The Christmas holidays had begun, but this rare period of leisure had done nothing to ease the tension within the group.
Harry was consumed by self-blame.
It was the helplessness of being unable to change reality, which inevitably turned into frustration at his own incompetence.
The day was drawing closer and closer, yet they were powerless to do anything.
Write a letter?
Dumbledore might not even receive it.
Moreover, as Moody had said, there was always the risk that it would be intercepted.
Hermione was hardly in any better position to offer comfort.
She had now chosen to believe Harry's account of what had happened. Whether rationally or emotionally, she believed that what Harry had told them was the truth.
But they couldn't convince Professor McGonagall.
That was absurd.
And it would be even worse if Snape eventually found out.
Christmas had arrived.
Hogsmeade Village was bustling with activity on Christmas Day. Amid the white snow and ice, a group of men in brown leather jackets stood in a circle, singing solemn prayers.
The singing was melodious, almost cleansing to the soul.
Along a narrow path, a wizard wearing a tall, pointed hat slowly rode a black bull through the snow, leaving deep and shallow footprints behind him. They were quickly covered and smoothed away by the swirling snowflakes.
Many students who had chosen to remain at Hogwarts came here to spend their otherwise boring holiday.
The students preferred The Three Broomsticks, where the drinks were more suitable for them, and where there was also a beautiful and still charming proprietress.
As for The Hogs Head Pub, hardly anyone went there anymore. Some students vaguely felt that the owner bore a certain resemblance to Dumbledore.
He had the same blue eyes as Dumbledore and seemed to possess the same ability to see through people.
The Hogs Head Pub was completely different from The Three Broomsticks. The latter's spacious bar always felt bright, clean, and warm.
The Hogs Head was a small, dark, filthy room that reeked of mutton. Thick grime covered the bay windows, allowing almost no light inside, while a few candle stubs burned on the rough wooden tables.
At first glance, the floor looked as though it were made of packed earth. But once you stepped on it, you would realize that beneath the dirt were stone slabs that had accumulated centuries of grime.
The environment was far too primitive, and the clientele was a mixed bag.
They certainly wouldn't have come here if not for the need to avoid being seen.
There were hardly any Hogwarts students here, making it an excellent place to discuss matters that were inconvenient to talk about at school.
At the end of the bar sat a man whose entire head was wrapped in dirty grey bandages. Yet he could still pour some smoky, burning liquid into his mouth through a gap in the wrappings, one glass after another.
Two hooded figures sat at a table by the window, speaking in heavy Yorkshire accents.
A witch sat in a dark corner beside the fireplace, a thick black veil hanging all the way to her feet. Only the tip of her nose was visible, pushing the veil up slightly.
They all gave off an aura reminiscent of Dark Wizards, making them stand out from the crowd.
Of course, this was limited to their demeanor, which merely created a false impression of intimidation.
In a real duel, they might turn out to be all show and no substance.
After all, Hogwarts was the safest place in Britain. It was unlikely that any genuine Dark Wizard would appear nearby.
Back when Dumbledore was still at Hogwarts, he would occasionally come to this filthy bar. His brother, Aberforth, often refused to sell him alcohol, and even when he did, he would charge him exorbitant prices.
For example, Aberforth would charge Dumbledore several Galleons for a butterbeer that normally cost two silver Sickles.
Dumbledore didn't care, however, and simply let him set whatever price he wanted.
Perhaps it was guilt and atonement.
But in reality, hadn't Aberforth felt any guilt? Hadn't he borne any responsibility? Wasn't he aware of his own shortcomings?
Perhaps he was also afraid that if he learned the truth, he would no longer be able to hate and despise his brother with a clear conscience.
Yet deep down, the torment he suffered was no less than Dumbledore's.
As long as the truth remained unknown, he would remain one of those one-third executioners.
Even if they knew the truth, what difference would it make?
Their poor sister was gone forever.
Being separated by life and death was the most helpless thing in the world.
The three of them entered the bar, casually found a seat by the window, and sat down.
"Want something to drink? It's on me today."
Ron volunteered and stood up from his seat.
"Three butterbeers, right?" Ron asked.
After receiving their answer, he went to place the order.
He squeezed sideways between the crowded wooden tables until he reached the bar.
There was an old man dressed in coarse linen clothes behind the counter. Ron guessed that he was the owner of the pub.
The pub owner had metallic-grey hair and a long beard. He wore glasses, although the lenses were perpetually dirty.
Behind those lenses was a pair of bright, sharp blue eyes.
He looked remarkably similar to Dumbledore, except that he was unkempt and paid little attention to his appearance, making the difference between them much clearer.
He had been pretending to wipe a plate that was already polished to a shine while secretly observing the three students.
Now he put the plate down and openly scrutinized the boy who had approached the counter.
"Three butterbeers," Ron said, reaching into his pocket for his money and handing it to the shop owner.
His hand froze.
"Three cups cost twelve silver Sickles. You don't have enough money."
The shop owner glanced at the silver coins in Ron's hand, shook his head, and turned away to do something else.
"Butterbeers at other pubs cost two silver Sickles!"
Ron was furious, and his face flushed red.
He slammed the six silver coins in his hand onto the counter.
"Then go to your favorite pub. Don't come here. I didn't ask you to come. Drink if you want, or get out if you don't."
The shop owner spoke gruffly, looking rather impatient.
"This is robbery."
"I'd like to think so," the shop owner said nonchalantly.
"All right, Ron, stop arguing."
Hermione saw that Ron seemed ready to get into a fight with the shop owner, so they immediately hurried over.
"I'm sorry."
She placed the remaining six silver coins on the counter.
"We can't afford to waste time. We're here to discuss something important."
She spoke to Ron in a low voice.
"Let's go."
Hermione pulled Ron away, and the two of them returned to their seats.
It took quite a while for the waiter to bring their drinks.
Unlike the bright yellow, frothy butterbeer at The Three Broomsticks, which looked incredibly appetizing, this butterbeer was a dull grey with a layer of foam made from some unknown substance floating on top. It hardly had any aroma at all.
Ron took a sip, then immediately coughed violently several times.
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
"It tastes awful."
"All right, that's enough. We're not here to drink today."
"We've already attracted Professor McGonagall's attention."
"Harry, going to her right away might not have been a wise decision..."
...
"What should we do, then? Just sit back and watch?"
Ron spoke indignantly.
"Even Professor McGonagall doesn't believe us now."
"I'm going to the Ministry of Magic that day."
Harry clenched his fist.
"That's too dangerous!"
Hermione almost screamed, but restrained herself and whispered instead.
She clutched her chest and took several deep breaths.
"Then Professor Dumbledore's situation will only become more dangerous!"
Harry spoke vehemently.
"You said it yourself. Grindelwald is a Dark Wizard who is in no way inferior to Voldemort."
Harry was breathing heavily.
...
Christmas was supposed to be a day of enjoyment.
But they weren't happy.
They were worried about the future and discussed what they should do next.
Harry, in particular, was constantly plagued by unsettling dreams, leaving him unable to relax for even a moment.