The Winter Glass

Chapter Twelve: What is Most Desired

If it had been spring when Harry entered the garden, it was long gone. A few dry leaves hung from otherwise bare branches and the air had the nip of late autumn. He splashed across the stream, shivering: His boots and coat had disappeared with the garden. He had only a thin linen shirt, his trousers, and a pair of rope sandals to wear, and only the diary to help him make his way forth.

Harry desperately wanted to know what had happened next to Ginny, if she was even alive, but the chill prompted him to keep moving. He scanned the cloudy sky for help. "Which way?" he grumbled at it, not expecting an answer from above and not surprised when none came.

He headed for a stand of birch trees, and while their narrow, ghostly trunks did little to shield him from the rising wind, their shelter was something. Several times Harry slipped on leaves; several times he swore that a tree moved closer so that he could catch the trunk and stop himself falling. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the trees, though, he decided after a careful inspection. Nothing out of the ordinary about the thick, squelching sound that his sandals made on the muddy, leaf-covered ground. Nothing out of the ordinary about a completely silent forest.

If there was, he didn't particularly care to think about it right now.

At last Harry had to rest. He found a birch that grew in the lee of a rise, and the ground around it was not at all muddy; he leaned back against it and slid down the trunk, sorry for the wispy bits of bark that came loose. A swipe or two with his arms gathered half-dry leaves around his legs. He was not nearly warm enough, but it would do for the time being.

With trembling hand, Harry reached inside his shirt for the diary. It seemed to pulse beneath his fingertips. Whatever had happened in the garden, whatever the blood had done, it had unlocked some--Harry didn't want to think the word magic. It was all too unreal, and becoming more unreal with each step he took.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned page after page, ignoring Ginny's childish scrawls and the awful, awful scarlet-stained page. He steeled himself to watch Ginny's abduction again, to search for clues. After holding the corner of a page until it no longer felt like parchment beneath the tip of his thumb and forefinger, he flipped it over to reveal...nothing. Frantically, Harry ruffled through the rest of the diary; it was as blank as it had been before.

The solution was all too clear. Harry raised his finger to his mouth and, with his teeth, worried open the pinprick wound that he'd received from the rose shoot. When a red drop bubbled up, he let it fall into the pages.

* * *

Ginny sat alone at one end of a long table that ran down the center of the room and rested atop a Persian rug, the only decoration that wasn't fashioned from hard-packed snow. Two score or more chairs were placed around the table. Finely carved columns rose up to meet the ceiling high overhead. There were no windows, but the room was not dark.

The sound of running water startled her. She blinked, unable to move for the moment. Her growing field of vision allowed her to watch steaming amber liquid streaming from a pot made of ice into a teacup that was made of thinner porcelain than any that Ginny had ever seen. The cup and saucer were set in front of her by a thin hand that was angular and pale.

"Drink, Ginny," said a cold voice at her shoulder. "You must be tired from the journey. Although...you did sleep through most of it. Pity. You've missed all the sights. Refresh yourself and then we shall talk. You'll tell me things, the first of them being the location of the diary."

Ginny listened to footsteps grow fainter and then picked up the teacup. It, like nearly everything else in the room, was made of ice. She lifted it to her lips and sipped the stone cold tea, swishing it around in her mouth before spitting the dregs back into the cup. She slipped a hand into her pocket, searching for the diary out of habit. Unsuccessful, her hand crept past the open fastenings of her cloak to the loosened ribbons on her bodice. Ribbons that she had tied tightly this morning.

She started to shiver.

"Find me, please, Harry, anyone," she whispered, and then buried her face in her hands.

* * *

"Touch her and I'll--" Harry stopped himself, running his hands over his face. He was talking to thin air. Could he go insane here, in the middle of nowhere?

As he contemplated this, he spotted a shadow moving toward him. It paused ten paces away, peering at him from around the trunk of a birch. Harry felt a prickle of fear. Very little of what he'd encountered since he'd begun had been friendly.

"You there, come out where I can see you or I'll cut your throat," Harry threatened, hoping that the creature could hear his words but not his unarmed lies.

Warily, a dwarflike man stepped sideways from behind the tree. Harry stared at the little man's enormous green eyes. He continued to stare at the dwarf's long, pointed nose and hairless head from which large, floppy ears protruded. Even its garb was noteworthy in its oddity: The man wore a shapeless sack which exposed his knobby brown knees and bare feet.

Harry blinked twice. The little man did not disappear, and the pangs of hunger and cold that Harry felt told him that this was no dream. His first instinct was to ask "What?" but he thought better of this and said instead, "Who are you?"

"Dobby, good sir," said the little man, bowing. "How may Dobby be of service?"

"Of service? To me?" Harry asked, startled. He considered the man, whose face was open and honest. "Is there some safe place nearby?"

Dobby hopped forward. "Yes, a safe place! Warm and dry, and nearby! Dobby will lead the way."

Harry got to his feet, though his legs were stiff from sitting in the cold. Out of desire to pay the man back for his help, he gestured to the basket that was slung over the creature's arm. It was half as big as the man and he held it tightly even as it canted him to one side. "What are you carrying?"

"Truffles," Dobby replied. "Dobby has been collecting them for the mistress. But sir carries nothing. How did sir come to be so lost, so alone, in the middle of this enchanted wood?"

"Enchanted!" Harry exclaimed. If it was true, then no wonder. No wonder that no birds sang and no wonder the landscape never seemed to vary.

Dobby cringed. "Dobby should not say more."

"No, say anything you want," Harry commanded, feeling both jubilant and frightened. "Say everything. Does this forest ever end?"

"Yes and no," Dobby said, staggering under the weight of his basket. He swayed from side to side, opening and closing his mouth as if he wished to speak again but could not.

"Here, let me have that." Harry swept the burden into one hand. "Yes and no; what do you mean by that?"

Dobby stood still, staring at Harry with eyes as big as saucers. "Sir takes Dobby's basket. Carries it for him. No one has ever..."

"I'm sorry," Harry apologized immediately. "It looked a bit much. I'll give it back later, I promise."

"Sir treats Dobby as a friend," Dobby babbled on, awestruck. "Sir eases his weary bones. Dobby will answer any question sir asks of him as repayment of this great debt that Dobby owes."

"All right," said Harry, warily. He wasn't sure what to make of the statement. "First, is there a way out of this forest?"

"There is a way," Dobby answered, nodding. "Only one way."

"Which?" Harry said quickly. Mustn't waste any more time.

"Dobby does not know, sir." Dobby hung his head. "But mistress does," he added softly.

Harry decided that Dobby would probably not know the next answer, then, either. "Which way is north?" Dobby shrank back as if he expected to be struck. Exasperated by Dobby's lack of knowledge and fearful demeanor, Harry proceeded with little hope. "I'm looking for someone. A friend. She's about this tall"--Harry held his hand at shoulder level--"and she has red hair. Have you seen anyone like that? Has anyone else passed through here? Maybe a man in a black sled, going north?"

This made Dobby cheerful again. "Dobby knows where sir can see this girl. Perhaps even this man. All of master's questions will be answered, and he will have whatever his heart most desires."

Dobby hurried ahead at a pace that Harry was hard pressed to match. The cold and a lack of nourishment began to catch up with him. Lightheaded, he called out, "Dobby, wait," as the man disappeared from sight. Harry concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, over and over, until he stopped short in the middle of a clearing. Before him, a narrow, square tower built of dark stone rose between the trees. Pale swirls of lichen and darker patches of moss clung to the walls. Harry tilted his head back, but could not see where it ended.

A door was ajar at the tower's base. Weakly, Harry pushed it open. There were no windows. Only the dim, gray afternoon light allowed Harry to see that a wooden staircase rose up into the tower.

Harry dropped the basket on the other side of the threshold. "Dobby?" he asked. His voice echoed off the walls of the fortress, but no answer came. Hesitantly, Harry put one foot on the first step, testing it for strength. It felt solid enough. Emboldened, he began to climb with one hand sliding firmly over the stones for balance.

The twenty-third step creaked. The twenty-fourth wasn't there at all.

He hadn't noticed in the darkness, and so he tumbled forward, one leg dangling between the boards. The twenty-fifth step caught him beneath the ribs. For a long moment all Harry could do was wrap his arm around the step and gasp, trying to suck in a breath of air.

The rush of fear gave him the strength to pull himself up again. From then on, Harry kept one hand on his ribs and the other on the wall, and he felt carefully for each step with his foot before he took it. Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, he thought. Thirty-six...

Harry shook his head. He was counting in circles, the same numbers over and over. He started again to have something to think more than to keep any sort of mental record. One, two...

The next time Harry reached twenty-five, he didn't find a place for his foot. Instead, he found a wall, but one of wood. A hasty search found him another, better reward: a latch. With a flick of his wrist, Harry stepped into a room filled with light.

Dry leaves had blown in the open windows and gathered in shadowy corners, and the velvet cushions that had once graced the benches beneath had disintegrated from exposure to the elements. Still, the room must have been fine once, as was evidenced by tattered tapestries that hung on the walls. Harry walked over to a window and leaned against the sill, blinking.

The room was higher than the cloud cover, and hot, bright sunlight warmed his skin. He closed his eyes, letting it envelop him until he felt the sun's rays begin to burn. Ducking aside, Harry looked through the opening for some clue to where he was. No matter which side of the tower he made his observation through, he could only see an endless, white expanse of clouds. With a sigh, Harry dropped onto a rickety window seat.

His eyes gradually adjusted again and he noticed that something in a corner caught the light. Harry crossed the room, pulling a knotted cloth down from a shelf--or so he thought. It wasn't a shelf at all. Beneath a narrow ledge stood a tall mirror framed with gold.

Time and dust had filtered through the covering and coated the glass. Harry used the old scrap of cloth to wipe away a circle at shoulder height. Soon, he could see his green eyes, then his nose, and mouth, and his messy black hair. Using long strokes, he cleared the grime. It came off in musty clumps that made him sneeze.

He dropped the cloth to the floor and stood back to admire his handiwork, and let out a great shout when he saw a man and a woman standing at each of his shoulders. When he spun around, fists up, they were gone. Swallowing, Harry looked in the mirror again. The man and the woman were there in the reflection--but not when he turned around. He reached out his hand and found only air.

Harry stared into the mirror. The woman had large green eyes, the same shape as his own. The man had Harry's bedraggled hair. "Are you," he ventured, "my parents?" The woman gave a sad nod and reached for Harry's father's hand. "Are you enchanted?" At this, the man and woman shared a worried glance but did not answer.

A third figure, tall and shadowed but familiar as his own face, came to stand by his parents' side, and Harry's face fell. "You're dead," he said softly, answering his own question. Harry's mother reached out to comfort him. Her touch could not come through the glass, though, and finally her hand fell back to her skirts.

Another figure, tiny and red-haired, sidled into the reflection. "Ginny," he exclaimed at once. "No, you can't be dead, please don't be dead! I've come all this way."

"Has it been very far?" she asked softly.

"I can--I can hear you. Why doesn't anyone else speak?" he demanded, his voice strained. "Why can't they talk?"

"I reckon it's because they aren't really here."

Barely daring to breathe, Harry turned around, careful to keep his eyes on the floor. He wished, very hard, and when he looked up, Ginny was standing on the other side of the tower. He crossed the distance between them with three strides.

"How did you get here? What happened? Come away, let's go home and--" He realized he was holding tight to her arm, but she hadn't budged. "What's wrong with you?" he asked, ready to carry her down out of the tower and all the way home if he had to.

"Nothing. I simply wanted to stay here." Ginny studied him carefully.

Harry returned her gaze. His eyes skimmed over the strange, heavily embroidered gown she wore and the way her hair was braided, but not quite right... Not quite right, any of it. Her eyes weren't the brown he remembered. This Ginny's eyes were too yellow, too amber. Her hair wasn't the right color of autumn leaves, and her mouth was far too pink. She was missing freckles and had others where there ought not to have been any.

"Who are you?" Harry growled.

"Anything you want me to be," not-Ginny answered in a voice like a lullaby. She changed, then, and grew tall and emerald-eyed. "I could be a mother to you." In a blink, she wore Harry's smile and hair. "Or father. Or protector."

Her mouth twisted as she began to change again and Harry pushed him--her--back against the wall. The last form he could not bear to see her don so carelessly. "Who are you and what have you done to Ginny?"

"Nothing," she protested, changing form again. She became a small girl, with violet hair and wide blue eyes. Harry lost his grip on her. She wriggled away, putting the mirror between them and sticking out her tongue. "Now, stop that."

Harry kept a close watch on the girl. Who knew what she'd change into next? "You haven't given me an answer."

"My name is Nymphadora," the girl said. "I am the mistress here."

"And Dobby?"

"Dobby serves me. In a trice he'll bring us something to eat and drink. I mean you no harm."

"And if it's poisoned?" Harry challenged her, stomach rumbling.

Nymphadora's laugh was so merry that Harry felt chagrined. A feeling of safety came over him, and he relaxed at last. "If it's poisoned, then we shall both be lost. Now, shall we?"

Where before there had been nothing was a table, two chairs, and a feast. Harry had never seen so many things he liked to eat all in one place before, and he filled his plate with a taste of each dish. Nymphadora joined him, peeling an apple with a paring knife. "How did you ever come to be here?"

"I'm looking for someone," Harry said. "Someone lost. Ginny. Have you seen her?" He gave Nymphadora a quick version of his travels.

Nymphadora frowned. "No one has passed this way in my memory."

Harry ceased shoveling food into his mouth long enough to say, "Then how do you eat? How do you live?"

"Dobby provides."

Harry laid down his cutlery. "In which direction is the market?"

"There is no market." Nymphadora pressed her lips together. "As I said, no one has passed this way."

"Then you'll come with me when we're finished," Harry said. "You'll be able to earn much coin as a performer, or even a guard, if you can change like that. Or, perhaps, you could sit for portraits--"

"No." Nymphadora folded a napkin and put it on the table. "I stay here."

"But why? You said yourself that no one ever comes here, and except for Dobby, you're all alone. It can't be safe," Harry argued.

"I'm the only one who understands the mirror."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "What's that got to do with anything?" He shifted in his chair so that he could see it.

"If I left this room, you'd stand in front of it, watching your family. You wouldn't eat. You wouldn't sleep. You know this."

He thought on this, hoping his guilty thoughts didn't show on his face. "Because I'd look in it to see what I wanted--whatever I wanted?"

"Almost. You see what you most desire, and this mirror shows only the very best things," Nymphadora told him. "Dobby brings me whatever I need; I've never known another world, and so I do not miss it. I cannot even imagine what it might be like to desire it. And that's why I can't come away with you."

"You could...you could put a sign on the door, in case anyone tries to get in. Nobody ever comes here. Maybe no one ever will again."

"Maybe tomorrow a hundred men will turn up at the door. Once, there was another mirror that showed the worst things instead of the best, and it was left alone only to be stolen and used in evil ways." She fell silent, shifting uneasily. "I've waited my whole life because there was a chance that someone would come to mine, someday." Nymphadora's gentle smile held no sadness, no regret. "You did. Therefore you, who crosses through unknown lands for one person, must understand."

Harry did. He opened his mouth to say so, but before he could speak Nymphadora rose and went to a window. "You wanted north, yes?"

He nodded, coming to stand beside her. The vast, unbroken sea of clouds began to part. Through the gap, Harry could see the birch forest far below.

"Follow the sky, and you shall find your--"

Harry interrupted her. "This other mirror. What can you tell me about it? Do you know where I can find it?"

Nymphadora took a step away and her piercing gaze seemed to take him in all at once. "What would you have with that?"

"I think that's where Ginny might be."

Nymphadora quickly packed the remains of the feast in a little square basket that appeared under the table, and behind a tapestry she found a magnificent cloak and a pair of fine leather boots. She helped Harry dress, fastening the basket on his back with two long straps.

"One last look," she said, steering him toward the mirror but keeping a firm grip on his elbow. "Just for a moment."

Harry stared into the mirror. It shimmered silver and lilac before the image solidified. "Ginny!" he exclaimed, "and--"

"That's not it." Nymphadora moved behind him, making the image disappear. "You must want to know who can show you the way, and you must want this help more than you want to see her. Concentrate."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. "Some one who can show me the way."

The mirror changed again while he clenched his fists at his sides, willing the mirror to show him what he wanted. When he looked, he didn't understand.

"It looks like...a hut. About to fall down. It's, it's snowing there, but only a little, and it's all by itself in the middle of nowhere."

Nymphadora gave the basket's straps one last tug. "Then that's where you must go if you wish to find the answers you seek. North. Now, on your way."