This year's Christmas holidays were livelier than usual.
The petrified students had all woken up and, instead of going home, chose to stay at Hogwarts for the festivities.
They spent their days chasing each other through the castle, skating on the Quidditch pitch when the weather was clear. Given their heroic feat of defeating the basilisk, the professors were lenient with their rowdy antics. But the young witches and wizards were getting out of hand, even attempting to sneak into the Forbidden Forest.
Hagrid dragged them back, and Professor McGonagall gave them a stern scolding. Undeterred, they turned to exploring the castle's secret chambers and passages.
During the holiday, the students roamed the castle, poking and prodding for hidden mechanisms. Poor Professor Flitwick had to repeatedly fix the garlands and holly they disrupted, as his carefully arranged decorations were thrown into chaos.
By Christmas Eve, the Great Hall's decorations were still unfinished. Flitwick had no choice but to enlist everyone's help—three Heads of House, Melvin, other professors, Filch, and even Mrs. Norris.
Melvin held a vibrant red ribbon, pinning a crescent-shaped ornament to a Christmas tree. He turned to ask, "Professor Kettleburn, why stay at Hogwarts this Christmas? Not off to Romania to see the dragons?"
"I've seen enough dragons this summer," Kettleburn replied. "I wanted to spend more time at Hogwarts."
"That sounds a bit sentimental."
"I'm retiring in six months. It's hard not to feel a little nostalgic."
With only one arm, Kettleburn struggled to hang a ribbon on the fir tree, using his pinky to hold a star-shaped ornament while balancing with a cane. The effort was both strenuous and inspiring. "Sixty or seventy years, it's been," he mused.
"I remember decorating the Great Hall like this when I was a teaching assistant," McGonagall added softly.
"…"
Melvin, too young to join in their reminiscing, moved to Hagrid's side, gesturing for him to shift a fir tree to the right. "Hagrid, when you hatched Aragog, did you keep it in a cupboard the whole time?"
"Yup, it was real well-behaved," Hagrid said, heaving the sturdy tree with a grunt and sliding it over.
"Well-behaved?"
Melvin raised an eyebrow. "How old was it when it understood you? How'd you teach it to talk?"
"'Bout a month old, I think. Can't recall exactly," Hagrid said, scratching his head. "Fed it some breadcrumbs a few times, and Aragog got the gist of what I was sayin'. Didn't need teachin'. By a month, it was chattin' with me. Real smart, that one."
"…"
Are spiders smarter than snakes?
Melvin sank into thought.
His coat pocket stirred as a tiny horn nudged it open. The young serpent poked out its head, its glossy eyes scanning curiously, tongue flicking incessantly.
---
London, Diagon Alley's south side, Daily Prophet headquarters.
"Rita, perfect timing…" Barnabas Cuffe's steady voice and warm smile greeted colleagues as he walked through the office corridor, nodding to passing editors.
Given the extraordinary news from Hogwarts, the editor-in-chief had pulled out all the stops, calling back key editors and reporters from their holidays with hefty Galleon incentives. They were crafting a headline to set the Christmas season ablaze.
The Ministry had no union, and with generous pay, the staff were happy to work overtime, all smiles.
Located on Diagon Alley's edge, across from the dilapidated Flourish and Blotts, the Daily Prophet office buzzed with frenetic energy, a stark contrast to its neighbor's quiet decay.
Fresh from her ordeal, Rita Skeeter looked less flamboyant, her appearance more subdued. Walking beside Cuffe, she occasionally seemed dazed by the bustling newsroom.
Cuffe pushed open his office door, not dwelling on her change. Glancing to ensure she hadn't brought her notorious Quick-Quotes Quill, he nodded approvingly.
The old Rita, obsessed with sensationalism, was fading. Her old tactics boosted sales but tarnished the paper's reputation—third-rate at best. A true ace reporter looked further ahead, with subtler methods.
"Besides the school's professors and the students' parents, we're the only ones who know the full story. It's an exclusive," Cuffe said, outlining the situation. "The story's compelling enough on its own. We don't need to stir up drama—just spark curiosity and reveal part of the truth."
Rita nodded, pondering.
"Whether it's Hogwarts or the Ministry's Law Enforcement Department, avoid creating conflict. The Daily Prophet has some clout, but we're small fry compared to them. Focus on the students, not the institutions."
Cuffe handed over a stack of prepared materials. "Here's what we've drafted. Polish it with your flair, but tone down the school and Ministry's presence."
"…"
Rita froze. The paper's approach to this feature seemed entirely different from before.
---
Thetford, the Oak Barrel Pub.
Old Will limped back to the counter, ready to polish glasses to pass the time, when he heard the flap of owl wings from the back courtyard—likely a delivery.
Hobbling over, he found an owl with the day's newspapers.
"The evening edition, huh…"
The Oak Barrel's patrons, mostly Aurors and Ministry workers, were news junkies, often visiting to discuss headlines over drinks. The pensieve's arrival, with its Quidditch matches and videos, had slightly reduced newspaper debates.
The counter offered free copies of mainstream papers, a small perk.
They subscribed to twenty-nine copies of the Daily Prophet—cheap at one Knut per issue, a Sickle covering half a month, less than a bottle of Firewhisky.
Old Will unwrapped the stack, placing them on the counter's rack. About to return to his glasses, he caught the front-page headline and grabbed a copy for himself.
"Hogwarts Founder Slytherin's Chamber Opened: 37 Students Defeat Basilisk!"
Patrons quickly gathered, snatching copies after seeing the headline. The stack vanished, leaving latecomers to peer over shoulders and read along.
Within minutes, the pub was abuzz.
Wizards reread the article, chattering excitedly.
"Salazar Slytherin's been dead for nine hundred years, hasn't he?"
"The Chamber's just a myth, isn't it?"
"Didn't the Gaunt family die out?"
"How'd this come up out of nowhere?"
"…"
The Chamber reopened, a basilisk awakened, and dozens of students risking petrification to fight it—how fantastical was that?
Old Will flipped through the pages, pouring himself a Firewhisky.
---
Wiltshire, Malfoy Manor.
Candles floated out of the entrance hall, illuminating the garden with vibrant red ribbons and star-and-moon ornaments, dazzlingly beautiful.
The entire manor glowed at night.
Most of the Malfoy house-elves were busy in the kitchen, preparing for the grand Christmas feast, unmatched even without guests.
In the candlelit second-floor study, a roaring fire crackled in the hearth. Two figures sat on sofas.
The man in the main seat wore a long robe, his platinum hair framing a sharp, handsome face with a grim edge. A finely crafted wand rested at his waist. Opposite him sat a younger boy, twelve or thirteen, with a similar face but a receding hairline.
"Potter, Diggory, Edgecombe, the Weasleys, Flint's Marcus—they're all in the paper," Lucius said, frowning slightly, displeased. "Draco, why aren't you?"
Draco, distracted, wanted to play in the garden with the peacocks. "They're all in the drama club. You have to audition to join, and I didn't sign up."
"Who's the drama club's advisor?"
"Professor Levent."
"Why didn't you join?"
"Why would I? To perform on stage?" Draco scoffed. "Didn't you say Malfoys stay behind the scenes? Showing off is for fools."
"…"
Lucius fell silent. He had said that—ancestral Malfoy wisdom.
Waving Draco off to play, Lucius stayed in the study, reading the full article.
"Slytherin… basilisk…"
He frowned. Though the article didn't mention Levent, Lucius suspected the professor's involvement, perhaps tied to that diary.
If it involved the Dark Lord's secrets, Draco's absence might be for the best.
---
Devon, Ottery St Catchpole outskirts.
"Amazing, Ced! You're in the paper!"
A ruddy-faced wizard sat beaming, his short brown beard quivering as he unfolded the newspaper to show his wife and son.
His wife's smile was equally bright, proud yet tinged with worry. Mothers never wanted their sons in dangerous escapades.
Cedric's smile was wry. His parents were wonderful, but their effusive praise—especially in public—was overwhelming.
He had a feeling this Christmas would make him the centerpiece of his father's every conversation.
Sighing, Cedric explained, "It wasn't just me. The whole drama club, plus Harry, Hermione, and Ron—everyone pitched in."
"Our Ced's always so humble, such a gentleman," Amos Diggory said, prouder than ever. "The paper says you were the backbone, keeping everyone steady, organizing the attack. That's wisdom. Facing the basilisk without fear? That's courage. And while others might still be bedridden, you dodged petrification and came home for the holidays. Everyone knows who the real hero of this fight was!"
"Harry and the others uncovered the truth," Cedric said, exasperated. "And, Dad, I told you—I messed up. Getting petrified on purpose was the right move. Having every bone broken isn't fun."
"But you were the first out of the hospital, weren't you?"
Amos shook his head, flipping through the paper, disappointed it lacked photos.
---
"…We pay tribute to the brave young heroes who defeated the basilisk."
An elderly witch sat by a hospital bed, her vulture-stuffed hat on the nightstand, revealing a neatly combed white bun. Her aged voice trembled as she read.
This was the fifth floor of St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, a ward for patients unable to care for themselves, including her son and daughter-in-law, once proud Aurors.
Frank Longbottom stared blankly at the quilt, his face pale, body swollen.
Alice Longbottom toyed with her hair, gray despite being under forty, her face gaunt, eyes protruding.
Augusta Longbottom closed her eyes, wrinkles creasing her face.
Ten years ago, when Voldemort vanished, the world celebrated peace. But this couple was seized by deranged Death Eaters. Bellatrix Lestrange tortured them with the Cruciatus Curse, seeking Voldemort's whereabouts, leaving them shattered.
They couldn't comprehend Augusta's reading—Slytherin, Hogwarts, basilisk—all meaningless syllables, like the incoherent murmurs of other patients.
Only at Neville's name did Alice's eyes flicker, searching for her chubby son. Finding him absent, she lowered her head, disappointed, clutching a candy wrapper.
---
Carried by owl wings, newspapers reached wizarding homes across Britain and the Ministry.
As the only wizarding government, the Ministry couldn't fully shut down for holidays. Staff stayed on duty for emergencies, and in the dull holiday shifts, reading the paper was a rare pastime.
The Floo Network Authority office was no different.
"As the drama club's leader, Marietta Edgecombe stood firm against Lockhart's threats, uniting two other students to defeat him…"
Mrs. Edgecombe read aloud, savoring the brief passage, unable to get enough.
The desk lamp glowed, illuminating an unfinished proposal with words like "Floo Network," "pensieve," and "upgrade."
---