Curfew had fallen, and Filch's footsteps were once again echoing through the bleak corridors of the castle. The festive mood didn't seem to touch this cold, lonely caretaker of the night; he was still just as solitary as ever, with only Mrs Norris for company.
Harry lost track of time and missed curfew entirely. Startled, he hurriedly took out his phone and sent Ron a message.
[Ron, are you asleep yet?]
[No, I was just about to come out and look for you. I'm wearing the Invisibility Cloak. Where are you?]
Harry let out a breath of relief and told Ron to come get him.
"Harry." A soft, hoarse voice sounded behind him.
He spun around and saw a long white beard and purple wizard's robes; looking higher, he saw a gentle, aged face. Behind the half-moon spectacles, the blue eyes were still as bright as in his youth.
"Professor Dumbledore. Have you been here long?"
"No, I've only just arrived. I came to take Afu back. Seeing the two of you getting along so well truly moves me." Dumbledore's eyes had actually misted over. Harry had no idea what there was to get emotional about and found himself wondering if all great wizards were this strange.
"Afu's great. He's very well behaved." Harry reached out, wanting to pat the wolfhound on the head, but Afu stood up and dodged away.
Hearing this, Dumbledore's gaze on Afu grew even heavier and sadder, but his voice became gentler still. "Yes, I know. He is very good. But you must be careful with him. Sometimes he becomes… not so good, and does terrible things. Harry, from now on you should try to keep your distance from Afu. Never stay alone with him. Do you understand?"
Harry nodded, puzzled.
"Good. Good boy." Dumbledore smiled. He failed to notice the vivid, mocking look that flickered across Afu's dog face.
Inside that body, an evil soul was whispering soundlessly: Dumbledore, old bumblebee, keep on believing in Harry Potter. Keep treating him as your prize pupil—right up until the day he shows his true, twisted power. I'd love to see your face then.
Dumbledore's steady gaze made Harry feel a little uneasy. The old man looked exhausted, as if the day's Christmas cheer had used up the last of his energy. He raised a hand and touched Harry's scar.
"Does it still hurt?"
"Only now and then."
"That's good." Dumbledore seemed about to say something more, but in the end he only shook his head. He said goodbye and led Afu away.
His back looked like that of a completely ordinary old man out walking his dog, with not a trace of the grandeur one might expect from the greatest wizard of the age. And the wolfhound, a warped white spectre trotting at his heels, radiated a lingering, indescribable malice from beneath its cute exterior.
Harry stayed where he was, waiting. Before long Ron appeared under the Invisibility Cloak. The two boys slipped past Filch and tiptoed back to their dorm.
Lying in his four-poster, Harry felt drowsy, yet he didn't want to fall asleep too soon. He didn't want this day to end just yet. That anxiety pushed him to take out his phone.
Two days earlier, a new chat app similar to WeChat had gone live on his phone, and all the members of The Tower of Tomes had added one another as contacts. Harry turned onto his side and scrolled through the Moments feed.
The Winterhold mages, usually so socially awkward in person, were surprisingly eager to share their daily lives online. Savos Aren had posted a "working hard" status with a photo of him in his quarters at the College. Further down, Mirabelle Ervine had shared a picture of herself at a meeting in the Jarl's palace in Winterhold. Brelyna Maryon had posted a picture of a lavender plant with the caption: "I can never bring myself to crush it." Onmund had uploaded a nine-tile set—magnificent snowy mountains, the corpse of a three-eyed troll—with the caption: "Reached the highest monastery in the world—High Hrothgar! Traveling with the Dragonborn!"
Like, like, like… Harry kept scrolling.
Hermione had shared a photo of spending Christmas with her parents—both of them wearing wizard hats, grinning from ear to ear. Ron had commented underneath: "Looks like fun!"
Like.
Skyl had also posted a few hours ago: a high-resolution photo of the top of a tall building, just as a red flag was being lowered, frozen at that exact instant. The caption read: History draws down its curtain, hiding a giant from view. 1991.12.25.
Harry had no idea what the picture meant, nor where Skyl had gone. Under the post there were only a few likes and a handful of comments that had nothing to do with it. Harry tapped the like button anyway. At last he could no longer resist the overwhelming tide of sleep; he stuffed the phone under his pillow and closed his eyes, chasing after dreams.
…
55°45′N, 37°36′E.
Local time: 7 p.m.
There was no snow in Moscow. The Christmas night sky was pitch black, the air bitterly cold. Crowds had gathered on Red Square to watch.
Skyl gazed at the bright red flag above the Kremlin and waited quietly. A short man stood beside him, wearing a peaked cap and a long coat. He, too, was silent, hands thrust into his pockets, occasionally sweeping his sharp eyes across the crowd with a pensive look.
People came and went across the square, their numbers slowly swelling. Besides the locals, there were journalists with video cameras, foreign tourists, armed guards on patrol. There were young lovers, middle-aged couples with children, elderly war veterans, people with disabilities. There were Muggles, and there were wizards—Skyl even spotted Wizard Zhdanov, the professor who had supervised his graduate research before he crossed worlds, the one who was always going on about the Soviet Union and now couldn't care less about the Muggle world unfolding around them.
Wizard Zhdanov was chatting and laughing with his friends, his relaxed expression completely at odds with the tension in the air. They looked for all the world like they were just taking a stroll after dinner, as if this were one of countless ordinary days in history.
At 7:38 p.m. local time, it felt as though a chill wind had passed through. Everyone saw the same thing: the only splash of bright red cloth beneath the dark curtain of sky began to sink, slowly, slowly. (Wikipedia)
Skyl raised his phone and took a picture.
The short man beside him let out a quiet breath.
"[In Russian] Are you feeling unwell, Ilyich?" Skyl went on watching the Kremlin as he spoke.
Whatever the short man replied was swallowed by the surrounding noise.
Scattered shouts and cheers rippled through the crowd, quickly taken up by others. The dry, freezing air suddenly seemed alive, as if someone had pulled the lid off a sealed pot. A strange wind from a new era rushed in, unnoticed, into people's lungs, making them cry out and roar, forcing every last breath of the old air from their chests.
No one knew what the future would bring. Some things simply happened, and that was that.
A new flag rose above the ruins. (Wikipedia)
The cheers grew even louder, drowning out many people's tears and sobs.
Some of the Muggle onlookers were joyful, some sorrowful, some indifferent, some numb.
The wizards watching only thought the whole scene fascinating.
Skyl and the man beside him began making their way toward the edge of the crowd.
"Your legacy has been gnawed at by a school of sharks for sixty-seven years, and now the last drop of blood has finally been drained. I'm sorry."
"Don't pity us, young man. On the contrary, I'm glad. We never imagined, back then, that this social experiment would last so long. New things always appear and replace the old—that's a truth no one can refute. It's just that history insists on staging the same play twice: the first time as tragedy, the second as farce."
They walked along the western side of Red Square and stopped by the base of a red granite wall.
The short man turned back to look at his countrymen. A delighted, excited smile spread over his face. The light shining from his sharp, unyielding eyes was like crimson fireworks, blazing in some invisible, distant time and space, casting their glow across this dark Christmas night.
"It's time to say goodbye," he said. "So… let's leave it at that."
Skyl tilted the brim of his wizard's hat. "Merry Christmas, Comrade Vladimir."
The short man vanished into thin air, like a ghost, like a mirage. Yet he had been there. They had been there. And in the end, they would return to everyone, one by one.
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