X. Snow

Even though Platform Nine and Three Quarters was just as noisy, just as packed with people and just as hard to see across as it always was, there was still a sort of quiet in the air. The opaque, lifeless sky gave off an even light, almost oppressive in its uniformity, and she wondered if it might snow.

"Come on," said Marlene, impatient already, poking Lily in the arm.

Lily jumped down, and then turned around to take her heavy trunk from Mary, who had followed them. Julie hadn't reappeared, and Lily didn't think she would seek them out.

Marlene spotted her family right away. Just one of her brothers had come (Oscar, the youngest of three) together with her parents.

"Love you, write me," she said, throwing her arms around Lily and then Mary (who jumped) in quick succession, and then she dashed off—as fast as one can dash, pulling a trunk behind them.

Mary had spotted her mother, a small, round woman with wildly curly hair, and made a small, unintentional movement, as if she could duck behind Lily.

Lily smiled ruefully. "You aren't really looking forward to the holidays, are you?"

"It's going to be brutal," said Mary, only half joking, maybe only a quarter.

"We, who are about to die, salute you," said Lily, thinking of Petunia, speaking to the room at large. "Hey, can I write you?"

"Of course."

"Oh wait. Never mind, I'll just call you on the telephone, like a normal person."

Mary gave her a tiny smile. "That would be nice."

Lily was standing on her tiptoes, looking over the crowd—or trying to, although she wasn't tall enough to see much.

She could see Amy Fraser—or was it Amy King? Honestly, she wasn't sure how the last names in that family worked—standing by the wall, with an anxious expression on her face.

And there was Sirius Black, hands in the pockets of his Muggle jeans, letting a tall, glamorous woman in a blue salwar kameez kiss his cheek. That's Mrs. Potter, Lily realized, and she had to force herself not to stare.

She was pretty sure that she was getting less uncomfortable around James, and she was very pleased with herself. A few days ago, they had been partnered in Herbology, and they had had an ordinary conversation about Quidditch. She could easily imagine that fifth year hadn't even happened.

Nigel had promised to write.

"Isn't that your dad?" said Mary, and Lily snapped out of her reverie.


The Hogwarts Express only has two stops: Hogsmeade and King's Cross. As the crow flies, the distance from the school to the Frasers' little stone house is only about fifty kilometres. As Julie travels, she must take two additional trains just to get back to where she started.

She and Amy had a half-hour wait in the Aberdeen train station, enough time to sit and eat a sandwich. It was growing late, and there weren't too many people around to stare at the two girls with two owls, yawning into their corned beef. On the train to Inverness, Amy fell asleep, face flattened against the window, drooling on the glass, while Julie watched her with a detached sort of interest and the old lady next to her frowned.

It was pitch black when they got off the Inverness-Beauly bus, midway along its route, pulling their heavy trunks behind them (December, this far north, the sun set in the afternoon). Margaret was waiting to walk them home.

They didn't talk much; just brushed their teeth and crawled into their beds. It had been a long day; but Julie was home now, and she couldn't remember everything she wanted to say to her mother, but she surely had time.


The next morning Julie woke up late, with the smell of something sweet in the air. Someone was baking.

She lay in bed for a long time, curled around her pillow, awake but unwilling to move. Her room was right behind the kitchen, and she could hear Amy babbling away, telling a long story about her Herbology project.

When she heard the scraping sound of something being taken out of the oven, she got up and dressed.

Margaret was leaning against the counter, drinking orange juice out of a wine glass. Amy was poking at a pan of bread. The air was warm and heavy and yeasty, and it was the best possible way to start a morning.

After breakfast, Julie got out her History of Magic notes, and Amy went upstairs, where she was frantically knitting Christmas gifts.

The sky was soft and steely both at once. When she went outside, Julie could taste snow in the air, like a promise. And there was a smell—pine needles, smoke and something she could not define: cold. It was her favorite time of year.

Children have a tendency to not notice things about their parents. It's funny, the way you can perfectly memorize someone, her beating heart and warm hands, and then you think you never need to see her again. And then one day your mother is old, and you don't know her or maybe you never did.

If Amy saw Margaret's wrist bones, pronounced in a way they had never been before, or if she watched the way her mother started at loud noises, it was only out of the corner of her eye. Julie didn't see anything at all.


When Amy was little she used to wake up at six in the morning on Christmas and run through the house, getting everyone else out of bed. But she wasn't little anymore, so she sat in her room at six in the morning and ran her hands anxiously over the two soft wool pullovers she had made. She had been knitting since October. One was blue, for Julie, and one was gray, for Margaret—soft ocean and sky colors.

There was not a single hole, not one dropped or twisted stitch, and Amy sat on her bed with thrills running up and down her spine. She loved Christmas.

Julie was already awake; as usual, she woke up not long after five—long before sunrise, and she lay in the dark for a long time. Then she wondered if anyone would notice if she smoked a cigarette, and she lay thinking about that for a long time, and then it was properly morning and she got up.

Margaret was awake early as well, reading the same poem over and over. The floorboards creaked softly, even when the people inside were still, thinking they had to be quiet, not knowing they were all awake: it was an old house.

The strange intermediate phase of early morning ended, and they had bacon and herring and eggs and porridge for breakfast. Julie had found a book for her mother—by "found" she definitely did not mean "stolen from the Hogwarts library," because she had Charmed away the call number—and for Amy, a gold necklace that she had gotten from Aunt Brigid when she turned seven.

Margaret gave both her children books: Emily Dickinson for the younger, T. S. Eliot for the older—which was a bit strange, because Julie was almost certain that she already had a copy of The Wasteland, and besides, Margaret always gave them books. Getting something for Christmas that you've gotten every other day of the year isn't exactly exciting.

All in all, Amy was the only member of the family who made any sort of effort, but she didn't resent it. She was one of those rare creatures who genuinely enjoys knitting, and since she already owned an absurd number of sweaters, she had to give them away.

They didn't go to church—Julie dimly remembered going one Christmas, when she was very young, but they had never gone since. They just read their books, and then they had Christmas dinner, mostly cooked by Amy.

The days were so short, and it was dark again. They had a cup of tea, sitting around the small formica table, and then Amy went to bed.

Julie and Margaret sat in silence for a long while, the daughter leaning back on her chair legs, the mother staring at her own hands.

The front legs of the chair came down with a thump, and Julie said, "I'm going to bed."

They both stood; the mother went over to the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of wine, the daughter went to the doorway.

"Wait—Julie."

She turned, looked at her mother.

"Have a drink."

Julie stared. "You're offering me a drink? An actual alcoholic drink?"

Margaret shrugged, and the bottle in her hand moved through the air, yellow electric light catching the ruby glint of the wine in a seductive way. "You already smoke like a demon, clearly I've already gone wrong...you thought I wouldn't find out? Please. Have a drink."

Julie pulled out a chair and sat down, and her mother poured her a glass.

And then she took a sip. She hadn't drunk any alcohol since the firewhiskey she had split with James and Will Preston, after they lost their first Quidditch game. Now that she thought about it, the semester had been sort of uneventful.

Margaret was watching her, dreamily, and Julie couldn't tell if her mother was focusing intently on her face or not paying any attention at all.

"How's school?"

"Er, it's fine," said Julie, awkwardly gulping her wine.

Now Margaret was definitely focused on her. "No, really—how's school?"

Julie set down her glass. "Really, Mum, it's fine. I'm fine."

"No one's caused you any trouble?"

"Pfft. No."

"No one's said anything to you—talked about—not being a pureblood?"

"No..."

Margaret raised her eyebrows.

"Well, not to me," said Julie flatly. "People talk about it all the time, but not to me."

"Why's that?" asked Margaret, although she could guess.

The daughter shrugged. "I guess...I guess because I used a Trip Jinx on Nathaniel Avery in fourth year. And he fell down the stairs."

The mother bit her lip, feeling it would be inappropriate to smile. And she took a gulp of wine.

"Have a boyfriend?"

"No," said Julie honestly, although she did have plans.

"Good," said Margaret, refilling both of their glasses. "Boys are a distraction."

Julie didn't disagree.

They were both silent as Margaret went through her second glass. Julie, more wary, took small, shallow sips. She was pretty confident in her ability to hold her liquor, but the thought of getting at all tipsy in front of her mother was embarrassing enough to restrain her.

"Are you in love?"

Julie choked on her own spit. "God, no."

"Good."

Even to Julie, this seemed unusually cynical, and she raised an eyebrow. Margaret poured another glass and frowned at the bottle, as if it wasn't holding up the way she'd hoped.

"If you love someone once," Margaret said quietly, "you're always soft for them. Just a little bit. You can never be as strong as you used to be. Or else—you start to hate them."

She had bright, dark blue eyes. Julie's eyes were pale gray, like her father's.

"You have to be strong, Julia. Promise me."

"Mum," said Julie, "you're drunk."

Margaret rolled her eyes. "No, just sentimental," she said, standing up suddenly, "—probably time for bed."

Julie smiled with one half of her mouth, and Margaret gave her shoulder a little push with the tips of three fingers. Then she went upstairs, and Julie sat at the table for a long time. It was too dark to look out the window, and she looked into it instead, watching her reflection, the light bulb, the half-empty bottle and the telephone.

Somehow the house seemed so small, and flat. Maybe it had been that way in the summer, too; now she couldn't remember. When she was very young, she had thought that it looked like a witch's cottage: gray stone walls, wood floors, brick chimney. Then she realized that she actually was a witch, and suddenly all she could see was the ordinariness, the Muggle furniture, the linoleum in the tiny kitchen and the ugly, roll-down window shades in the bedrooms.

But now it looked unreal. It looked like the set for a play, the stage where she had acted out the last sixteen and a half years; nothing more.


The Potters always had the same thing for Christmas dinner: roast turkey, roast potatoes, mince pies and plum pudding. On Boxing Day, they had Indian food.

James' mother didn't cook it herself—in fact, James was pretty sure that Avanti Potter had never cooked a day in her life—but a house-elf had come along with her from Punjab. It wasn't even particularly fancy food: chicken tikka, naan or roti, and his favorite, semolina halva with pale green pistachios stuck all through it. It wasn't any kind of a holiday, or celebration. It was just a quiet way for Mrs. Potter to point out how much she hated Christmas.

Every Boxing Day Mr. Potter would point out that perhaps they ought to give the house-elves a day off, and Mrs. Potter would suggest that they take the day off after they cook her damn dinner, and then Mr. Potter would say that she sounded more English than he did, and then she would roll her eyes, and he would kiss her, and James, if he hadn't already, would promptly leave the room.

That year, Sirius was there. He had come in the summer—not even late in the summer—the second week of June, with his school trunk half-filled with a mess of robes and blue jeans and a black eye that he wouldn't explain until he was alone with James, after midnight. The next morning, while Sirius was sleeping—or, more accurately, passed out—James tried to tell just enough of the story to his parents to gain their sympathy, but it turned out he didn't need to; they were already sympathetic.

That year, the phone rang while they were eating.

For a minute, nobody actually recognized the sound. James actually couldn't remember hearing it ring ever before, and he wasn't entirely sure what it was. Sirius was scraping out the bottom of the rice bowl, and Mr. Potter had just stuffed a particularly large piece of chicken in his mouth, which he was chewing awkwardly but with great enthusiasm.

Mrs. Potter put her fork and knife down with a clang.

"Alexander."

"Mmf—what?"

She jerked her head toward the study door, and everyone went quiet. Then it was clear: the harsh, ugly sound of the perfectly ordinary telephone, muffled by the papers that had covered it for months.

Mr. Potter stood up, and his pale face had gone paler. Mrs. Potter was looking him steadily in the eyes in a way that could be intimidating or encouraging. James and Sirius were looking from one to the other, the latter with curiosity, the former with concern.

"Right," said Mr. Potter, and he walked into the study.

He closed the door behind him, but it didn't make a difference. They could hear him if they tried, and they were all trying.

"Hello? Clarisse, hi. No, don't worry about it...Oh. I see."

There was a very long pause. Avanti put her hand to her mouth and twisted it, as if she were trying to keep herself from speaking.

"Thank you for letting me know...Clarisse, it's fine, I asked you to call...in the event of...really. Thank you. Yes, as we discussed—especially Miss Skeeter, try to keep her off this...Thank you. Happy New Year."

The phone clicked on to the hook, and then there was a silence, heavy and slow.

The study door opened, and Mr. Potter met his wife's eyes.

"Her...?" she asked.

He sounded as if his throat were dry. "Ava."

She stood up. "Boys, why don't you go upstairs?"

Sirius obediently got up, willing to tear himself away from the food for the sake of avoiding another family's drama, but James needed a hard glare from his mother to make him go.

The doors must have been too thin in the Potters' house, because when James paused on the stairwell outside, he could plainly hear what his father said, and the words he said and the voice he spoke in sent a shiver through the boy's stomach.


December 26th dawned bright and cloudy, and Margaret decided to clean the attic. The house was only two stories high; she and Amy each had a bedroom on the second floor, and the rest was a big, unfinished room that had probably been a mess a hundred years ago. Margaret had decided to clean it months ago, but trying to sort the musty old books and records, get rid of the moth-eaten clothes and carry out the few broken-legged chairs was tedious, tedious work; neither of her daughters could summon any energy for it at all.

They had ham sandwiches and milk for lunch, and Amy put on a Carpenters record, putting Julie in an even worse mood.

Margaret, on the other hand, seemed cheerful—as cheerful as she had been the entire holiday. She was humming along to "Close to You," a gross betrayal of artistic taste in Julie's opinion, and didn't really mind the girls acting silly instead of paying attention to their work.

The record ended, and then Julie suggested Patti Smith, and Amy protested, so they had silence. So when the knock on the door came, around three, they could hear it easily.

Two knocks, a pause, two knocks.

Amy was standing on a stepstool in front of a bookshelf and she slipped, old, red-leather-bound books tumbling down around her. Julie went to help her up, both of them laughing. And then they heard the door opening, even though it should have been locked, and the smiles slid off their faces.

There was an indistinct jumble of voices, at least four people, at least one woman.

"Now," Margaret whispered, "why now, damn you!"

The woman laughed in response to one of her companions, and then one of the men called out, "Meggie!"

Margaret rolled her head forward, like an athlete preparing to re-enter the field, and then she said, in a calm, low voice: "Whatever you do, do not leave this room."

"Why?" asked Julie quickly, gripping the book in her hands until her fingers hurt.

"Just be quiet," the mother hissed, "and stay here!"

She turned and went out into the hallway. Without hesitation Julie thrust the book at Amy, who took it with a frightened whimper, and ran after her. At the top of the stairs Margaret turned and saw her.

"Julia! Do as I say!"

And she was gone. Julie lunged for the stairs, but Amy was behind her and grabbed at her sweater. They wrestled silently for a moment., but then the voices began again and they were still, listening as hard as they could.

"Meg. You don't look a day older." This was a woman, velvet-voiced and malicious.

"Dear Bella. I wish I could say the same for you." Margaret spoke as lightly as if she were at a garden party.

The woman, Bella, laughed, and the hairs on the back of Julia's neck stood up.

"Touching as this reunion is..." said one of the men, and there was a creak of floorboards, as if more than one person were shifting their weight.

"I'm sure you have questions for me," said Margaret. "Perhaps we could move this conversation outside?"

One of the men was murmuring something, and Julie was trying to convince Amy to let her go down the stairs while Amy tried to make her stay. After a bit more rolling on the ground and hair pulling, they heard the door open and slam closed. Julie sprang up and ran into Margaret's bedroom to look out the window.

There were four of them, wearing black cloaks and masks—definitely wizards. Margaret had no coat; she was only wearing blue jeans and her gray pullover that Amy had given her the day before. Julie thought she saw her mother glance up at the window before she led the four strangers around to the back of the house.

She tore across the hallway, dashing into her own bedroom to look out the back window. Amy was sitting on the top of the staircase, her face worried, eyes already wet—but Julie had no time for her.

The five people outside were talking—she could make out no words, but they were upset. One of them was pointing and gesturing at Margaret, and the other three were surrounding her, talking all at once.

Julie put her hands against the freezing window glass. Twilight was already settling in, and the light gray sky was turning a sweet dusky blue.

Margaret had her arms crossed and she was shaking her head. Soft, smothering silence covered the attic Julie was standing in, covered the field she was watching over, sank down and filled in every crevice of every dead and living thing. The air was like cotton wool and the minutes stretched and stretched like elastic as Julie watched one of the dark figures raise a wand.

Point.

Pale, poisonous green light. Like the light in a hospital at night, like the light in a morgue.

Gray sky and green light. Margaret Fraser fell up and arched back, and held, lifted in the air and curved so gracefully, and then gently she sank to the earth.

And the elastic minutes snapped back, the clocks began to tick again twice as fast and Julia turned and ran, fast like a startled rabbit or a deer, except she wasn't running away—she was running towards—

Amy was sitting on the stairs afraid but she had no time she had no time so she pushed past her and clattered down the steps, there were fourteen steps—

And she pulled the door open like she could pull it off its hinges and she was around the house and they were gone.

The wizards in black were gone, but here was her mother in her gray pullover still.

She was still.

And as Julie sank to her knees, as she stumbled to the ground and put one hand to the fine gray wool and one to the smooth, cooling cheek, the sky finally made up its mind, and the day, which was already almost over, chose what sort of day to be. It started to snow.

First very light, sparse, dry snowflakes, and then heavier. Tiny, feathery crystals, that melted into drops of water on the daughter's shaking hands, crystals that collected, unthawed, on the mother's marble skin.

The earth turned paper white as the sky grew dark.