The Winter Glass

Part IV: Point Me North

Chapter Ten: The Coldest Road

Harry took a final look through each room in the weak, early morning light that filtered through a thick layer of clouds. Everything had been sold except for those few items that filled the sturdy pack that waited by the door. The only trace that remained of the former occupants was the wintering rose that had claimed the balcony in warmer times.

"Come, Pip." He motioned and a black dog, tall enough so that its head bumped his hand when it stood, heaved itself up from the floor and sniffed suspiciously at Harry's heavy boots while Harry fastened the ties of his fur-lined coat and shouldered his pack. "Outside." The aging dog led the way.

Ron and Hermione met them on the outskirts of town.

"We can't let you go alone, mate." Ron's face was pale and there were dark circles under his eyes.

Hermione nodded, shaking the snow from her hair. "We're going with you."

Harry made a sound of disapproval. "With me. You'll freeze before noon." He shook his head in exasperation and seized a handful of the thin material that was Ron's cloak, holding it up for all to see and then dropping it again.

"No," said Hermione, "we won't. We'll keep moving." She pulled her own wrap tighter against the bitter wind.

The three stood facing each other, their eyes flashing and their jaws set.

"Your parents," Harry said at last, his voice the only sound in the empty street. "Your parents won't let you come, and if you don't tell them, they'll think you're dead too."

"What's one more?" Ron challenged him, his voice rising. "They already think Ginny's gone." He buried his chin in his muffler and Harry barely heard the next words. "You're the only one who thinks she might still be--"

"I know she's alive." Harry turned and continued down the road that led away from town, Ron and Hermione following behind by stepping into the depressions his thick-soled boots left in the snow. "But I have to hurry if I'm to catch her."

Just past the hollow where they had so recently shouted and run and built towering snowmen, where the world had ended for several children taken by a cold hand, a veil of snowflakes hung in the air.

"What--what is this?" Hermione backed away. "The snowflakes...they're not falling."

Pip whined and pressed close to Harry.

"I don't know," Harry said. He stretched out a curious hand, careful to reach between the suspended ice crystals. "It doesn't hurt or anything." He moved forward and the snowflakes moved aside to accommodate him.

"Ow!" Ron clapped his hands over his nose. "It's solid. Why can't I get through? Why Harry and not me?"

"It is solid. For us, that is." Hermione tapped a finger against the invisible barrier in wonderment. Pip mirrored her movements, scratching against the veil with a paw.

"Maybe...maybe it's for the best." Harry looked northward, where the sled tracks had led. "Maybe I'm supposed to go alone.

"No! You can't believe that!" Tears welled up in Hermione's eyes. Her cheeks were flushed with cold and indignation.

Ron added, "I don't, myself. It's not right, and it's not fair."

"Things are never fair," Harry lashed out at them, walking back until he had one foot past the point where the suspended snow became clear air. "Nothing is fair. My parents are dead. My family is gone. I have nothing left."

"Except us." Ron held his head high.

Harry blinked once, as if he came out of a trance, and the taut lines in his jaw relaxed. Hermione threw an arm around Harry's neck and the other around Ron's shoulders, drawing them into a tight triangle.

"Wait for me. I'll come back," Harry whispered, a secret between them.

He looked back only once--Ron had Hermione's hand and Pip's collar--and then the snow began to swirl again; he saw them no more.

* * *

Harry walked through a world of white. The only sound was the grinding of his boots sinking into the snow with every step. Nothing but an icy plain in every direction--no tracks, no scar in the snow where a sled had passed. This wasn't right--he wanted to walk north, and around the mountains, where... Harry brushed the snow from his eyelashes with a mitten-covered hand. There had to be something, somewhere, and it had to be soon.

He saw it, finally, when the fur that lined his hood had frozen into stiff points. A gnarled stick poked up through the snow's crust. Harry placed a hand on the exposed fencepost.

"Which way?" he forced out through chattering teeth. "Where is north?"

To his left, a post shuddered, and the snow around it fell away just enough so that the next top was visible, then the next, and the next. Harry turned his face into the wind and began walking. It was as good a direction as any.

Harry followed the line into the night, his head down for warmth and so that he could see the fenceposts against the snow. Each time he believed that he had come to the end, one more stick waited a step or two further along. His concentration was so complete that he didn't see the wagon until he was nearly upon it. It was more shadow than substance. Only up close did an eerie glow from within illuminate the gaudy red and purple paint that decorated the exterior.

The wagon would not move--the yoke lay abandoned and a broken wheel left it canted to one side. Snow had been piled behind in an attempt to block the wind and cold; this was clearly not a recent stop. A narrow set of steps led to a door at the rear.

Harry's knock was answered by a wild-haired man wielding a long, curved knife. A dark eye fixed on Harry, while the man's other one, pale and blue, rolled of its own accord. After a tense breath when neither moved, the wild man lowered his weapon. He looked to the left and right. "Alone, are you?"

"Yes," Harry answered.

The man's eyes roamed over the single set of tracks in the snow. "Who knows that you're here?"

"No one."

"Hmph. Get in before the heat escapes," the man said gruffly, stepping back to let Harry clamber up and into the wagon. "Put that pack down and take off your things so they can dry." The man poked the fire in the pot-bellied stove and turned up a lamp, saying, "Occupy yourself while I get something hot to eat."

Harry watched the strange man walk awkwardly down the steps, scoop up a pot of snow, and set it atop the stove. The man had a peg-leg, Harry realized, noticing the way he was careful to keep it away from the glowing flames.

While his host carved up a few dirty-looking root vegetables from a crate beneath his bed, Harry stared around the confines of the wagon. All manner of strange devices and utensils hung from the roof and walls, including a hand-lettered sign that read Alastor's Assortments. A shiny silver basin clanged softly as it rubbed against a golden goblet; glass globes filled with a pale, luminescent liquid were strung on a braided cord; a brightly painted top spun slowly over his head, emitting a faint whine.

"I thought I told you to occupy yourself," the man (who Harry assumed was Alastor) said without turning around.

"Yes, sir," Harry responded, retrieving a book from a pocket of his pack and wondering if Alastor had eyes in the back of his skull.

The leather-covered book he held in his hands was the only thing he carried that was not for survival or defense. It was the only thing he'd carried away that did not belong to him. Ginny's diary fell open without a sound. Harry shot a glance at Alastor--he didn't seem to be interested in what Harry was doing; even though Harry had been told that he was the only one who could see the small, precise script, he tilted the pages close to his face.

Harry searched the pages carefully for some clue, some sign that he'd missed before. There had to be an explanation for Ginny's disappearance beyond dropping her diary and wandering off into a winter storm.

Ever since the day Ginny had found the blank book--the day he'd got his sword, Harry remembered--she'd kept the diary with her. When she climbed through the window in the autumn, the diary was in her pocket with red and gold leaves pressed between the pages. In the summer, when they'd all gone past the meadow to the pond for a picnic and swimming, she'd tucked the diary away carefully under her shoes and socks while she skipped rocks and splashed her brothers.

It was only now Harry realized that none of the Weasley boys ever showed any interest in the diary. They teased Ginny unmercifully, they pulled her hair, but they never brought it up. It was only now Harry realized that they hadn't bothered with what appeared to be a blank book.

If her brothers had realized she'd left the diary behind that day, they would have prevented her from going back for it in the cold, or so Harry reasoned. She hadn't told them where she was going, however; she'd simply disappeared. Though they lived a simple life, the Weasleys were not so poor as to trade life for a book. No, Ginny had been as excited as her brothers to return home for tea after searching the woods and hollows--so she couldn't have gone willingly.

But when they had looked around, she was gone.

Harry didn't believe that she'd lost her way or wandered off. After all, he'd found the diary. But he hadn't told anyone; who would believe in what he suspected: the boy in the sled was somehow not of this world? That he came from nowhere and disappeared in the blink of an eye?

Her footprints in the snow met two parallel lines running off to the north. Someone with a sharp eye would have seen that she dropped her diary there, probably while she climbed aboard. Someone with a sharper eye would have wondered why there were no tracks made by whatever pulled the sleigh. The sharpest eye still would have seen what Harry saw: One of the footprints was mussed.

She'd slid a foot back to turn and run.

But she hadn't run, and Harry wanted to know why. The entries at the beginning were summer and secrets. There were no dates, but they were from the time immediately after Ginny found the diary.

She wrote simply: Today Mum showed me how to make biscuits.... There were all sorts of strange people in the market today.... Tomorrow is Percy's birthday and we're making him a surprise....

"That's not yours." Alastor slammed a murky bowl of soup down on the narrow table in front of Harry.

Harry flinched and clutched the book to his chest; he was both afraid of Alastor's penetrating stare and that some of the soup would be slopped upon his only clue.

"N-no," Harry faltered, looking away.

Alastor leaned closer, his craggy face just inches from Harry's. "Does she know you have it?"

"No," Harry whispered again.

"Mmph." Alastor straightened up as much as he was able beneath the low ceiling. He ignored the soup, choosing a liquid supper from a flask hidden in his pocket.

At last, when Harry had finally swallowed all of the soup, Alastor rose from a stool in the corner to add a hunk of coal to the pot-bellied stove, then sat down again heavily. His scarred nose and cheeks were rosy from warmth and drink. "The better question," he said, pausing to stifle a belch, "is does he know you have it?"

Harry froze while Alastor tipped his flask up for the last few drops of whatever it was he drank. Before he could speak, though, Alastor's head lolled to the side, and a gurgling snore rose from his lips.

He

? Harry opened the diary again and spread it out on the table. He was exhausted, slightly damp, and not quite as warm as he wished to be, but he had another clue now. He.

Still, there were no answers, only vague, impersonal entries. I found this diary under a bush and now it's mine.... My name is Ginny Weasley, and I have six brothers, and my parents and I all live in three rooms at the top of a Burrow of a house....

Harry had read all of these. Some were memories he shared, some were not: Last night I dreamed I rode an invisible horse through the sky. A few made him feel vaguely uncomfortable: Ron, Hermione, and Harry are all going out to look for berries today. They've taken a picnic and gone, so I'll be home by myself today with nothing to do and no one to talk to except Mum. Sometimes I wish I wasn't the baby. Then, maybe they'd see me. Maybe they'd tell me things.

Maybe I'd tell things to them.

The entries stopped abruptly about a third of the way into the book. There were a few words that reminded Harry of a warm evening and the smell of roses, and then a page that was so horrific that he feared to touch it. Instead of words, a crimson stain marred the page, and it looked as if it were wet, though it couldn't be.

He remembered the date on it well.

* * *

Harry rubbed his neck with one hand and his eyes with the other. Ron and Hermione had gone home for supper, and the light faded while he finished an essay. His stomach felt hollow and rumbly. There wasn't anything to eat except an apple. He picked it off the sideboard, pressing his thumb against a soft spot on the side.

Not bothering to blow out the candle he'd lit, Harry climbed out the window and onto the balcony. He settled his back against the wall and his feet against the iron bars, careful not to disturb the roses. Apple juice dripped down his chin with each bite. He wiped it away with his sleeve. It was pleasant enough outside; the evening was warm, a little breezy, but quiet.

A soft, scraping noise came from the balcony above. He knew the signal. Leaning forward, Harry tapped a fingernail against one of the bars of the balcony. An answering tap came from above and Ginny dangled her legs over the side to climb down.

Harry reached out a hand to steady her as her feet searched for purchase. She was always careful to step on the spot that was clear of thorns. With his help, she managed to make it to safety.

"I could smell the roses," she said, burying her face in a white bloom. "All through supper. Mum wondered why I wasn't hungry."

"They smell better in the morning when they're first warm."

"Mmm." Ginny straightened up and gave Harry a smile. "So does tea."

"I never see you in the daytime anymore," Harry remarked.

"The light hurts my eyes, sometimes." Ginny turned her head away from his gaze.

"That's silly, Gin." He reached for a lock of her hair, pulling her back around to face him. He'd been pulling her hair when no one was looking for as long as he could remember. Otherwise, he was afraid to touch her. Afraid she'd stiffen and move away.

She wouldn't meet his eyes. "It's true."

"Where do you go in the daytime?" he tried again, more gently. He had the distinct feeling that she'd been avoiding him, and he couldn't figure out why. They were...they were like brother and sister, weren't they?

"I don't remember."

He let go of her hair, dropping back down to his seat. She wasn't his age, and they hadn't needed to train Pip in years. He spent most of his free time with Ron and Hermione, and she--well, he didn't know. Surely she was visiting friends herself. He didn't know why this bothered him.

Ginny came to sit beside him, very close so that she could lean against the wall rather than the window. The first stars were beginning to shine above. "Something is wrong."

"What?"

"I don't know." She sighed. "It seems like I should know, and like I could know if I only thought about it a little harder." She pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her forehead against them. "Maybe if I just could hear the tune, I could remember the words."

"Er," Harry began uncomfortably, "I hope you don't mean you want me to sing for you."

Ginny raised her head again, her eyes wide. After a second she saw that he was serious and she laughed softly, her breath tickling his chin. "No, not unless you've been practicing your singing as much as you practice fencing."

"Pssh," Harry returned, pulling a face and pretending that she had done him a great injury.

Ginny held up a hand and bowed her head. "I hear you have defeated a most formidable foe, oh great one."

"Why, yes," he said, grinning, and relayed his tale while Ginny's eyelids drooped. Harry shifted slightly, allowing her to rest her head on his shoulder. It made him feel strange in his chest, but he plowed ahead. "...Lucky it wasn't poisonous."

"Lucky." Ginny nodded, then sat up and, all of a sudden, pulled Harry's arm around her. When she did, her diary fell out of her pocket.

"Ooh." Harry snatched it from out of her hands, flipping through the pages and holding it over her head. Her fists beat gently against his ribs. "What's the matter? It's blank."

"You give that back," she said tartly. She stilled her hands and let them fall to her sides. "Maybe I don't have anything important enough to write yet."

Harry handed it back to her soberly. He didn't like to see her angry.

"Ouch." She looked at her hand and then at the floor of the balcony.

Harry peered closer. "What?"

"I've cut myself. On the book. See? There was a sliver of something sharp and shiny--I can't find it now." A drop splashed onto the pages, then disappeared as if it had never been there at all.

"You're bleeding. Careful, you'll get it on...Ginny, the blood...."

Harry watched, amazed, as the book swallowed another half dozen drops. While Ginny wrapped her hand in a handkerchief to stem the flow, he picked up the book and ran his fingers over the page. It was dry. At last, he handed it back to her mutely.

She glanced at the pages. "I must have missed it."

"I saw it. The blood, on the paper...it just disappeared," he countered.

"Then you must be seeing things," she snapped back angrily.

Harry was incredulous. They'd both seen what had happened. Why was she making excuses? "Must be."

"I have to go in now," Ginny said, closing the book and standing up. "Goodnight."

Harry stood as well, plucking a single rose and holding it out to her. He didn't want her to go away angry. "Goodnight."

She hesitated, then reached for it, and when she did Harry leaned forward to pull at her hair, and when she tried to avoid his fingers, her face turned toward his. She was so close he could count every eyelash, every freckle. Her eyes were dark. Wide. She moved closer. They stood, frozen. Then, when he made his decision at last, she moved. Before he knew what had happened she disappeared up and over the rail.

What was he supposed to do when she was that close and what he really wanted was... He didn't know what he wanted. He started to shred the bloom between his fingers. Somewhere inside, a door closed.

* * *

As he moved to close the diary, a glimmer caught his eye. Peering closer, he saw that a tiny speck of glass was embedded in the parchment. It was almost too small to be seen; he had to hold up the book close and tilt it to catch the light just to be sure. After a moment, he closed the book carefully on the mirror.