Snow made Hogwarts playful.
By the first week of December, every inch of the grounds was wrapped in white, and the castle had decided to stop pretending it was serious about classes.
The courtyard rang with laughter; icicles hung like fangs from the battlements; and Peeves had discovered that enchanted snowballs could pass straight through solid walls — and people.
Harry woke to Ron yelling, "Get your boots on! Fred and George are building fortifications!"
Hermione, from her bed in the girls' dormitory across the tower, was blissfully unaware that within minutes, a war would begin.
⸻
The courtyard was chaos.
Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs had teamed up against the Slytherin–Ravenclaw alliance, and snow flew through the air like artillery.
Fred and George, from the top of their "stronghold," barked orders with mock military precision.
Harry crouched behind a snowbank with Ron and Neville.
"All right," Ron said, squinting like a tactician, "we charge from the right when Fred gives the signal."
Neville looked terrified. "What's the signal?"
Ron grinned. "When George stops laughing."
Harry rolled his eyes, scooped up a handful of snow — and felt it compress perfectly between his fingers. His magic responded before he consciously called it, shaping the snow into a smooth, dense sphere.
He threw. It sliced through the air with unerring accuracy and smacked Draco Malfoy right in the shoulder.
Draco's outraged cry echoed across the courtyard. "You cheated!"
Harry grinned. "Call it good aim."
Fred whooped from the wall. "Potter for Chaser! Someone get this lad a broom!"
By the end of the hour, everyone was soaked, freezing, and glowing with laughter. Even Hermione, dragged reluctantly into the fray after breakfast, ended up shrieking when a perfectly aimed snowball from Ron caught her in the back of the head.
"You are all insufferable!" she yelled — but she was smiling as she said it.
⸻
That night, the common room was a warm refuge.
The fire roared, the air smelled of cocoa, and enchanted holly twinkled faintly in the rafters.
Harry sat with Ron by the hearth, boots steaming gently, while Hermione hunched over her homework at the far table — quill scratching furiously.
"Can't believe Snape gave us essays this close to Christmas," Ron muttered.
Hermione didn't look up. "He's teaching discipline."
Harry smirked. "He's teaching suffering."
Hermione sniffed. "Same thing."
The warmth of the moment settled around him. For a few hours, he let the peace of being young again — of friendship without fear — sink in. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed the quiet of normalcy.
⸻
The next afternoon, the portrait hole swung open and Hagrid's booming voice filled the common room.
"'Arry! Ron! Come on, yeh two — help me carry some Christmas trees up fer the Great Hall!"
They followed him eagerly through the snowy courtyard, boots crunching on ice.
The trees were enormous, branches dusted with frost, the smell of pine thick in the air.
"Beautiful, aren't they?" Hagrid said, his beard full of snowflakes. "Though I'll admit, hard work gettin' 'em past Fluffy this year—"
Harry froze mid-step. "Fluffy?"
Hagrid blinked, clearly realizing his mistake. "Er — never you mind that. Forget I said it."
Ron frowned. "Who's Fluffy?"
"Just—er—just me dog," Hagrid said far too quickly. "Big 'un. Don't you worry yerselves."
Harry forced a small laugh. "Wouldn't dream of it, Hagrid."
But inside, his mind was racing.
So the protections had already been set — and Hagrid was still the keeper of at least one secret.
Only this time, Hermione hadn't heard a word.
⸻
That night, when the castle slept, Harry crept down from his dormitory.
The fire was low, a dull amber glow against the stone. Shadows moved gently across the walls like sighs.
He sat in one of the big armchairs, notebook balanced on his knee, and wrote quietly:
"Third-floor corridor: wards active.
Hagrid mentioned 'Fluffy' — prematurely.
Snape warning Quirrell.
Timeline continues to accelerate."
He paused, tapping his quill. Then added:
"Don't tell Ron and Hermione yet.
They deserve peace while it lasts."
He set the quill aside and stared into the embers. The flames pulsed like molten gold — an alchemist's heart, steady and alive.
For a fleeting moment, something stirred in the reflection.
A whisper.
Low, slow, curling through the air like smoke.
"Haaaarry…"
He turned sharply. No one was there.
Only the fire crackled, and the shadows leaned closer.
He exhaled slowly. The whisper was gone — but it left a strange echo in his bones, a memory of something ancient shifting beneath the castle.
When he finally went back to bed, the snow outside had thickened, muffling the world into a peaceful hush.
But as he drifted toward sleep, he thought he heard the whisper again — not in the air this time, but deep in the stone.
⸻
End of Chapter 23 – "Fire, Snow, and Secrets."