himself on a sparkling beach, tossing fish in the air for Buckbeak to catch, while Sirius Black sat under a palm tree strumming a guitar. All at once he missed Sirius, and missing him, thought again of Dumbledore. He pushed the thought away.

"And send us an albatross," Ron was saying, "or an eel-mail to my father at the Ministry."

"I haven't quite decided yet," said Hermione. "It depends on midterms."

By which she meant, Harry realized, not her own midterms but Crabbe's. "Is Vince staying over too?" he asked.

Hermione made a face. "Unless he passes everything, his parents won't let him come home for holidays. Can you believe how unfair that is? Knowing how hard he tries, to put him under that kind of pressure?" She broke off suddenly, with a faraway look in her eyes. "Oh well… I'd better get to studying myself."

"Studying yourself, or tutoring Crabbe again?" asked Ron teasingly.

"Myself." Hermione giggled. "I have to finish it all early because he's taking me dancing Saturday night, and I have to go get my hair done, and…" Blushing, she seized her books and darted for the portrait hole.

"Wait! wait!" cried Harry. All of Crabbe's earlier cruelties surged into his mind. He had seemed nice enough recently, but if the potion wore off… "Are you sure you're going to be all right?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Really, Harry! We're going with Millicent and Pansy and their boyfriends." She held up a hand. "And before you start, Pansy's fixed it with Draco so he'll be civil for once."

I don't understand her at all, thought Harry. It had been a lot simpler last year before everyone started falling in love. He thought briefly of Cho and wondered if he should ask her to go dancing too... "Well, have fun," he said again, lamely.

Harry awoke Saturday morning to brilliant sunlight streaming through the window. The snow had melted and it promised to be a beautiful day – perhaps the last really good one of the year. He hopped out of bed, dressed as fast as he could, and sent Hedwig up to the top of Ravenclaw Tower with a message for Cho. Dancing was all right, but it couldn't compare to flying. An inspiration hit him, and he hurried to the dining hall, hoping McGonagall would be there. He found her – always the early riser - halfway through her second cup of tea, and deep in a debate with Takushiki over an editorial in Transfiguration Today. "Professor," he began, "is it all right to fly to Hogsmeade?"

McGonagall put down her teacup and thought for a moment. "We don't encourage it, Potter. Too many students have lost their brooms, or had them stolen. I'm sorry."

"Just a moment, Minerva," said Takushiki. "Would anyone bother stealing a Silver Arrow?"

"Not likely," replied McGonagall. "When we ordered new broomsticks for the flying classes this fall, we couldn't give them away. Why?"

"I have one," she said a bit sheepishly, "and if Harry's willing to trade for a day…"

"Oh, would you?" he exclaimed eagerly.

Takushiki laughed, and McGonagall joined in. It was the first time he had seen her happy since... He pushed the thought away. "Go ahead, then, Potter - though Professor Takushiki is clearly getting the better end of your deal. As I remember, the best place to leave a broomstick in Hogsmeade is behind the Hog's Head."

"The Hog's Head?" Harry couldn't remember a store by that name.

"Showing my age I suppose. It's the Three Broomsticks now. And if Hagrid's playing cards there as usual, he could keep an eye on it for you."

Returning to his dorm for the Firebolt, Harry found Hedwig carrying Cho's reply, and a scrawled note from Ron.

They're putting the parapet up today. Come and watch - Ron

He strolled outside to find Ron gone already and the masons cleaning up. The foreman appeared to be arguing with Madam Pomfrey. "Of course we did, ma'am. It's our trademark, and we never finish a piece of work without one." He pointed to his caravan, large and pink, which bore the inscription Swineburn Stonemasons – Passionate about Pigs. Pomfrey sniffed and stomped back inside. "Are they all done at the north tower?" he called to one of the workmen.

"Excuse me," Harry interrupted, "what are you doing at the north tower?"

"Replacing a windowsill, lad, that was damaged in a fire. Better get over there if you want a souvenir." He burst into hearty laughter as Harry took off like a shot.

A moment later Harry stood below the Headmaster's office window. Two masons hovered in mid-air, one tapping in wedges with a hammer and a long stick, the other measuring and checking a level on top of the new block. "All set! Send up the caulk," called the one on the left. With a quick glance at Harry, the mason on the ground pointed a wand, and two caulking guns rose from a wheelbarrow into the waiting hands aloft.

"If you're going to stand so close, lad, you'd best wear this." Harry was surprised to hear a woman's voice. Without moving her wand hand, she pulled off her hard hat and tossed it to him. "What can we do for you?"

Harry swallowed. "I was hoping to get a piece of the old windowsill," he explained. The mason nodded and brushed a strand of gray hair away from her face. When the caulking was finished she carefully lowered the other two to the ground.

"Now then, lad, which bit do you fancy?" They bent over the old sill, which lay upside down on the muddy grass, cracked in several places. This is where Dumbledore used to look out over the grounds, thought Harry. This is where he was leaning when he died. A lump rose in his throat, and a tight feeling began behind his eyes.

"Something from the top, please." He grasped the two central sections and pushed them over. The mason sucked in her breath and crossed herself. Harry looked down, but all he could see was mud. The mason began turning over the other sections, shaking her head wonderingly. "I'll get some snow," said Harry, spotting a pile in a sheltered corner. He scrubbed it by handfuls over the stone as she followed with a rag. Underneath the mud, the surface was smooth and glossy, with bumpy rivulets as if it had melted and frozen again. The tight feeling grew stronger.

"How could this be?" the mason murmured.

"They were fighting with lightning bolts," he explained. "Wouldn't that be hot enough?"

She shook her head again. "We use wand-bolts for welding in a pinch. They only heat a small spot at a time – and here, the whole stone's affected. End to end. " She hefted a piece onto her knees, turning the cracked side upward. The top was cloudy and white; below it the broken surface sparkled with thousands of tiny crystals. "Look at that. The damage goes all the way through in places."

"The explosion, then?" Worry was rising in Harry's throat.

"Not a chance. Explosions shatter things. Here, get back. And have a care, the edges'll be sharp." With a few strokes of mallet and chisel, she split off a section the size of a dictionary and handed it to him. Wrapping the rest of the chunk in her rag, she dropped it softly into her wheelbarrow and picked up the handles. "I'd better take this bit over to the boss. I've never seen anything like it. Dark Arts to be sure."

Harry wondered if she was right. True, his head felt a bit odd, but what could be Dark about a windowsill? He ran to catch up with her. "So what's so unusual about this stone?"

"It's limestone."

"So?"

The mason stopped and put down the wheelbarrow. Her eyes bored into Harry's. "You still don't understand, do you?" she said kindly. "Limestone doesn't melt."

The matter of the stone nagged at him all the way back to the dormitory, where he picked up the Firebolt and cloak and headed over to Takushiki's office. As an afterthought he took the section of windowsill too. "Come in!" she called cheerily as he approached her office, so he turned the crystal doorknob and entered.

"Here you go, Petcock," she was saying, sliding several straw-colored envelopes into a silken bag. Slipping on a glove, she added two golden galleons and a couple of pound notes. "When you return from the Muggle post and the stationer's, take the rest of the day off."

"I should think so," squawked the bird, taking the bag in one claw. He hopped to the windowsill and was gone.

Takushiki turned to Harry eagerly. "Got the Firebolt?" He leaned it against the desk as she reached into a curtained cupboard for her battered Silver Arrow. When she returned, he was unwrapping the stone on her desk. "What's that, Harry?"

As he explained, she nodded her head knowingly. "May I keep it for a while?" she asked. "I'd like to have a closer look."

"So long as I can have it back. I don't have any other memento of Dumbledore."

Takushiki took off the glove and placed her hand on the stone. She stared off into the distance. "Yes, I can see him now."

Harry considered; he would have to choose his words carefully. "You can communicate with him too, can't you?"

Takushiki frowned. "How did you know that?"

"I overheard him saying something about it, back before he died."

"Well, don't broadcast it, but it's true. As soon as he's settled in, I'll probably have a talk with him. The Headmaster seems very keen to hear his version of the attack." She gathered up the remaining envelopes and bamboo-printed notepaper and put them in a desk drawer.

On impulse, Harry unfolded the invisibility cloak. "This was my father's. I don't mean to impose but – could you tell me - can you see my parents?"

"Any metal on it?" she asked. He shook his head, and she took it from him and turned it over in her hands, then pressed it to her face. "Oh, Harry. Their world is always falling away from ours, slowly but surely, and you lost them when you were only a baby. They're too far away to see." She looked at him sympathetically. "I'm so sorry."

"It's all right," said Harry, bitterly disappointed. "Look – if you happen to talk with Dumbledore – tell him hello from me." He grabbed the cloak and the old broom and dashed out of the office. Lame, lame, lame, he thought furiously, scowling as he ran along the corridor. I miss him so much I can hardly breathe, and I tell her to say hello for me. What an idiot! But another part of his mind responded, consoling: she understands, she'll know exactly what to say, your message is in good hands.

He was out of breath by the time he reached the bottom of Ravenclaw tower, where Cho's bay owl was waiting for him. It flew up the stairs, hooting, and presently Cho rushed down, rosy-cheeked and bouncing with excitement. She led him down the back stairs past the kitchen, where she picked up two bag lunches, and out the rear door where the garbage tarbosaur was searching in its trough for the last scraps of breakfast leftovers. It belched and turned over to have its belly scratched, rolling its eyes hopefully as they passed by. "Oh, all right," said Cho. She rifled through her paper bag and threw it a biscuit, which it caught in its great toothy mouth. Its buzz of pleasure followed them until their brooms had risen far above the castle.

Cruising over the countryside, high in the warm, clear air, they had to shield their eyes from the brightness. Below them shimmered the slate roofs of Hogsmeade. Just past the town they found a picnic table in a park next to a little rushing waterfall and laid out their lunches. The foaming pool beside them was fringed with bracken fern, each frond dewy with spray. Harry watched two drops detach from a leaf and fall into the torrent. Is that what happened to my parents? Swept away and lost forever? Another drop fell: Dumbledore. Harry looked downstream, where the brook surged among rocks and tree roots, finally vanishing between two hills. There was no use kidding himself. Dumbledore was gone and beyond his help, as surely as those drops of water. I'll be like one of those drops myself one day, he realized, fallen and gone. The thought brought back images of the only river he had ever seen - the Thames, gray and sluggish under bridge traffic; of the sea, its salt breeze still blowing over the rocky island where Hagrid had found him, and of Sirius under a palm tree, amid a crowd of brown children, Hermione's cousins.

A noise intruded into his thoughts and he looked up.

"I said, I'm going up again; the air is perfect for practicing flips." Cho frowned at him. "Are you OK? You didn't hear a word I said."

"Sorry – You go ahead, this old streetsweeper wouldn't turn a flip if you begged it."

"All right, suit yourself." Cho set a little pouch on the table. "If you feel like working on it, here's a maintenance kit." She shot into the sky.

Harry opened the kit absently, feeling that he might as well do something useful while he waited. After all, the broom was badly in need of a tune-up. He reached for the twig clippers and immersed himself in the work. An hour later he rubbed the last of the tube of broom wax into the handle. Satisfied, he looked again into the waterfall, where the brackens sprung up green and vibrant against the dark rocks and melting snow. Strange how the work had made him feel better – and he was even hungry again. He mounted the Silver Arrow and kicked off, testing its new speed and agility, and soon pulled up alongside Cho.

"Ready for a snack? Shopping?" Cho nodded and pointed her broom toward the town below. The Shrieking Shack loomed on their right, its boarded-up windows staring at them like sightless eyes.

"Creepy old place," said Cho with a shudder. She pointed to an upstairs window where a board had come loose. "Look, it's falling apart. I wonder what it was like for whoever lived in there."

"Lonely," said Harry shortly, to which Cho had no reply. They left the broomsticks at the pub with Hagrid and Rodney, who seemed to be having a reading lesson, and walked over to the sporting goods shop where, after a short consultation with the shopkeeper, Harry bought two small jars of broom wax, a pumice stone and a tiny ceramic knife blade in a plastic handle. "And that blue and white skateboard," he murmured, "but may I pick it up later? It's a gift." The shopkeeper's gaze flickered to Cho, and he pointed to a sign under the counter glass: We gift wrap and deliver. Harry nodded. He filled out the forms and found Cho a few racks over looking at the weighted gloves Ron had coveted earlier that fall. "Are they any good?" he asked, and discussing them, they started back toward the Three Broomsticks.

Suddenly Harry heard someone call his name – Hermione, a shopping bag in each hand, looking both exhilarated and worried. "I can't believe it took so long!" she said, holding up her booty.

Cho peered inside. "Ooh, nice! And shoes too?"

Why all the excitement? thought Harry. It's just a dance, after all. He had heard all the usual jokes about girls and shopping but never dreamed that sensible Hermione would ever act that way. Behind them, a loud voice boomed out over the sidewalk. "They're ready for you now, Hermione!"

Hermione's eyes grew round. "Millicent? Oh, you look just like Princess Di!"

Harry turned around to look and just managed not to burst out laughing. Millicent Bulstrode was just coming out of the hairdresser's. Her short, lank hair, once the color of wet cardboard, had been lightened and waved and fluffed, and her broad, ruddy face was done up in pale peach makeup with pink lipstick. Bulstrode saw him staring, and her face lit up. "Do you like it?" she asked hopefully.

"Stunning," Harry replied, realizing a moment later that he hadn't lied after all. And he had managed not to hurt her feelings. She wasn't such a bad person, actually, since she had started playing Quidditch. As the two girls marched off happily in opposite directions, Harry turned to Cho, trying to read her face. "Cho – did you want to go to that dance?"

She started off purposefully toward the Three Broomsticks. "Too late now, all the tickets are gone. But there's usually another in April."

"How about then?" Cho nodded. Then it hit him. He had just asked a girl for a date and she had accepted. It was a wonderful feeling.