Chapter 52: After the Show
Harry turned, lost in thought, wanting to talk to Ron about the horrible scene, but only saw Ron swallowing a chicken leg and discreetly offering him a cup of fruit wine.
The fruity, wine-like aroma was sweet.
Harry took the cup and sipped silently. Before he could taste it carefully, he saw George and Fred serving wine not far away.
Oops! The twins made it, so I can't drink it!
But it was really delicious... bittersweet, with the fragrance of apple and cranberries, the aroma of wine but without alcohol taste, neither sharp nor astringent.
After observing closely, Harry confirmed that the fruit wine was fine. The Weasley twins had taken it from the high table seat when the professor wasn't paying attention. It wasn't a prank.
After drinking half a cup of fruit wine, Harry lowered his guard against the twins and continued enjoying the Christmas party.
"Is it good?"
Harry turned and saw Fred sitting next to him, pouring him another cup with a smile. He looked thoughtful and reliable, like a friend and elder brother. Harry wondered if he had misunderstood the twins before.
"It's good. This is my first time drinking."
"It's a pity we only had the chance to try it at the Christmas party. Actually, we planned to buy a bottle of whiskey or sherry, but it was placed in front of Professor McGonagall. It would have been better if it was in front of Headmaster Dumbledore."
"I prefer the fruit wine."
"If you like it, drink more. The party isn't just about drinking, it's about having fun too. Here, take this."
"What...?"
Harry followed Fred's instructions in a daze, putting down his utensils. In his left hand, he grabbed a colorful cracker, pulling the fuse with his right. With Fred's help, he pulled with both hands.
"BOOM!"
The roar of the exploding cracker made his head buzz instantly. A cloud of blue smoke spread, enveloping him. The red cracker in his hand turned into a navy-blue hat. Several lively white mice curled up inside the hat, squeaking and running to the ground, attracting Mrs. Norris to chase after them.
He thought they were troll heads again!
Harry's head was buzzing. Luckily, the crackers were only toys, and aside from being a little stunned by the explosion, he suffered no harm.
After recovering, Harry found the crackers quite fun. He had never had many toys as a child, much less something as fascinating as this—something that could explode and still be held as a toy.
He opened several crackers one after another, and soon a pile of objects lay before him: a bag of glitter balloons, a disgusting boil, and a brand-new Wizard's Chess set.
All from the crackers.
"Fun, isn't it?"
"Fun."
"Still opening them?"
"No, what are we doing this afternoon?"
"Snowball fight in the courtyard this afternoon and tea tonight."
"We can play chess tonight," offered Harry, lifting his new toys, confident in his brand-new Wizard's Chess pieces. "You and Percy can watch, but don't give me advice. You're the reason I lost so badly this morning."
"..."
The Weasley brothers fell silent.
Dumbledore, sitting at the high table, took a sip of fruit wine with a radiant smile.
The Christmas feast this year was livelier than in previous years. Minerva and Pomona listened to Filius recount embarrassing incidents from his youth. Hagrid insisted on taking Melvin for a drink—not here in the Great Hall, but at the Hog's Head Inn in Hogsmeade.
Melvin could only promise to talk about it later, which sounded like an excuse.
The caretaker Argus trimmed the spines from the fried cod and gave the meat to Mrs. Norris. The man and the cat talked about night patrols; maybe they could catch a student sneaking out to party during the holidays.
Yes, there were students sneaking out to party, but the caretaker would never catch them.
Dumbledore sipped his cider while planning.
The banquet came to an end, and the Weasley children and Harry left, carrying piles of cracker-made toys. Several professors continued chatting, and Melvin asked to return to his room to read—not a Muggle book, but some cult wizard fairy tale.
In fact, there were two versions of The Tales of the Poisonous Toadstool. The one he gave Melvin was the second edition. The theme of the other edition was to fill the innocent minds of our little angels with wholesome and happy thoughts, allowing them to sleep soundly without nightmares and protecting the purity of the flowers.
In truth, the syrupy style of that version was even more nauseating.
He would find a chance to gift the other copy next year.
Dumbledore drank a few more glasses of cider, returned to his office, and stood for a moment by the window, slowly sobering.
The doors and windows were tightly closed. A warm, roaring fire burned in the fireplace, and the cold north wind was blocked by the glass. The temperature inside was high, while the air outside was low. Moisture condensed on the glass, forming droplets sliding down like creeping insects.
Opening the window and looking out, the sky remained clear.
The remaining students were playing snowball fights in the courtyard, and Harry, like the other children, ran through the snow, having a great time—until his clothes were soaked with snow and sweat, and the breeze made him shiver with cold. Finally, he retreated indoors, dejected.
Older wizards don't enjoy holidays, especially the major ones. The stillness after the bustle is hard to bear. On the other hand, having lived through these holidays dozens, even hundreds of times, each one brings memories of the past, of past events and people.
In the southwest of England, there is a mountain called Godric's Hill. In the valley lies a small village, perhaps home to a few hundred households, with a mixed population of half wizards and half Muggles. Long ago it was the birthplace of Godric Gryffindor and the place where Bowman Wright forged his first Golden Snitch.
In the center of the village stands a small square with a monument. Along the streets are some shops, a post office, a pub, and a small church. Even after all these years, he still remembered the shining stained glass windows.
Behind the church stood a graveyard, where wizards who had settled there were buried. From time to time, wizards prayed there, or ghosts passed through, giving rise to rumors of hauntings.
The Muggles, who used to go to the church to pray, avoided the graveyard because of the rumors. However, some brave Muggle children from the village took the initiative to explore the cemetery. They found no ghosts or spirits, only a sick girl.
Ariana loved playing with them.
At first, Ariana disliked winter. During this period of heavy snow and wind, Aberforth insisted she stay home for health reasons. However, that winter, Ariana suffered frostbite on her ears. It wasn't serious, and she felt no itching or pain, but Aberforth felt deeply guilty.
The following winter was even more unbearable. She couldn't even take a walk for fresh air, much less go to church. That was until Aberforth returned home for the Christmas holidays and cast a spell to protect her from the cold.
So she went to church every day of that holiday, slid along icy paths with her Muggle friends from the village, shook branches quickly while others sheltered under the trees, and made snowmen and had snowball fights with her friends daily. Everything in the winter valley brought her freshness and joy.
That's why, when he proposed taking her away from the valley after graduation, Ariana wasn't exactly happy.
At that time, he believed his search for the Deathly Hallows had a greater purpose: to gain stronger magic to cure his sister's illness. With his persistent persuasion, Ariana, out of affection for her brother, gradually agreed.
It was what he expected; compared to her valley friends, of course her brother was more important.
He remembered that year, after the Christmas holidays, the day before returning to school, Ariana refused to go out and play. Even when he pulled her out and deliberately stood under a snow-laden tree, she simply held his hand and stayed silently, watching her friends play.
He remembered the night he left. Ariana, fighting off sleepiness, refused to rest. She kept him company, chatting about everything: the fireplace flames, the morning snow, the mice hidden in the woodpile, and many of her Muggle friends and nearby Muggle residents—but none she remembered by name.
Only when Aberforth was mentioned did she show some resentment. If Aberforth hadn't learned the spells to shield against cold and damp, Ariana wouldn't have frozen and wouldn't have been confined to the house.
"..."
Dumbledore stood by the window, thinking of the girl who once held his hand with a radiant smile on a snowy day, and suddenly felt a little sad.
He had long known what Ariana truly wanted. She loved playing in the snow and had never hated Muggles... But he thought what his sister wanted wasn't the best, and what he wanted to give her was fair and proper.
Then he thought of someone else.
That person was imprisoned in Nurmengard by his own hand. She wrote to him every Christmas, but he never read or replied.
Together, they had killed Ariana.