Chapter 8: Holidays

It snowed heavily all of Christmas Eve, and Harry spent the day indoors, feeling alternately trapped and bored. Crabbe was teaching Hermione the fine points of Exploding Snap; the empty Transfiguration classroom had tables a perfect size for the board. The pops and whistles carried down the corridor into the dining hall as he picked at his lunch. "I don't see how he managed to flunk his Charms exam," Hermione complained when she finally joined them. "It was by far his best subject, and Flitwick's never made him nervous before."

Ron let out a snort of laughter and Hermione turned on him, glowering. "Flunking an exam is not funny!" she snapped.

"Isn't it obvious? He flunked it on purpose to stay here with you." Ron could hardly get the words out. "Smartest thing he could have done, if you ask me."

"Oh! He wouldn't!" gasped Hermione, sending Ron into further gales of laughter. She shoveled down her lunch and rushed out. The next time Harry saw her and Crabbe, they were in the library.

Thinking back to that Christmas a year earlier, when he had realised that he could give presents as well as receive them, he had lugged out his purchases and dutifully wrapped them earlier in the evening. Why was it, he wondered, that buying the gifts had been such a pleasure – even the self-tying shoelaces for Dudley – but wrapping them was no more than a chore? He made the rounds with Ron's card, watered Neville's plants, and checked the invisibility cloak, then climbed into his bed and lay there, sleepless. A long while later he heard Ron call down the stairs, "Give it a rest, Fred – we were only playing wizard chess," and stomp into the dormitory, muttering to himself about meddlesome brothers. Even when Ron's breathing had become deep and slow, Harry could not sleep. Somewhere out there, Voldemort was probably killing someone, sucking out their life under Pettigrew's incantation, flanked by those invisible hooded shapes, leaving some strange evidence of his visit that would be discovered too late to do any good. And somewhere in the castle, Snape was plotting, with Lucius, perhaps, or alone in the office where he had given Dumbledore the fatal potion.

Shouts and laughter awakened him the next morning. He glanced automatically to the foot of his bed, but saw no gifts, only a note from Hermione.

We're in the common room. Come join us.

Harry pulled on his clothes and some slippers and picked up the bag of gifts. Down in the common room, his friends were sitting in front of a roaring fire sipping hot chocolate and toasting thick slices of banana bread on long forks. "From Hermione's parents," explained Ron, who passed him a mug and plate and made a place for him by the fire.

Harry picked up a familiar-looking lumpy parcel and unwrapped it. Inside was a woolly hand-knitted sweater, soft and thick, and a large tin of fudge. "It's maroon!" exclaimed Ron, as Harry put it on.

Across the circle Ginny giggled shyly. "I finally told Mum you hated that colour," she said. "Go ahead, it's safe to unwrap your own."

At the bottom of the package was a pair of matching socks. Dumbledore would have liked these, he thought, feeling a pang of sorrow. Resolutely he reached for the next package, a box of Ice Mice from Hermione. The Dursleys had sent him a small photograph of themselves, which was passed around the circle with great merriment. Ron's gift was a book on broomstick maintenance and repair and Hagrid's, a pair of heavy sheepskin mittens that he had clearly sewn himself.

Hermione beamed at him and tossed her head as she held up his gift to her, a slender book on hair braiding. He still had the note in his pocket from Flourish and Blotts, informing him that their one volume on Egyptian hieroglyphs had just been sold to a Mr. Vincent Crabbe at the same institution and recommending the enclosed book on his second choice topic, sent on approval. The Chocolate Frogs for Ginny and the Filibuster fireworks for the twins seemed to be successful too. He glanced over at Ron, who was wearing his new green sweater and gnawing on a thick slab of nut brittle from Hagrid. The floor in front of him was empty. That's odd – didn't he get any fudge? wondered Harry.

"Poor Ron, only two gifts this year," teased Fred.

George laughed. "Maybe Father Christmas forgot you."

Harry scowled at him. "But your friends didn't." He handed Ron a large rectangular box. "First the card." Ron opened the envelope and read out

A happy Christmas from all of us

Fred, George, Ginny, Harry, Hermione

"Oh," said Ron softly, then, as the possibility dawned on him, "Oh!" He tore the paper off and lifted the lid of the box. Inside were the Quidditch training gloves, smelling of new leather and oil, their rows of weights gleaming. Not daring to touch them, he looked dumbly around the circle.

"It's all right, Ron, you don't need to say anything," Hermione told him.

Back in the dorm, they found an owl from Sirius. He had sent his condolences on Dumbledore's death, and his assurances that he and Buckbeak were still safe in hiding. There was even a brief note from Lupin, brought by an owl as careworn as his master. Ron took one look at the ragged, shivering bird and shook his head. "He looks worse off than Errol," he said wonderingly.

"Better take him over to Hagrid's," said Harry, opening a bag of owl treats. "He looks like he could use a few good meals and some owl tonic." They left the open bag on top of Trevor's terrarium, the warmest spot in the room, and headed down to the Great Hall.

A sumptuous feast was laid for dinner – crackling roasted ducks and pheasants with thick, ruby-colored cherry sauce; fluffy mounds of rice, golden roasted potatoes, brussels sprouts with chestnuts, buttered green beans stacked up like cordwood, and the chipolata sausages that Dumbledore had loved. Behind the tables towered a dozen stately pines, some hung with icicles, others decorated with elaborate snowflakes, no two alike, and still others bright with ribbons, holly berries, tinkling bells and winking stars. At the staff table, McGonagall stood stiffly to welcome them, explaining that the Headmaster sent his regrets and wished them all a happy Christmas.

"He didn't either," Ron shouted over the noise of wizard crackers going off, "she's only being polite." A commotion at the staff table caught Harry's eye, and he pointed. Hagrid, red-faced from wine and exertion, had picked up McGonagall's chair with her still in it.

"Well then, perfessor, we're givin' you a promotion jus' fer today!" he roared. With a grunt he hoisted the chair overhead and began to push his way toward the middle of the table. Around him the staff broke into applause and shouts of "Hear, hear!" and "Don't drop her!" McGonagall clung gamely to the swaying chair, halfway between terror and hilarity, not daring to look down as Sinistra whisked away the Headmaster's chair and helped Hagrid guide her into the place of honor. A large golden crown squeezed out of the end of Flitwick's wand and sailed over to settle, lopsided, on her head. The hall rang with cheers and the popping of crackers, then Fred and George launched into "For she's a jolly good fellow" and the noise began all over again. When it finally died away, McGonagall rose again and set her crown aside. She raised the glass of wine that Hagrid had poured for her and lifted it into the air.

"I would like to propose a toast," she began. For a brief moment she bowed her head, and her glass dipped and trembled. Then she raised her head and took a deep breath. "To absent friends."

Harry was just passing the Christmas pudding to Ron for the third time when a flash of metal at the staff table caught his eye. Forgetting the pudding, he watched, riveted, as Takushiki set a tin on the table, opened it with a napkin wrapped around her hand, and took out a large brown chunk before passing it along the table. Aha, he thought triumphantly, so that's what happened to Ron's fudge!

They spent most of the afternoon building snow sculptures on the front lawn – robed figures stirring cauldrons, six-foot tall rabbits, a spiky-backed dragon and even an arched bridge across the moat, and sledding down the hill by Hufflepuff tower on meal trays filched from the infirmary. Cho joined them for a while, her musical laugh ringing out as she whizzed past Harry and tumbled into the snowdrifts by the moat. Then she returned to the front stairs to practice on her new skateboard from Harry.

As teatime approached, they walked over to Hagrid's with a Honeydukes honey cake and a little square wrapped package. "This one's for Rodney," said Hermione when she handed it to him. "It's a book about humans. Isn't he spending Christmas with you?"

"He's with his father now," explained Hagrid. "Firenze's back in th' Forest for the Solstice. 'S a shame we don't see more of him. An' speakin' of people we don't see much of, where are those brothers of yours, Ron? You were going to bring them along today."

Ron chuckled as he sliced the cake. "They had detention for sneaking out after hours and putting a dungbomb down Filch's shirt when he caught them."

Hagrid leaned back and laughed, both at the news and at Hermione's look of shock. "What's the punishment this time?"

Ron grinned and shook his head. "The worst I've ever heard of. Let's see – they have to scrub and wax all the floors in the castle, then wash all the windows, and they can't go to Hogsmeade until it's done. After that they're supposed to help you with the grounds. That's on top of buying Filch a new shirt and doing his washing for a month."

"Ar, he's a sharp one, Professor Snape," Hagrid pronounced. "They'll be so busy they won't have time fer mischief. An' it'll give Filch time fer his trips ter th'Ministry."

"Filch has been going to the Ministry?" asked Hermione.

Hagrid slurped his tea gloomily. "Dumbledore used to send me on all his errands. Gave me the run o' London, even before I was 'lowed ter do magic. Used ter see yer dad all the time, Ron. Now if there's anything interestin' ter be done, Filch gets ter go."

Supper was late, and light, at least for Harry and Hermione. They watched wonderingly as Ron tucked away trays of sandwiches and bowl after bowl of soup. Leaving the hall, they found Professor Takushiki waiting for them, a bag in her hand.

"Here's your tin back, Ron – and thank you for the fudge, it's irresistible." She turned to Harry. "Thank you too, Harry, for the maintenance kit. It'll be great to work on my broomstick again without worrying about touching metal. And Hermione, I love the book of Shakespeare sonnets." She paused, and drew something out of her robe pocket. "Have any of you an idea who might have given me this? The card was, well, a bit odd, and it wasn't signed."

Harry took it from her and turned it over; it was an audiotape. "Greatest Love Songs: Frank Sinatra," he read.

"Who's that?" asked Ron.

"Some old singer from America, he was always going 'do-be-do'. The Muggle lady I used to cat sit for liked him," answered Harry.

"Well, is there anyone like her around here?" asked Hermione.

"Old, boring and a Muggle?" He chuckled. "It has to be Filch." As soon as the name left his lips, his stomach flip-flopped.

Across from him Ron turned a deep, angry red. "I'll get those two, if it's the last thing I do!" He sped off toward Gryffindor, with Hermione following.

"What was that all about?" Takushiki asked. She took the tape back rather gingerly and dropped it into her pocket. Harry shrugged, feeling guilty for keeping a secret, but far too embarrassed to explain.

"Harry, you're blushing."

Now he was trapped. His cheeks and forehead, and even his eyes, were burning. The pink note felt like a brick in his pocket. He couldn't look at her, much less speak. Takushiki took his arm and started to walk him along the hall. "You know something, Harry," she said gently. "Did you have anything to do with this gift?" He shook his head quickly. "But you know who does." Mortified, he nodded. "Is there a prank involved?" Nearly weeping from embarrassment, Harry nodded again. "The Weasley twins I suppose," she groaned. "Look, the card said something about notes… Did they send Filch notes on pink paper?"

One more nod, and he found his voice. "I have to go, miss, good night," he croaked.

Suddenly her hand tightened on his arm. "Oh! Wait! What did those notes say? Harry?"

Panic overwhelmed him. He pulled away blindly and sped down the hall, feeling lower than the snake on the Slytherins' doorstep.

Harry's mood did not lift as the holidays ended and the rest of the school returned. Somehow he was thinking more and more about Dumbledore and how much he missed him. The pain of that loss - and of his failure to help - was getting worse, not better as he had always thought it would. Quite often at night he found himself dreaming of the creature in Godric's Hollow. He would be lying under his blankets alone in the dormitory, awake but unable to move. Then the thing would come in and scuttle from bed to bed, clawing at the empty ones as it desperately tried to find a body to clasp. Finally it would reach Harry's bedside – but fortunately he had always been able to wake up before its awful claws descended on him. The dream, or something like it, seemed to haunt him during waking hours as well; any painful or unpleasant thoughts settled into him like cold, while the cheerful ones evaporated like a wisp of white fog whenever he tried to hold on to them. He told no one of the dream, not wanting to worry them, and knowing they could do nothing about it. Still, it gnawed at him and robbed him of sleep.

To make matters worse, his wand was still playing up. At first he had thought that it had settled down but now he was finding it increasingly unreliable. It was as if the power was slowly seeping out of the damaged end of the phoenix feather within. But this is my wand, he told himself. It picked me; I can't pick another.

The Christmas feast faded into a dull grey January. The other students returned, filling the hallways with movement and noise. To Harry it all seemed too bright, too busy. Then classes started, jerking him from torpor to confusion. He dragged himself to the lessons and forced himself to do homework. Even Defense, his favorite, left him cold. Flitwick's exuberant demonstrations in Charms, formerly so entertaining, seemed overblown and irrelevant. Transfiguration seemed pointless. The more things changed, he thought cynically, the more they stayed the same. Potions was a nightmare. Snape had started a unit on preparation of alchemical ingredients, a completely new subject that refused to make sense to him. He could not for the life of him keep the grams, drams and drachms straight and as a result all his equations for yield and purity remained stubbornly unbalanced. Meanwhile even Crabbe, under Hermione's tutelage, was confidently converting millimoles into parts per million.

It didn't help that Gryffindor were playing Hufflepuff on the first Saturday of the Spring term. As he sat on his broomstick waiting for Madam Hooch to blow her whistle, Harry could not help thinking about what had happened during the same match the year before. He had been overcome by the effect of the watching dementors who had been guarding the school, and had fallen fifty feet to the ground. His grip on the Firebolt tightened when he remembered his faithful Nimbus, which had been shattered when it flew into the Whomping Willow. How he had missed that broom. And he missed... He pushed the thought away.

Luckily for Gryffindor, it became obvious when the match started that Hufflepuff had not managed to train much since the start of term. Harry found himself staring at the goalposts, or the other players, forgetting the Snitch. From time to time he would snap back to attentiveness, angry at himself, only to lose concentration a few minutes later. It was only when George shouted to him "Behind you, Harry – wake up!" that he managed to catch the Snitch and end the game. He ducked away from the congratulations of his team mates when he landed and headed for the showers. Somehow just chatting to people, just being with people, was becoming impossible.

"Well done, that should have been the result last year," the Hufflepuff seeker, Cedric Diggory, told Harry as he walked back to the castle. Harry managed awkwardly to thank him but didn't feel any happier for it. He knew that he had played abominably and that only dumb luck had given them the victory. He had been very aware of Hecate sitting in the stands, though he had tried not to look at her. What an idiot he had been. He was still waking up in the middle of the night and groaning into his pillow as he remembered how he had stood there, dumbly, as she realised not only that Fred and George had been using her to play their stupid tricks on Filch but that he, Harry, had known all along. She would have been the ideal person to ask about his missing Dumbledore and all his other worries, he was sure. But just then he was dreading seeing her in the next Defense class, let alone talking to her.

As he dried off after his shower he could hear Ron shouting happily over the water, "Yes, I have been training over the holidays, glad it showed. Weighted gloves, you know. You put them on and swing your arms around. But you have to be careful, they can give someone a nasty knock."

Next to him, Fred scowled and fingered his jaw as if it hurt. Whatever the story is, thought Harry, I don't want to hear it. I just want to sleep.

He was just putting his shoes under the bed when Ron bounced triumphantly into the dormitory to grab a sweater and pocket money. "We're going into Hogsmeade to celebrate – come on!" he called.

Harry waved him away. Even that took an effort. "Thanks, you go on without me this time. I think I need a nap instead."

Ron bent over him. "Are you all right? You're not looking very well."

"Just tired." He could see that Ron did not believe the excuse and resented the concern in his voice. Why couldn't people leave him alone?

"Harry, your game was really off today. It wasn't like you. Didn't you hear Alicia yelling at you?"

"Well, it was me, all right? And no, I didn't hear her," said Harry irritably. I was even worse than I thought, he told himself. I wasn't watching, I wasn't listening...

"Were you in a trance or something? You were spacing out so much, she was about to put Neville in."

Harry glared at him. "Would you mind criticizing me some other time?" he snapped. "I said I was tired. And everyone's probably waiting for you downstairs." He flopped back on his bed and let the curtains drop. Ron jerked them aside and stood over him.

"What's got into you?" demanded Ron. "This isn't like you either!"

"Leave me alone!" Harry flung himself onto his belly, away from his friend.

The curtains dropped. "Have it your own way, then." Harry heard Ron's angry footsteps going out of the room and down the stairs. In the empty silence he began quietly to cry.

The next morning at breakfast Cho sped over to his table. "Goodness, what a long face today!" Harry nodded. He didn't feel like replying. Ron was sitting a few places away from him, pointedly discussing Quidditch with Hermione. Cho peered at him. "I looked for you at dinner last night, but you weren't there. You really are upset, aren't you?" Miserable, thought Harry. Nothing's going right for me.

Cho was saying something again. "It's sunny for a change. Let's go for a walk around the castle and just talk." Harry pushed away from his half-eaten breakfast and nodded. Surely Cho would understand, and if not, they would work it out together.

"Great. I wasn't hungry anyway," he said. As he got up to go, Hermione rose too and came up to him." Are you all right, Harry? Ron was saying last night, I mean, if you could just wait until I take a book over to Vince, we could talk..." But Harry found himself pushing past her without a word and following Cho out of the Great Hall. They ambled out the main door and set out over the packed snow of the lawn, threading between the statues. Harry reached over and took her hand shyly. It was warm and soft. She squeezed his hand and leaned slightly into his shoulder. At last he felt the sadness beginning to lift. Now, how to begin? He took a deep breath.

"What I was hoping," began Cho eagerly, "was that you could tell me what kind of strategies Hufflepuff and Slytherin have been using this season. I've watched them from the ground, but it's different from the air. You've played against them both, what do you think?"

Harry's heart sank. "I really don't want to talk about it," he said lamely. "Somehow Quidditch doesn't seem to matter. Nothing does. Look, Cho – "

"I know," she reassured him. "It's the end of the season for Gryffindor, and you've won all your games. But we have the last two matches, and they're key for Ravenclaw to get into second place. Come on, Harry, what can you tell me?"

He pulled himself together. "I'd tell you if I could, but I couldn't really concentrate out there yesterday. For me everything was as foggy as when we played your team. You could ask Lee Jordan, I guess. And Slytherin's a completely different team with Zabini as Seeker."

"Are you still upset about the Hufflepuff game? I could see it wasn't going well for you."

"No, that's not really it," replied Harry. He drew a deep breath. "I've been feeling awful lately, and nothing seems to help. I let Dumbledore down last Autumn, and now I'm no use to the Quidditch team either. It was just dumb luck that I caught the Snitch."

Cho squeezed his hand again. "Everyone has a bad day now and then, even the great players. I bet this is the first time your game's ever been in a slump. You just have to play through it until it's over. If you let it grind you down, it will – so just don't let it. The more you fly, the faster it'll pass." They walked on in silence for a few minutes. "It doesn't have to be Quidditch drills either. You need to forget your troubles and do some flying for fun. Come on, let's go up and look for the pig on the new bit of parapet."

"Flying hasn't helped so far," Harry protested. "The problem isn't Quidditch, it's Dumbledore."

"I know you miss him," insisted Cho, "but you can't just sink into a funk over it. McGonagall misses him too. You can tell by the way she brings up his name in Transfiguration. Does she do that in your lessons too?" Harry nodded, remembering how comforting it had been to hear someone else say the name. "Well, she doesn't let it get her down – she doesn't even let Snape get to her. She stays busy, and that's what you need to do too."

Harry nodded again to let her know he was listening. He could not agree. I don't want to get over it, he thought, I want to do something about it, but there's nothing I can do. I couldn't help him then, I can't now… I'm no good to anyone. Oh, what's the point?

Cho was still talking. "It works, really, Harry, it's what everyone in my family always does with problems. You throw yourself into your work, or your sport, with all your heart. I know Dumbledore was really special to you. My dad would say he was your sensei. You want to honor him, don't you? Does it honor him to just sit around moping? You have to train harder in his memory and carry forward his art. That's how you prove yourself worthy of his teaching."

Another wave of hopelessness swept over Harry. He kept plodding, trying not to let her see his despair. I do desperately want to honor Dumbledore, he thought, but how can I do what she says when it's taking everything I've got just to hang on? "Can we talk about something else?" he asked finally.

Cho grimaced. "OK. I understand, really. I won't ask you again." They walked on, eventually coming around the corner of a greenhouse onto a paved area behind it. Harry had taken several steps onto it before he realized it had been cleared of snow. A jolt of alarm shot through him. Voldemort! he thought, then wearily, get a grip on yourself, why would Voldemort want to shovel snow? Cho looked at him strangely. "What happened? You look like something just bit you." She slipped a tape player out of her shoulder bag and set it up on one of the snow piles. Dance music began to play. "Never mind flying," she said, slipping her hand into his. "Let's try a little dancing instead."

Obediently Harry put his arms around her and started to follow her steps. You've been longing to do this, he told himself, now enjoy it. Throw yourself into it with all your heart. She's trying to cheer you up. The least you can do is go along with it. He smiled at her, feeling empty, and hugged her close, feeling alone, as if he were falling away from everything that had ever been dear to him. On and on the tape played. When it finally clicked to a stop Cho gave him her most winning smile. "Oh, Harry," she murmured, then rose on tiptoe and kissed him full on the lips.

Harry froze. His head felt full of fog. He could hardly believe what was happening and he had no idea what to do. Suddenly Cho broke off the kiss and stepped back.

"What's the matter with you anyway?" she demanded, a sob catching her voice. She jammed the tape player angrily into her bag. "Nothing seems to get through to you. If you want to sit around feeling sorry for yourself then go ahead – I'm going flying!" She took off toward the castle at a run.

Now I've done it, thought Harry, watching her go. He knew he had upset her and at the same time, that there was nothing else he could have done. Why couldn't you just be there for me? he asked silently. Without trying to distract me, or talk me out of my feelings? She was still visible, a dark point on the white hill, trudging upward with her head bowed. He started running after her and caught up just as they reached the rose garden.

"Cho, wait, please," he called. "Don't be mad at me. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I still like you but..." She looked back at him, angry and tearful, waiting. "What I mean to say, is that I just need to be alone for a while." An idea came to him, bringing a trickle of relief. "Look, you know how badly I played yesterday. The only reason Alicia kept me in was the Firebolt; Neville's never flown it. I want you to take it – our matches are over and it'll give you a speed advantage in yours."

"Oh, Harry – I couldn't do that. Neville should be using it."

Harry shrugged. "Then take turns with him. There's no reason you can't both use it."

"Really?" she breathed. "You'd lend me the Firebolt?"

Harry nodded. "Sure. I'll bring it over at dinner and you two can figure it out." It really didn't matter anyway, he thought. "I just don't feel like flying any more."