Chapter 52: After The Show Ends
Harry turned his head in a daze, wanting to chat with Ron about this shocking scene, but he only saw Ron gulping down the chicken leg in his mouth and quietly passing over a cup of fruit wine.
The fruity and wine aroma was sweet and silky.
Harry picked up the cup and quietly took a sip, but before he could savor it, he saw George and Fred pouring wine not far away.
Oh no! It’s something handled by the twins, can’t drink it!
But it really tastes pretty good… sour and sweet, with apple and blueberry aromas, wine scent without the wine taste, not spicy or astringent.
After careful observation, Harry confirmed that these fruit wines were fine, taken by the Weasley twins from the high table when the professors weren’t paying attention, not some prank props.
After finishing half a cup of fruit wine, Harry let down his guard against the twins and continued enjoying the Christmas banquet.
“Tasty?”
Harry turned his head and found Fred sitting beside him, cheerfully pouring himself another cup, looking considerate and reliable, very much like a friendly big brother; he felt he might have misunderstood the twins before:
“Tasty, it’s my first time drinking alcohol.”
“Too bad there’s only a chance to try it at the Christmas banquet; we originally planned to grab a bottle of whiskey or sherry, but those were placed in front of Professor McGonagall—if it were Headmaster Dumbledore, that would be great.”
“I prefer fruit wine.”
“If you like it, drink more; the banquet has not only tasty things but also fun ones—here, take this.”
“What…”
Harry dazedly followed Fred’s instructions, set down his cutlery, pinched a Christmas cracker with his left hand, pulled its fuse with his right, and with Fred’s help, tugged both ends.
“Boom!”
The cannonball’s explosive roar instantly made his head buzz,
A puff of blue smoke spread out enveloping him; the red firecracker in his hand turned into a blue navy hat, with several lively little white mice nesting inside the hat, squeaking as they scurried to the ground and fled in all directions, drawing Mrs. Norris in pursuit.
Believe them again and he’d be a troll’s head!
Harry’s head was buzzing, but fortunately the firecracker was just a toy; aside from being a bit dazed by the blast, he suffered no extra harm.
After recovering, Harry thought the firecracker was quite fun; he’d never had many toys growing up, let alone seen such a novel thing that could both explode and produce toys—how interesting.
He pulled open several more Christmas crackers in a row, soon having a pile of things in front of him: a bag of flashing balloons, a disgusting flesh lump, and a brand-new set of wizard chess.
All exploded out of the firecrackers.
“Fun, right?”
“Fun.”
“Want to pull more?”
“No more pulling; what are we doing this afternoon?”
“Snowball fight on the pitch this afternoon, tea party back home in the evening.”
“We can play chess in the evening.” Harry cradled his new toy and proactively challenged, confident in his brand-new wizard chess pieces. “You and Percy can watch, but don’t give dumb ideas; this morning I lost so badly because of you.”
“…”
The Weasley brothers fell silent one after another.
At the high table, Dumbledore took a sip of fruit wine, full of smiles.
This year’s Christmas banquet was livelier than in previous years; beside him, Minerva and Pomona were listening to Filius recount his youthful embarrassments, while Hagrid insisted on dragging Melvin for a drink—but not now, not in the Great Hall, but to the Hog’s Head Inn in Hogsmeade.
Melvin could only agree to talk about it later, which sounded like an excuse.
Caretaker Argus filleted the fried cod, feeding the fish meat to Mrs. Norris; man and cat discussed evening patrols, perhaps to catch holiday night-prowling students.
There would indeed be students night-prowling, but the caretaker probably wouldn’t catch them.
Dumbledore sipped fruit wine while scheming.
As the banquet neared its end, the Weasley children and Harry got up to leave, carrying a pile of toys from the firecrackers; several professors were still chatting, and Melvin suggested returning to his room to read—not Muggle books, but some wizard’s Grimm’s Fairy Tales.
《Fungus Story Collection》 actually has two versions; the one given to Melvin was the second edition, while the other version’s theme is to fill our little angels’ pure brains with healthy, happy thoughts, keeping their sweet sleep free from nightmare disturbances and protecting the flowers’ pristine purity.
In fact, the latter’s cloyingly sweet textual style is more nauseating.
Next year, find a chance to give away the other one.
Dumbledore drank a few more cups of fruit wine and walked back to his office, standing by the window for a while, gradually sobering from his tipsy state.
Doors and windows tightly shut, the fireplace burned with warm, vigorous flames; the cold north wind outside was blocked by the glass, the room warm inside and cold outside, moisture condensing on the glass into water droplets streaming down like wriggling insects.
Opening the window to look outside, the sky was still clear.
The students staying at school were having a snowball fight on the pitch; Harry, like the other children, ran about in the snow, having a great time until his clothes were soaked with snowmelt and sweat, a breeze making him shiver uncontrollably, only then slinking indoors dejectedly.
Elderly wizards don’t care for holidays, especially grand ones; the cold quiet after the bustle is hard to accept, and on the other hand, having experienced such holidays dozens or hundreds of times, every festival inevitably brings thoughts of the past—past matters, past people.
In southwest Britain stands High Cone Mountain; in its valley is a small village of a few hundred households, half wizards and half Muggles living together—it was once Godric Gryffindor’s birthplace and where Bowman Wright crafted the first Golden Snitch.
The village center has a small square with a monument in the middle; nearby on the street are a few shops, a post office, a bar, and a small church—after many years, he still remembered the crystalline glow from the church’s stained glass.
Behind the church is a graveyard for wizards settled there; occasionally wizards pay respects or ghosts pass by, hence the haunted rumors.
Muggles always go to church to pray but avoid it due to the graveyard’s ghost stories, though some bold village Muggle children like deliberately exploring the graveyard, encountering no ghosts but a frail girl.
Ariana rather liked playing with them.
Ariana didn’t like winter at first; that time winds and snow were fierce, and due to her health, Aberforth strictly required her to stay home—yet that winter she got frostbite on her ears, not severe, and she didn’t find it itchy or painful, but Aberforth felt deeply guilty.
The next winter was even harder; she couldn’t even take a short walk for fresh air, let alone go to church, until her Christmas holiday home when he cast warming and anti-freeze spells on her.
So that holiday she went to church every day, led by her village Muggle friends to skate on icy roads, shaking snow-laden tree branches while others stood under them, building snowmen and snowball fighting with friends daily—all things in the valley that winter felt fresh and joyful to her.
Because of this, after graduating from school he proposed taking her away from the valley; Ariana actually wasn’t too happy.
At that time he thought seeking the Deathly Hallows was for a greater ideal, to gain more powerful magic to heal his sister’s illness, so he repeatedly persuaded her at length; Ariana, to accommodate her brother, gradually agreed.
This was within his expectations; compared to valley friends, of course her brother was more important.
He remembered that Christmas holiday’s end, the day before returning to school—Ariana didn’t want to go out to play, and even when he took her out, deliberately standing under a snow-covered tree, she just held his hand, standing quietly beside him watching friends play.
He remembered the night of departure, Ariana fighting sleepiness to stay awake, pulling him to chat about all sorts of things: flames in the fireplace, morning snowflakes, rats hiding in woodpiles, and many Muggle friends and nearby Muggle residents, but he remembered none.
Only when speaking of Aberforth did she show some disdain—if not for Aberforth unable to learn anti-cold and anti-damp spells, Ariana wouldn’t have gotten frostbite and been confined indoors.
“…”
Dumbledore stood by the window, thinking of that snowy day the girl holding his hand with a bright smile, suddenly feeling some sadness.
He had long known what Ariana wanted: she liked playing in the snow, never hated Muggles… but he thought what his sister wanted wasn’t the best; what he wanted to give her was the right and proper thing.
Then he thought of another person.
That person he had personally imprisoned in Nurmengard; every Christmas he wrote letters, but he neither read nor replied.
Together they had killed Ariana.
