February 15th, 1692
‘How could… we have spoken… to a woman who should be… dead?’ asked Ron, staring into space with a glazed look on his face, his voice slow and almost inaudible.
The rain clouds had almost magically transformed into thicker snow clouds, which now swam in the velvety night sky, grouping together in patches, completely covering some parts of the sky and leaving other areas bare. Stars gleamed from the bare patches, winking and blinking down at the earth. Where it had been raining only a few hours ago, it was now snowing. The flakes had fallen fast and the ground had quickly been blanketed in a layer of white five inches thick. It sparkled in the dark, looking like glitter.
Harry was almost positive that this Rebecca was Rebecca Nurse, and she had been one of the first women hanged during the witch hunts. This theory had been proved moments later by the man at the bar who, while wiping a tankard dry, and affirmed the woman’s name. All this, of course, brought up the question that Ron had just voiced moments ago.
Rebecca Nurse should have been dead by now. But Harry and Ron had spoken to her only a few hours ago. It shouldn’t have been possible, if history was playing itself out the way it should have been. And it was, wasn’t it? For if things were changing, if history was changing, then Harry and Ron would know. The Ministry of Magic didn’t allow such huge breaches of magical law go unpunished. They didn’t even let small breaches go without warning, as Harry knew full well, having received a warning for a house elf smashing a pudding in his living room a few years ago. Again, a question Harry had brought up only a few days ago, returned to his mind. Why weren’t they being dive-bombed by Ministry officials that very second? There were two possible answers: either they hadn’t changed history, or there was someone else who had traveled back to 1692 and was busy altering history and possibly being accosted by the Magical Law Enforcement Squad at that very moment. The former was proved wrong by all textbooks published concerning the Witch Trials and the latter… well, what were the odds that someone else had time traveled to Salem? Which psychotic person would come here of their own free will?
Well, someone had made the amulet. Someone who wanted to come here, otherwise, why would anyone have an amulet that transported you to the Salem of 1692? Not to drop it, and hope that some innocent bystander would pick it up and happen to push the button and thus end up to traveling three centuries previous. What were the odds of that happening?
Whatever the odds, it had happened. To Harry, Ron and Hermione of all people.
As the two boys trudged through the snow, their feet becoming wet and the slowly freezing up, not to mention the state of their noses, Harry sighed. He had no answer to Ron’s question.
He was exhausted, still hungry and sick and tired of Salem and witch hunts and stupid, stupid 1692. His head hurt, his legs hurt from so much walking, he was cold in places that he didn’t know could feel cold. All he wanted was to go home. Home. The word had never sounded so beautiful, so warm, so happy. Like a warm, toasty room with plump couches and a huge orange-red fire, flickering and burning merrily, where laughter and happy chatter were the only sounds you could hear, as you sat on a sofa, sinking into its warmth, half-dozing, a lingering smile on your lips… eyes drooping…
Harry could see pictures in front of his waking eyes; the snowy scenery blurred around him and a movie began to play… but it was like no movie he had ever seen or heard of…
He could see Salem Village clearly, as if he were there; it changed to Naima Becker’s smiling face; there was Samantha, telling them that the amulet was dangerous; the court trial; Hermione’s Charms book; the prison; Hermione’s pleading voice, she had not wanted to die; Gallows Hill; Emily Warberk’s sobbing daughter in the crowds; people jeering; Hermione’s blue, discolored, oxygen-deprived lips; two figures hanging by ropes… dead… dead… dead… DEAD… DEAD… DEAD… DEAD!DEAD!DEAD!DEAD!DEAD!DEAD!DEAD!DEAD!
‘WHOA!’
A cry broke Harry away from his vivid, sickening flashbacks, his heart aching in his chest, tears frozen on his cheeks. He jumped, looked around frantically, ready to punch, kick, bite, to protect himself and Ron.
And then he looked down.
Ron was sprawled, spread-eagled in the snow, face down. Harry’s heart felt like it was about to burst out of his chest, its banging loud in his ears.
‘Ron!’ he said, bending down as fast as possible, shaking his friend. ‘Ron, no, please!’
And then utter relief, relief like Harry had never felt before. It was thick, palpable relief in the air, he could have reached out and grabbed it in his hands.
Ron was sitting up, spitting out snow, giving Harry a strange, but understanding look. He patted Harry’s shoulder. ‘I’m alright, Harry. Just slipped on this bloody snow.’
Harry’s heart had not yet returned to normal speed and he seemed to have lost the ability to talk, so he just nodded, his teeth clenched tightly, trying to push back the lump that had risen in his throat.
When he trusted himself to speak again, he said, ‘I didn’t think it was possible to slip on sno—’
But his words were cut short by Ron slipping once again, and trying frantically to regain his balance by moving his arms like a windmill. It didn’t work and he landed hard.
Harry tried hard to keep his face straight and helped Ron up.
‘I don’t know why I keep slipping,’ Ron muttered in embarrassment. And then realization crossed his face. ‘Its ice!’ he said. ‘We’re walking on ice! This must be a lake or something!’ He gazed down at the ground.
Harry knelt down and brushed away a few centimeters of snow. It was indeed, ice. Hard, cold, thick ice. Harry looked a few feet ahead: more ice. Ron was right, it did seem like a lake. The snow on the ice was melting slowly, leaving the surface wet and slippery, which explained Ron’s sudden clumsiness.
Ron was now slowly sliding across the ice, trying to pump his legs like he would pump ice-skates. After a few moments he seemed to get the hang of it and was sliding with more ease. He paused, and turned around, waving to Harry a few meters away. ‘C’mon!’ he called happily.
As the only alternative to skating seemed to be slipping and falling until the ice ended, Harry too began to move his feet. It took him about thirty seconds to get used to the feeling, although it seemed more like fifteen minutes of stumbling and jolting feelings in the pit of his stomach. He began to go faster and faster, and he was so busy watching his feet that he didn’t realize that he was about to smash into Ron, until Ron yelled out.
Harry looked up just in time to see Ron’s wide blue eyes, before they crashed. They both fell in a heap, but instead of stopping, Harry’s inertia carried them further and further, their cries and shouts of surprise echoing in the air, the sounds of Ron scrabbling with his fingers to get a hold on the ice ringing in Harry’s ears, as Ron’s stomach and Harry’s back continued to act as sleds. In about thirty seconds their yelling had turned into laughter, loud reverberating, exhilarated laughter. Ron had stopped trying to halt their slide and was bust trying to turn onto his back, excitement painted on his face. Harry wondered momentarily if they were going downhill… but that was impossible, lakes didn’t flow downhill… perhaps it was a frozen over river?
They were slowing down, and Harry began to feel the friction burn that the speed of their motion and the cold ice had numbed until then. Their laughter died down, as the slowly came to a stop. Harry allowed his head to fall back on the ice, breathing hard, a grin still spread on his face. Ron had failed in his attempt to turn onto his back and now lay face down on the ice, giggling every few seconds. As the adrenaline left their veins, the two friends stood up. They were still on the ice, Harry realized after a few seconds.
‘I think we’d best walk from now on,’ he said, cheerfully. The few moments of uninterrupted, unexpected fun and mirth had left him feeling better that he had felt in ages. He couldn’t seem to wipe the grin off of his face. And by the badly suppressed chortles coming from Ron, who seemed quite unable to speak and just nodded at Harry’s words, he seemed to be feeling the same way.
A chill wind swept over the lands. Harry could feel goose-bumps erupting on his arms and the back of his neck. Stuffing his hands into his pockets he suggested they move on, and once again, they began to walk, for now just trying to get off the wretched ice.
The wind whistled in Harry’s ears, slamming snow flakes into his face, pinching his cheeks, making his nose hurt and his eyes water. He bent his head against the airstream although it made little difference. Glancing over his shoulder, he found that what had started as a small flurry of snow was now becoming a full-blown blizzard. He could hardly see Ron behind him, though he seemed to be only about ten or twelve feet away.
Harry was shuffling across what he was sure was still ice, after almost having slipped in a particularly icy area, when he heard it.
For a moment, he didn’t register the sound. It was hard to discern in the howling wind.
There it was again!
Harry narrowed his eyes and brought up his head, looking ahead, peering into the cloud of billowing whiteness. Was someone approaching?
Again.
Harry tried to place the sound as he walked… he had heard it before… but where?
Again.
It was so faint… like someone very far away was trying to chop down a tree…
Again.
No… no, it was like… yes! A gunshot! Like when Stephen had shot at them!
Again.
Who could be shooting at this time? Was someone trying to catch an animal? How could they possibly see anything in this weather?
Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.
It was faster now, with less frequent intervals. Like machine gun rounds. The sounds seemed to linger in Harry’s ears, making it feel like they were popping.
Again. Again. Again. Again, Again, Again, Again.
Faster, faster, louder. Harry couldn’t understand it, what was happening? Was someone shooting at them? But it didn’t sound like shots anymore…
AgainAgainAgainAgainAgain!
A lightening bolt had struck Harry. His ears rung, his mind buzzed, his head felt like it was about to burst, his heart was hammering a tattoo on his ribcage.
AGAIN!
The ice was breaking.
A horrid feeling a nausea rose in Harry’s throat, the worst nausea he had every felt, his throat was on fire, his ears were going to pop, every nerve he possessed was sparking painfully.
A crack resounded in the air, as loud as a bomb, louder than anything he had ever heard. He wasn’t walking anymore. His hands were out of his pockets, pumping at his sides. He was yelling, louder than he had thought possible, screaming, tearing his throat: ‘RUN RON, RUN!’
Running, running as fast as his thin, bony legs would carry him, praying that Ron was following, still shouting to him, still crying out, but not turning around to check, because every second could be the difference between life and death.
A scream, a shrill, unearthly, deathly, heart chilling, piercing, wailing scream made him freeze where he was. Every instinct that had come to life seconds ago seemed to vanish, chased away by that shout. Time seemed to stop. The wind fell. The snow seemed to part, like a curtain, allowing him to see, as he turned around, pulled by unseen forces.
It was as if the earth had opened up and now wished nothing better than to pull its prey into the chasms of the dungeons it enclosed.
All in slow motion, Harry saw it:
The ice cracking right under Ron’s feet.
The large gash opening, widening, its girth increasing with every passing second.
Ron falling, straight down, in mid-step, his eyes wide, shocked, his mouth open, shouting, yelling, maybe pleading…
His mouth formed the word, ‘Harry’.
…pleading to Harry.
A rushing sound in Harry’s ears, and everything returned to normal speed, and without knowing it he was running, running faster than he had ever run.
The wind stung his eyes, whipped at his clothes and skin.
As if trying to pull him back.
As if telling him there was no hope.
And Harry saw Ron disappear beneath the surface of the now visible water.
‘NO!’ screamed Harry, his voice finally returned to him. ‘NO!’
He was there.
He skidded to a stop.
He was on his knees before he knew it.
His hand in the water, the freezing, icy, deathly cold water.
There was nothing more chilling in the world.
At this very second, even the Dementors could not match the cold that gripped Harry as he groped in the water.
Words were slipping through his lips, words he could hardly understand…
‘No, please, no, please, help me, help him, Ron, no, you can’t—’
And his fingers grasped what was unmistakably Ron’s wrist.
Something was fighting to burst from Harry’s throat, but he swallowed hard and pulled with all his might.
To no avail.
As hard as he pulled, he could not bring Ron back to the surface.
A mighty wrench and the next thing he knew he was in the water.
The cold, bad enough when just his arm had been in the water, was now unbearable.
It pushed all thought from Harry’s mind. For a second, he thought he had blacked out completely.
He had had no warning and his lungs now felt as if they would burst.
He couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes, somehow feeling that they would freeze instantly. And then he realized that he was still grasping Ron’s wrist.
Get to air…
It was the only thought on his mind.