Glastonbury was eerily quiet during Christmas.
Most Brits despised the winter chill, so they'd fled to Southeast Asia or the sunny beaches of southern France for the holidays.
The townsfolk here were no different.
Snow blanketed the narrow streets, and even in broad daylight, the shops lining them were deserted, all sporting "Closed for the Season" signs.
No one noticed the flicker of green flames that briefly lit up an abandoned house by the roadside.
Edward stepped out of the fireplace, casually pushed open the door, and walked onto the nearly empty street.
After discussing with his parents, he'd traveled alone via the Floo Network to Glastonbury.
Though he'd promised them he'd steer clear of the Mirror of Erised, he still wanted to visit the abbey in person.
After all, it was the first place he'd seen in that strange, dreamlike vision.
The abbey was closed during Christmas, but Edward didn't need to pay to get in. For ages, the Bedivere family had been footing a hefty portion of the ruin's restoration costs.
As the benefactors, they could come and go as they pleased.
"Little Mr. Edward! Didn't expect to see you during the holidays! Not off on vacation with Mr. William and Mrs. Anri?" The abbey's caretaker, a cheerful man in his fifties and a retired soldier with an old injury, flung open the gate with a grin, ushering Edward inside.
Technically, the Bediveres were the ones signing his paychecks—pounds, not galleons.
Edward chatted with him briefly, asking if he was happy with the job, then wandered into the ruins alone.
Everything felt so familiar.
The abbey's exterior was long gone, reduced to crumbling walls, with only the arched carvings hinting at its former grandeur.
Though wizards and Muggles had done some restoration, it still looked dilapidated—nothing like the majestic version Edward had seen in his vision.
Inside the ruins of the Lady Chapel, the lush green grass of summer had withered to yellow, now buried under snow.
A simple plaque stood out, reading: "In 1191, monks discovered the tomb of King Arthur and Guinevere here."
Edward focused, trying to recall the details of his vision and overlay them onto the ruins.
He was now certain this was the Lady Chapel from his dream, right down to the exact spot of King Arthur's stone coffin.
Sadly, none of the Round Table knight statues remained—probably blasted to dust in that magical accident long ago.
The abbey wasn't large, and after trudging through the snow for a bit, Edward found nothing unusual. He let out a relieved breath, unsure what he'd been expecting.
Ghostly knights charging out of the woods with lances, circling him? Yeah, maybe not.
Since nothing seemed off, there was no reason to linger.
As Edward rounded a corner near Arthur's tomb, heading for the gate, something felt… wrong.
Both his gut instinct and his sharp eyes picked up on it: a pair of feet kicking wildly in a snowbank nearby.
Someone was stuck headfirst in the snow.
Edward glanced around, puzzled.
Glastonbury was practically a ghost town—no tourists, barely any locals, and a caretaker guarding the entrance. No normal person would stumble into the abbey and faceplant into a snowdrift.
A wizard, maybe?
Edward hadn't expected the "something unusual" he'd been half-hoping for to show up like this.
"Hey, kid, help! I Apparated into a snowbank!" a muffled voice called from the pile.
No time to overthink—Edward rushed over, grabbed the person's ankles, and yanked them out like a carrot from the ground.
"Cough, cough! Whew! Saved at last!"
The man collapsed onto the snow, gulping the cold air, looking like he'd just escaped death.
"Thanks, kid! Good thing you were here, or I might've been the first wizard in history to die from Apparating into a snowbank!"
He caught his breath, retrieved his round hat from the snow, and plopped it onto his slightly balding head.
"No problem, sir. May I ask who you are?"
Edward felt a spark of recognition looking at the portly, kind-faced middle-aged man, but he couldn't place him.
"Don't know me, but I bet you've had my ice cream, kid," the man said with a grin. "Florean Fortescue, owner of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor in Diagon Alley, at your service."
He doffed his hat with a flourish, though his belly made the gesture comically awkward.
Edward's eyes lit up the moment he mentioned ice cream.
Fortescue's Ice Cream. He'd been eating it since he was a kid.
Most Hogwarts students—and even some of their parents—could say the same. Every summer, Edward indulged in Fortescue's ice cream, sometimes at the shop, sometimes brought home by his parents. On a sweltering day, a cup of their magically unmelting ice cream was pure bliss.
"Mr. Fortescue, sorry, I didn't recognize you! I'm—"
Fortescue cut him off. "Bedivere kid, right? Edward?" he said with a chuckle. "I still remember you love orange flavor, light on the syrup, heavy on the ice, with a sprinkle of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans."
He tapped his wand on himself, and the snow clinging to him vanished.
"Spot on! Your memory's as good as Ollivander's," Edward said, genuinely impressed.
But Fortescue's identity didn't erase the question nagging at him.
"Why'd you Apparate here?" he asked bluntly.
"I was heading from London to a forest in northern Ireland for some ice cream inspiration—you know, there's this fairy called a Labhlaikan," Fortescue replied without missing a beat. "But if you're not focused when you Apparate, things go wrong. My mind wandered for a split second, and next thing I know, I'm in a snowbank. What about you? What brings you to Northern Ireland?"
Edward's face twitched.
He wondered if Fortescue was somehow related to Neville Longbottom.
"Uh, Mr. Fortescue, I think you're a bit off. You're still in western England. This is Glastonbury Abbey."
Fortescue's jaw dropped.
"What?"