After the book signing, Douglas discreetly rubbed his cheeks, which were sore from hours of smiling.
He then pulled Percy aside to discuss his plans to visit the Burrow that evening.
No sooner had he finished than Rita Skeeter swooped in, practically blocking his path. The other reporters looked on with thinly veiled disgust but, not wanting to tangle with Rita, drifted away to cluster near Mr. Slane instead.
Casting a disdainful glance at Percy, Rita turned to Douglas and said, "Professor Holmes, could we have a word in private? I promise it won't take long."
Douglas exchanged a meaningful look with Percy, then led Rita to a quiet corner of the bookshop—out of the way, but still in plain sight.
Rita Skeeter hesitated, then began cautiously, "Professor Holmes, I wanted to ask… well, I wanted to ask…"
Douglas gave a faint, amused smile. "What's this? Even the sharp-tongued Ms. Skeeter is at a loss for words?"
Rita said nothing, but her eyes spoke volumes: I won't say it, but you know what I mean.
Douglas's smile cooled. He didn't bother with pretense. "As long as those baseless rumors and slanders don't find their way into print, I doubt I'll have the time to write any 'Little Beetle's Adventures.' You understand me, don't you?"
Rita nodded vigorously, then—demonstrating remarkable tact—pulled out her notebook and, with a flick of her wand, erased every line her quill had written.
She adjusted her jeweled spectacles, scanned the area, and asked in a low voice, "Is that satisfactory, Professor Holmes?"
Watching her practiced efficiency, Douglas couldn't help but feel a grudging respect. This was a woman with formidable survival instincts—a cold pragmatist who'd managed to thrive in the wizarding world for years.
"Just remember what I said. I'd hate for a celebrated reporter like you to end up reading my novels in Azkaban. Though, I do hope they carry my books there."
Rita's face turned ashen. She gave a frosty snort. "I am curious, though—how did you find out…?"
Douglas replied with mock regret, "Oh, I thought you'd try to sneak close and dig up the truth yourself. I even brewed a special beetle repellent for the occasion—lemon-scented. Care to try it?"
Rita shook her head at once, inwardly relieved she'd decided to ask directly. Otherwise, she might have fallen victim to his 'repellent' without ever knowing why.
With a final cold huff, Douglas turned his back on her and strode over to Mr. Slane, where he began chatting amiably with the other writers and reporters.
The rest of the day was a blur of activity. Douglas flitted between shops in Diagon Alley and the Muggle world, gathering Christmas presents. He stopped by the post office to send gifts and letters to Muggle friends he'd made over the years, then visited the orphanage, delivering a batch of presents for the children.
Before nightfall, he hurried back to Hogsmeade and entered the village post office, home to hundreds of owls—from great greys to tiny screech owls. Douglas selected a handful of owls and dispatched his gifts and letters, most destined for Hogwarts professors or wizarding friends around the world, with a note that anyone wishing to contact him could send their letters via Percy Weasley.
Mr. Slane had grumbled again that day: ever since Douglas had revealed his true identity, wizarding friends unable to reach him sent their mail to Slane instead, who then had to forward it to Percy. "It's a nightmare," he'd complained.
Even at Christmas, Douglas preferred to keep his name magically concealed—he had no desire to see the sky blotted out by a horde of owls.
On his way back to his office, a sudden idea struck him. He doubled back and knocked on Professor McGonagall's door.
"Good evening, Professor. There's a small matter I'd like to discuss…"
Half an hour later, Douglas and Professor McGonagall set off in different directions to find the other professors.
Christmas morning.
Douglas awoke to find a heap of presents piled outside his door. Most were sweets and cards from students—though a few daring sixth- and seventh-year girls had slipped in love letters, which brought a wry smile to his face.
It reminded him of his own school days.
After memorizing who'd sent what, he quietly disposed of most of the edible gifts—just in case.
To his surprise, he found a gift from the Grangers, Hermione's parents, thanking him for looking after their daughter at school.
At the very bottom of the pile, he discovered a book with no note or signature: Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borage.
Douglas gritted his teeth. He was certain this was from Snape. If it hadn't been the first Christmas gift he'd ever received from the man, he'd have happily tossed it straight into the fireplace.
And of all things, a brand new textbook? Did Snape think he wasn't worthy of reading the Half-Blood Prince's annotations?
Down in the Hogwarts dungeons, in the Potions office, Snape immediately noticed an unsigned notebook among his own meager haul of gifts.
(Poor Professor Snape—he rarely received many Christmas presents.)
After confirming there were no magical traces, he flipped it open.
[Hotpot Base Recipes:]
Normal bases: clear broth, beef tallow, spicy, tomato, mushroom soup.
Potion bases: Euphoria Pot, Babbling Pot, Pepperup Pot…
SMACK!
Snape slammed the notebook onto his desk before he'd even finished reading, growling, "Douglas!"
He'd seen the normal hotpot bases before, when he'd helped the house-elves in the kitchen. But the potion bases—those were clearly derived from magical brews.
Douglas had tried this before, back when he was a student. During one Potions lesson, while brewing Euphoria Elixir, Douglas had produced some beef out of nowhere and dipped it into the potion—causing the cauldron to explode.
Snape had assumed he'd abandoned that idiotic idea years ago. Clearly, he'd been wrong.
From the recipes, Snape could tell at a glance that Douglas had actually succeeded—the hotpot bases retained some of the potion's effects, without causing unwanted reactions when combined with other ingredients.
With a final sigh, Snape shoved the notebook onto the lowest shelf of his bookcase. Out of sight, out of mind.
Compared to adults, students were far more excited to wake up and find a pile of presents at their bedside.
George and Fred were among the first to wake. Atop their mound of presents sat an official letter from Hogwarts.
"Oi, George, Hogwarts is actually giving us Christmas presents this year. What do you reckon's in the envelope? A Galleon?" Fred joked as he reached for the letter.
George's eyes widened in sudden realization. "Wait, I think I know what this is!"
Fred jerked his hand back, exchanging a horrified glance with his brother. "They've never done this before, have they?"
George shook his head, muttering, "I knew it—no grades before the holidays is never a good sign."
Fred sighed. "And the professors didn't let the class reps mark the papers this time. We've got no idea how we did."
Suddenly, George grinned. "Hey, look on the bright side. At least we didn't go home—Mum won't see our report cards!"
Fred shot him a grateful look, then tore open the envelope.
As expected, inside was their term report card for all five subjects.
The moment they saw their grades, they both regretted not going home after all.
Transfiguration: Acceptable.
Charms: Exceeds Expectations.
Defence Against the Dark Arts: Exceeds Expectations.
Astronomy: Poor.
Potions: Poor.
"Snape is so biased! My Potions should've been at least Acceptable!" Fred complained.
This scene played out across the castle. Every student below fifth year had received their exam results that morning.
Some cheered; others groaned—especially those who'd done poorly and gone home.
At breakfast in the Great Hall, the festive spirit was in full swing. More than a dozen Christmas trees, dusted with silver frost, lined the hall. The ceiling was strung with thick garlands of mistletoe and holly, while enchanted snowflakes—big as goose feathers—drifted gently down.
The tables groaned under the weight of nearly a hundred roast turkeys, each prepared differently: some with classic onion and sage, others with seasonings Douglas had introduced from his travels.
There were also roasted meats, sausages, and the usual boiled potatoes, plus pancakes and other treats—a true feast blending East and West.
This wasn't the first year for such variety. Ever since Douglas had earned his place in the kitchen, new and nontraditional dishes had found their way onto the Christmas menu each year.
Piles of wizard crackers lay stacked along the tables. When pulled, they exploded with a sound like cannon fire, engulfing students in clouds of colored smoke. Out popped hats, and sometimes even little mice…
One student, spotting a mouse, laughed, "Thank Merlin it's not Professor Holmes's test paper—now that would be terrifying!"
He hadn't finished when another wailed, "Oh no, why did I get a five-foot-long essay as my Christmas present?"
The hall erupted in laughter as students prayed not to draw a test paper from their crackers.
Douglas took his seat at the staff table just as Professor Flitwick was regaling Dumbledore with a joke. Dumbledore was wearing a lady's hat festooned with flowers.
Catching Douglas's eye, Dumbledore beamed and removed the hat. "Merry Christmas, Douglas. Like the hat? Here, try it on! Don't be shy—I have plenty more…"
Would Douglas ever refuse a gift from the Headmaster? Of course not. No matter how much he cringed inside, he donned the hat with a smile.
Then, drawing his wand, he grinned, "Since it's a holiday, let's do something a bit different.
I once traveled to the Muggle East, where they worship a deity called the God of Wealth…"
As he spoke, Douglas's hat and robes transformed. Suddenly, a blond, green-eyed figure stood before them, clad in a magistrate's silken cap and a red robe with a golden sash—radiating festive cheer.
The look drew delighted chuckles from the staff, especially Dumbledore.
"I don't quite know how to describe it, Douglas, but your getup is certainly festive. Reminds me of Muggle Santa Claus—though his robes are never this fine!"
With a flourish, Dumbledore Transfigured himself into Santa Claus, prompting laughter from the entire staff table.
Down below, students paused mid-unwrapping to gape at the two figures in red.
Seeing the attention, Douglas waved his wand through the air. Instantly, the falling snowflakes transformed into a shower of golden coins.
(Galleons, of course, can't be created by Transfiguration.)
Students scrambled to collect the coins—until they realized they weren't real currency.
Dumbledore clapped his hands in delight. "Marvelous Transfiguration!"
He too waved his wand, and dozens of colorful socks appeared, swooping through the air to scoop up the falling coins before dropping to the floor.
Professor McGonagall, not to be outdone, gave her own wand a flick. The Christmas trees suddenly opened their mouths and began singing carols, while the silver frost transformed into flocks of tiny butterflies, swirling around the branches.
The students were spellbound. The last time they'd seen such magic was at the Halloween feast.
Douglas surveyed the hall with deep satisfaction. Now, this was what a magical Christmas ought to feel like.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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