Tushar Srivastav
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Chapter 3 Orders in the Snow
🕑 Added 2025-10-24 15:10:33 +0000 UTCHarry woke up in a cold room, the fire having gone out, and the ashes turned to embers. He wished he had central heating, or something like it, like Hogwarts did. He stretched, felt the honest pain of work on his shoulders, and got to work. The air outside was thin and dry, like that of a larder. The wards hummed just out of hearing. He picked up the shovel, crossed the line, and did what needed to be done. He went back inside, melted a bowl of snow, shaved off a thumb of fat, added thin venison scraps, and let the soup cook slowly until it tasted good.
When he looked, the dragon was still asleep, curled up around the warm stone with a slow breath. He renewed the heating rune, put a light warming charm along the wing joints for good measure, and then left it alone. Sleep was a big part of healing, and there was a lot of both out here.
So, work. He started with the mess that the vortex had thrown up into the clearing.
He chose a corner and put things in order—gold here—galleons and foreign strikes in dull piles. There was silver there, pulled out of the slush with numb fingers—a third pile of bronze. Jewellery came in fourth: chains that looked like frozen snakes, brooches with stones the size of pigeon eggs, and rings that made his skin tingle if he held them for too long. He pushed those aside with the flat of the sword. He put a few books at a time under his coat to thaw and then hung them up to dry over the hearth. He put ledgers and wills in one pile and curse-thick books in another. He used a single thread of Muffliato and a quiet Revelio to keep anything in the binding from coming to life.
Two old but still good broomsticks were stuck under a broken crate of flatware, which saved the morning. One was a dirty Cleansweep with most of its paint gone, and the other was a Comet with a dented body and tarnished copper wire holding the tail bristles together.
He said, "Hello, you," with half a hope and ran his thumb along the grain. Not wet. It's cold. But not dead.
He straddled the Comet, braced himself, and carefully kicked off, keeping Dumbledore's Wand in his sleeve in case the world decided to throw him back down. The broom shook, but then it remembered what it was and steadied itself. He rose through the shredded breath-cloud and wind, higher and higher, until the clearing turned into a pale scab in the snow.
From up here, the land rolled away in long, rib-like ridges. The forest was black-green in the folds and only broke where rock showed through like old bone—no clouds of smoke. There are no roads. No fields sewn together in different shades of brown. To the east, a river that was dark as slate and covered in ice bent north between groups of pine trees. He turned slowly in circles, squinting and looking for the neat shapes that people make when they stay. Nothing.
There was no place in England where you could climb a thousand feet and not see a hedgerow or a village. The knot of fear that had been behind his ribs since the vault moved and settled became something to deal with instead of fighting.
"Not England," he said into the wind. "All right."
He went back to the clearing, where his broom made a neat S on the packed snow, and let his boots find the ground. It was pointless to panic. First, look around, then make a plan.
The books were the main issue. Gold could stay gold for a hundred years under snow. Leather and paper would rot or get mushy. He needed storage that was easy to move, safe, and quick to make. He couldn't make a Moody-level trunk with a mansion inside, but he could make a strong chest with a one-room addition, a lightning charm, and a latch that shrinks? He could do that. And the clearing had everything he needed: straight spruce, dry air, and space to work.
He clenched his jaw and began to fall.
Trees came up when you pulled them carefully. He cut the tops off, used a slicing charm to clean the bark, and walked planks out of the trunks with tight, controlled Diffindo strokes. If he were careful, he could get ten trunks per tree at the size he wanted. He was tidy. It was easier for him to act like he'd done this all his life with the Dumbledore's Wand. By noon, he had a stack of seasoned-looking boards about waist-high, resting on cross-timbers with true edges and marked joints.
He ate standing up, another bowl of venison soup, which was hotter and better because it had taken so long to make. He let his hands stop shaking before round two.
Meat ruled the afternoon. He followed the creek to a new bedding hollow and did the same things he did yesterday: cleaned two Stupefy bolts, two bleeds, dragged the sledge, and butchered under the longhouse roof. The quarters went to the snow pit, the strips went to the smoker, and the bones went to the broth pile. He looked at the dragon after each task. Still sleeping. Still hot. The stone vibrated softly against his hand.
He was so tired by dusk that it felt like he had answered a question no one had asked. He filled the silver bowl again, shaved a piece of marrow, and ate his soup by the fire while the wind blew low along the roof. Then, at last, he went to the stack of books he had set aside for a real problem: a dragon that was asleep.
Five or six books had different versions of the same title, all with a black-letter MAKERS' MARK and a border with a sprig that made it look like someone thought dragons were cute. He picked the one that felt the least cursed and broke it carefully. The writing had the dry, proper tone of an old Healer's manual, and for once, he was happy about it.
On Temperature and Tonic: The basal heat of adult dragons is measured at the joint of the inner wing. Cold makes it hard to digest food and can cause lung rot. Give the stone a steady heat and keep it out of the wind while it heals. Don't wake it up right away unless it is in danger of drowning or suffocation.
On Membrane Care: When dry or salty, wing membranes tear just as easily as sailcloth. Use a mixture of rendered fat and beeswax as a grease, and repeat after flying through ash or snow. Don't use spirits; they break the film.
Feed and Water: Enough meat to keep you warm and healthy. A dragon that doesn't eat will burn both muscle and temper. To get people to drink in the cold, give them warm water with a bone scent.
He read more, writing a list in the margin of a ruined ledger with a pencil: heat—check; windbreak—check; hydration—needs work; salve—can make; stimulants—avoid unless shock; never corner; never crate; wake on voice, not on touch.
The Gringotts spill had an extra pouch of potion supplies. Hermione's thrift had packed his whole war. He put what he had on the bed shelf: tallow, a wax candle he could make, a twist of comfrey, two vials of dittany, a heel of willow bark, and three leaves he didn't know what to do with yet. He set them aside until he could test them without blowing himself or the dragon's wing up.
He looked at a second book that had survived the frost and used its index.
Simple Salves and Syrups for Big Animals:
— Membrane Balm: fat that has been rendered, beeswax, two drops of dittany, and a thumb of comfrey that has been steeped and strained. Warm it up to spread it, but don't burn it.
— Scale Oil: warm marrow and thin fat; brush along the scale lines, not against them.
— Firegland Cooler (for dragons with fevers): a mixture of willow bark and snowmelt. Please don't use too much; it weakens the flame.
He thought it was surprisingly easy, but then he remembered that most dragon-tenders lived far away from apothecaries and didn't have time for complicated recipes. He cut the candle's wick, melted the wax in the silver bowl, added tallow until it was soft and shiny, then added two drops of dittany and comfrey tea for good measure. The smell was fresh and a little green. He let the bowl cool down until the shine faded, then put it on the shelf and wrote "wing balm" on a piece of leather.
The last book was older, stranger, and had a mix of field notes and warnings. He didn't need its poetry, so he didn't quote it to himself. He learned the essential things, like how to tell the difference between pain and anger by the position of the pupils, why a dragon might press heat to its belly (to ease pain or just for comfort), and what the long, low rumble meant when there was no danger in sight (to be happy or to dream).
He put the book down next to the balm, closed it, and stood at the mouth of the longhouse for a while. The dragon kept sleeping, its breath coming out in puffs and its claws still curled around the warm stone. He didn't want to wake it up, and the book didn't say he should either.
He said it quietly, "Tomorrow. Water. Balm. A good look at that wing."
He looked at the meat pit and the smoker one last time, tightened the guy-lines on the lean-to, and quickly counted in his head: five deer down to quarters, two more hung, strips smoking, bones for broth, hares in the snowbox, trunks-to-be stacked and waiting for joints and hinges, and broomsticks stowed under the bed, ready to go.
He went back inside and added a line to the plan: "Trunks—cut joint pins; fit lids; inscribe expansion on interior panels; lightening to the rims; shrinking latch under leather flap." He drew the runes from memory, and Hermione's voice was as clear as if she were standing over his shoulder, correcting a stroke here and a proportion there. The same clean ache rolled through him and settled.
He banked the fire, put his coat over the end of the bed to warm it up, and closed his eyes on a day that had been nothing but chores and a sky that was big enough to hold them all.
This place didn't care if he was ready. But he would be more ready Tomorrow.
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The morning was grey and thin. Harry walked past the ward line with the shovel, came back with a basin of warmed snowmelt, and went straight to the longhouse. He now knew how to take care of the dragon: heat in the wing joints, comfort in the belly, and wake on voice, not touch. Knowing this made everything clearer when he saw the beast.
He could see the trouble spots the book had marked up close: the inner wing joint where a pulse of heat should live; the hinge where the outer spar folded; the soft triangle at the corner of the eye; the underside of the jaw where scales thinned to skin; and the long seam where belly plates met the pliant hide. There were no more lash cuts, but the dryness where the wing membrane met the bone was still there. It looked like a faint, brittle line when the light hit it. The scales around the belly seam had a chalky edge from the cold.
"Easy," he said, putting the basin where the dragon could reach it with its foreclaw if it woke up thirsty. He hadn't touched it yet. He let the smell of warm water and a hint of bone broth fill the air. This was an old trick the book suggested to get the dragon to drink more in the cold.
After that, he worked.
He rubbed the wing balm between his hands until it got shiny, then pushed it along the inner membrane line, a thumb's width at a time, spreading it with the flat of his knuckles and never dragging against the grain. The dragon didn't move, but its breathing changed. It slowed and grew heavier, as if some part of it agreed. He drew a thin line of balm around the eye ridge and the hinge of the jaw. Then he walked the belly seam with a light touch, putting a film where the scales met the skin so the plates wouldn't break when they finally stretched.
The inner wing joint felt warm to the touch, which was good, and the breath came in steady, wet waves. He put a new warming charm on the joint, another one on the edge of the membrane, and then stepped back to let the heat and salve do their job.
The books also included a simple nutrition tonic good for cold places and lean weeks—something even a trapper could find. Last night, he copied the recipe:
Melted marrow (to add fat and warmth)
willow bark tea (to lower fever and ease pain)
A handful of juniper berries and some spruce tips (to clear the lungs and settle the gut)
a little bit of comfrey (for healing)
Two drops of dittany (to close what the eye couldn't see)
Bone broth base that was thinned with warm snowmelt so it would pour
He already had most of it inside the warded circle. He got the rest from the tree line: juniper rolled across the snow like beads, and spruce tips fell softly like feathers. He pulled on it twice to make sure that whatever rule in this world didn't like direction didn't mind simple summoning. No, it didn't. The berries hit his palm hard, and the tips hit his bowl.
He put the tonic in his head under "first waking, not right now." The pages were clear: Don't wake up a recovering dragon to feed it unless it is drowning, suffocating, or bleeding. He would brew it and keep it warm. The dragon would take it when it wanted it.
Next, hunt.
The sledge runners worked well on yesterday's trail. He dashed along the creek and found new slots by a broken fir tree. A herd had stayed there all night, melted a bowl into the snow, and left at dawn. He crouched down and listened for the faint crunch—pause—crunch that meant feeding. Then he moved forward one careful length at a time.
"Stupefy."
Doe down.
"Stupefy."
Yearling.
The herd broke into the shadow of the pines, and a bear, an adult male, winter-lean but broad across the shoulders, thundered in the other direction. It made him dizzy and rose, its jaws open and ice in the fur at its chops. Harry didn't try to aim at anything else.
"Stupefy!"
The red bolt hit just above the breastbone. The bear fell like a door that had been cut down.
Knife work again. Thanks, brutal and honest, whispered between quick, deep cuts. Bleed, tie, and pull. He hit the deer with a whip for the first two runs and made a rough spreader for the bear to keep the hide from bunching up. It took longer because he had to carry more weight, make more stops, and use short bursts of Leviosa to cross frozen ridges without breaking the drag line. By noon, he had three deer under the longhouse roof and the bear stretched out for skinning. From every wound, a steady white rope of steam rose.
If you stacked the meat wrong, it could go bad even in the cold. He stood there for a moment, thought about it, and then built a second shed on the far wall. It had quick posts, a low roof, a windbreak on the north side, and hooks made from forked limbs. It wasn't nice. It didn't have to be. It kept snow off the muscle and let air through.
Again, lunch was soup: venison, marrow chip, and a few juniper berries crushed between gloved fingers. He missed salt like a tooth that had fallen out. He missed pepper, thyme, and whatever Molly Weasley put in her winter stews that tasted like cloves. But he ate without letting himself think about anything else. Survival didn't care about how good it tasted.
He found two hammered cauldrons in the vault and scrubbed them with snow until the metal squeaked. Then he put them on flat stones by the fire. Balm in one: tallow and wax mixed, comfrey soaked and strained, and two drops of dittany added off-heat so they didn't burn. The tonic was made with bone broth, marrow whisked until the surface shone, willow bark simmered to a brown tea and folded in, and juniper and spruce tips bruised and bagged in a bit of cheesecloth to steep without clogging a dragon's throat.
When the skin tried to form, all that was needed was a slow boil and a stir. He put a charm on the hearthstones—gentle Calefacio, the kind that made brick warm instead of hot—then wiped his hands and looked at the stack of planks.
It's time to make trunks out of wood.
He used charcoal and the fine tip of the Wand to draw out the joinery: half-blind dovetails at the corners to keep the frames together even if a peg broke, oak dowels spun from scrap to hold the joints, and lid rails that were cut down to fit a leather gasket. He could use the Wand to make the fit just right for a hair, and the knife to show that it would hold without magic. Pegs went in with a satisfying thud of wood. Lids fit snugly and squarely.
Next, runes.
He drew the simplest, safest expansion array Hermione had hammered into his head on each lid panel. It was a four-fold symmetry with an anchor knot in the middle, sized to fit the inside and tied to the box wood—not the lid—so that if the hinge broke, a pocket universe wouldn't spill into the snow. He drew a shallow, even lightning band along the frame to make the weight feel like empty wood. He sewed a shrinking charm into a leather tab at the front for the latch. To make it smaller, he would pinch and press it, and to make it bigger, he would counter-pinch it. He didn't need to say anything if his throat was frozen or if he had to work quickly.
He tried each charm three times because he didn't want to argue with physics or magic on faith.
Test one: books. Put a dozen heavy books (dried by the fire and wrapped in oiled cloth) into Trunk A. Pinch them to make them smaller, lift them, and put them back. The rune lines held, and the books hadn't moved or warped. He put charcoal packets in muslin to soak up moisture, and when he realised he had dropped the Wand into his sleeve without thinking, he slipped it back into his sleeve.
Test two: potions and their parts. Trunk B had a rack of jars with waxed corks, pouches of dried herbs, a ledger with copied recipes, a cauldron kit that was tied to the inside with leather, and the balm and tonic were put into stoppered bottles for travel. The lightening band was on, and the balance stayed true even when he put it on one corner and tried to tip it like a bully.
Test three: sorting coins and jewellery. He didn't care about money, but metal was metal, and some of the pieces screamed curse without saying a word. He used a pair of bent forks as tongs to stack clean coins on one side and put anything prickly into a box wrapped in cloth inside the trunk. He then carved a tiny alarm rune beneath it that would ring against his tooth if the lid opened without his hand on it. Pinch, shrink, and then fix—no cracks in the seams and no bleed-through.
By the time he put down the mallet, dusk had laid iron across the clearing. Two trunks were done sitting by the door, with their lids on and leather latches tied.
A third frame was dry-fit on the trestles and ready for pegs the next day.
He stirred the balm (which smelled green and was shiny) and the tonic (which was fat with a thin resinous sheen) and poured a flask of the latter into a hammered silver pitcher. He took it to the longhouse and put it there so it could cool down all night and be used in the morning. The air smelled like marrow and spruce. The beast kept sleeping, with its foreclaws still curled around the warm stone as if it had been made for that purpose.
"Not yet," he said softly. "Very soon."
He put two new wind-cutter stones on the corners of the meat shed, checked the smoke draft, and reset the perimeter chime to pick up anything heavier than a fox on his way back. This world didn't say anything back, just like it did yesterday.
He brushed sawdust off his sleeves, hung his coat by the fire, and let the pain in his hands rise, peak, and then go away. He would finish the third trunk Tomorrow, start a fourth, and go fishing in the river and take a real bath. He had warmth, water that smelled like bones, wing balm, and a tonic that would put heat back under the dragon's scales if it woke up.
Next week passed quickly.
Day One.
He woke up to a pale room and a fire he could nurse with two breaths. Shovel. Bathroom. A basin with melted snow and broth in it. Next came the longhouse.
It was easy to put on the salve where the book had drawn lines, but hard everywhere else. The dragon slept with its pale armour and folded sail wrapped around it. He could get to the joint in the inner wing and the seam in the jaw. He couldn't get to the belly seam without crawling under claws that were as thick as fence posts.
He mumbled, "Right. We'll talk it over."
He rubbed the balm between his hands until it became slippery, and then he tried the first trick the manual suggested in a footnote: change the heat. He moved the hot boulder from his right foreleg to his left, and his fingers hurt, and the runes were hot under his skin. Five heartbeats later, the dragon moved a yard of muscle and plates toward the warmer side. It rolled just enough to show the dry edge of its wing and the weak spot where its belly met its hide.
"Good," he said softly, like when he was talking to Buckbeak on a bad day. "Stay there."
The nutrition tonic made his nerves worse. The book said to feed the sleeping dragon by magic, not by touch. But at some point—day one, he decided—it was necessary. He filled a hammered pitcher, slid a knee to the ground far away from the teeth, and kept his voice low and steady.
"Simple. Hot water. Bone marrow. Juniper. You'll like it."
It felt like putting his hand in a letterbox with a guillotine inside when he opened the mouth of a sleeping dragon. He put his fingers on the hinge, felt the soft give that the manual said it would have, and let go. The jaw opened, heavy and warm, with rows of ivory ridges that caught the light of the lamp. He poured slowly, letting the smell and warmth do the work. The throat worked once, twice, and the beast swallowed without waking. He retook a breath without knowing he had been holding it.
He cleaned the pitcher, made a new pot for Tomorrow, and went out to hunt. By nightfall, the sledge had brought home four deer. He butchered, put the quarters in the snow pit, cleaned the smoker, and slept like someone had traded his bones for iron.
Day 2.
The boulder trick worked. The heat left, and the dragon rolled to the heat, where it cracked in the cold. He worked while talking because being quiet felt rude.
He said, "You're crazy," as he smoothed balm over the membrane join. "Totally huge. We're both acting like this isn't scary."
He fed again, this time with a slow pitcher, and watched the throat line work. He put up a second longhouse beam to double the hanging space, pegged the third trunk frame together, and wrote the lightning band by lamplight. Hunt, kill, and stack. Five deer today. His hands learned how to do the work, and his back learned to take short breaks before pain turned into damage. He added a new ward: a ground-level tremor chime that the books said would work for big beasts. He'd know if anything close to the size of a deer crossed the line.
Day 3.
The wind blew hard from the north, pushing snow against the meat shed. He made sure the guy-lines were tight, kicked paths, and made two more wind-cutters. Put salve on the edges of the wings, the seam of the jaw, and the soft triangle by the eye. There is no dryness now, just softness. He added a little more spruce to the tonic because the book said that the smell made the dragon thirsty.
The dragon showed up without any trouble. Harry used two enchanted buckets that didn't freeze to carry water from the river. He used the same hearthstone charm to heat them. Hunting brought in three deer and a boar. He cursed the boar—bad drag, bad temper, even stunned—but the fat turned into good balm.
He finished Trunk forty, which had potions and ingredients, and began Trunk forty-one, which had tools and lines. He tried shrink/restore in the cold, and the leather tab worked even when his fingers were numb.
Day 4.
He tried things out. Point Me blinked toward the river and then died. After a respectful walk around a red-leafed tree he wouldn't go near again just yet, the wards felt stronger. He ignored the faint humming of the Wand near the tree.
He fed and salved on time, moving the stone left and then right as he talked.
"We're moving you up from 'dying' to 'sleeping on purpose.' It's a promotion," he said, his knuckles slick with balm. "Payroll's in deer."
He brought in four animals on two sledges, cut more strips for smoking, and used wax to make fat for the balm for the next week. He made a small trough from rocks outside the longhouse and heated it. This was a place to give the dragon water without having to deal with its jaw if it woke up thirsty.
Day 5.
He woke up with a pain in his side and a bad dream stuck behind his eyes. Ron was laughing, Hermione was scolding, and both of them were leaving through a door that wasn't there. He got over it at work. Check the salve, the food, the heat, and the breathing. Today, the sides of the dragon moved up and down faster. He decided it wasn't a fever. Dreaming.
He said, "Good dreams," anyway.
Hunt was clean: he killed five deer from two small herds with quick shots, clean bleeds, and no tracks that weren't his own. He set out two more traps and found only fox tracks around the edges. He lined Trunk One (the books) with oiled cloth, filled it with charcoal packets, and packed it all the way to the top. Shrink. Bring back. No harm done. He walked along the ward line, counting his steps, and put up two warning signs carved into flat stones. If he had to run blind, his feet would find them.
Day 6.
It snowed all morning. It was light enough to work through but thick enough to muffle sound. He sang while he worked, but it wasn't a song; it was a tune that was easier to sing than to talk. He poured half of the pitcher into the trough and left the other half there. He saw the dragon's nostrils flare once when it smelled something—moving forward.
Hunt was hard to find under the new snow. He followed an old bear trail and only found a den that he remembered from a day when he needed a pelt. Instead, he got four deer and went back early to fix a seam on the smoker because ice had gotten under a roof shake. He put in two new pegs and ran a bead of sealing charm. He wrote down the recipes for the salve and tonic in a leather-covered notebook that he had waterproofed with oil and wax. Then he put the original books in Trunk One. The knowledge would live on even if the longhouse burned down.
He put the Wand under his pillow and the sword on the peg where he could easily reach it without looking.
Day 7.
He woke up as if someone had pulled him. The world outside was as quiet as flour that hadn't been spilt, and the coals inside were like patient red eyes. He did what he had to do, stretched out the kink in his back, and brought the balm to the longhouse.
"Morning," he said, because routines made the day feel real. He moved the stone from left to right and felt the heat grow on his shins. The dragon moved, as he had expected, and showed him the line he had come to think of as his to protect. He rubbed the salve between his hands to warm it, then worked on the hinge, the inner wing, and the jaw seam. The membrane had a little bit of give, like well-oiled leather. Great.
He said, "You are big," to keep his hands from shaking. "Do you like this? Yes, you do.
He turned to get more balm from the bowl when something in the room changed. He felt it before he saw it, just like he felt a Bludger break his ribs a breath before it did.
He went back.
Two big, pale eyes were open for the first time in days. They had slit pupils and were steady, watching him like he was a new star that had fallen into the longhouse.
Harry yelled, slipped on a patch of melted slush, and fell hard enough to see sparks. The bowl shook, and a slick of green balm spilt over his wrist.
There was a quiet moment between the boy on the floor and the dragon wrapped around a warm stone. It was the kind of quiet that happens when two creatures realise they are real.
"Hi," he said, because that was all he could say. "Don't bite."
