Slurp…
Dumbledore sipped his hot cocoa, squinting contentedly, his expression relaxed. His beard and hair hung loosely, and he wore a sky-blue dressing gown. Behind his desk, an old diary lay open.
The portraits of past headmasters on the walls were asleep, heads bowed, breathing evenly.
On a shelf perched a phoenix, freshly reborn from its ashes. Its vibrant feathers hadn't regrown, leaving it a wrinkled, pink, and frankly ugly creature.
Fawkes nestled in the Sorting Hat, eyelids drooping, head bobbing as if on the verge of sleep.
Dumbledore held a quill, pausing thoughtfully before writing slowly:
Christmas 1992 is approaching. The past year has been peaceful for the wizarding world. Hogwarts' staff and students have spent another term together, and we're on the cusp of a new year, a fresh start.
The Great Hall's Christmas decorations are splendid.
We still have some troubles to resolve. Cornelius and the Board of Governors plan to review the school. Professor Lockhart won't recover soon, leaving the Defense Against the Dark Arts post vacant again. Minerva and Melvin will have to cover classes.
The diary offered no response.
Dumbledore, slightly disappointed, set down his quill and flipped back a few pages. The entries from days prior remained unchanged—neat handwriting, dark ink, no signs of being absorbed.
Tom, if you don't show yourself, I'll burn this diary.
The diary finally reacted. The yellowed pages trembled, and angry words appeared.
Finally dropping your hypocritical mask, Dumbledore?
You can't fool me with your fake diary-writing act. You can't defeat Voldemort. You can't kill me—the real me is still alive!
Destroying this diary won't kill me either! You'll get no information from me!
Dumbledore smiled faintly.
The diary held sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle, while the 111-year-old headmaster sat outside. A reunion of teacher and student, nearly fifty years in the making.
Perhaps you're right, Tom. A Horcrux cheats death in a vile way, but there are many ways to destroy a person. Your failure proves that.
There's nothing worse than death, Dumbledore!
Dumbledore's lips curled. Compared to the mature Voldemort in the diadem, sixteen-year-old Tom was far easier to talk to. Is that so? Then would destroying this diary kill the sixteen-year-old you?
…
Ink swirled on the page, as if young Tom's furious, petulant face could be seen screaming through the paper.
Dumbledore sipped his cocoa, waiting patiently.
Outside, a crescent moon hung above the tower. The night was long, and old men needed little sleep—they had plenty of time to talk.
…
Christmas Morning
Melvin felt a faint draft, a cool breeze brushing his face, so subtle it was barely noticeable except for its chilly touch.
A faint hissing sounded near his ear.
…
Opening his eyes, he met a pair of glossy black ones, a tiny horn nearly touching his nose. No wonder it felt cool.
The baby snake had been awake for who-knows-how-long. It had climbed out of the wizard hat serving as its temporary nest but didn't wander or cause trouble—just coiled by his pillow, staring.
It should've been creepy, but with this little snake, it somehow wasn't.
Melvin washed, dressed, and left the bedroom.
In the center of his office, a pile of variously sized gift packages awaited—some in ornate boxes, others in casual burlap sacks. There were plenty, including over a hundred cards.
He recognized some signatures: Madam Malkin, pub owners, colleagues, last year's graduates, and a few Hogsmeade shopkeepers.
The rest were unfamiliar.
Melvin opened a card at random:
Dear Professor Melvin Levent, We write with heartfelt gratitude for your guidance and support. Under your teaching, our son Marcus Flint became a hero, bravely facing the Basilisk… With our sincerest Christmas wishes, Ursula Flint.
Little Ursula Flint, Amos Diggory, Augusta Longbottom…
Melvin opened a few more, recognizing the surnames. These were parents of his students.
The cards thanked him for his teaching, giving their children a chance to shine in the papers. Gifts varied: rare herbs from Madam Longbottom, a handmade wallet and raisin cake from Mrs. Weasley, potions, and more.
Books were the most common—apparently, people thought professors loved reading.
Mrs. Flint's gift was the bluntest: a three-pound gold brick.
Merlin knows how the owl managed to deliver it.
Ulm slithered through the gift pile, half its body wedged in a gap, tail dangling and twitching. It seemed to relish crawling in tight, dark spaces, hissing excitedly.
As Melvin unwrapped packages, the snake burrowed deeper.
Beyond the obligatory gifts, those from last year's graduates felt more sincere: souvenirs from their travels, items from their first jobs, self-brewed potions, curse-free ancient artifacts, or shed teeth and claws from magical creatures.
Colleagues' gifts matched their personalities, as last year.
Dumbledore sent an illustrated wizarding adventure book about a 17th-century wizard's secluded village life. Five chapters, each detailing a minor spell solving a problem, ending happily with the villagers.
Melvin was prepared, gifting Dumbledore a dark, twisted version of Andersen's fairy tales.
Last year, Snape sent a Mute Antidote. This year, no potion—instead, a parchment with a minor hex.
Tongue-Locking Curse: Glues the target's tongue to the roof of their mouth, preventing speech…
Melvin found it amusing.
In duels, it silenced opponents' spellcasting, but coming from Snape, it felt dripping with malice.
His gift to Snape wasn't bad either: premium Occamy egg shampoo, nabbed from Lockhart—perfect for Snape's hair.
…
The Great Hall and corridors were festooned with decorations.
The castle, adorned by staff and students, felt grand yet playful compared to Hogsmeade's streets. A dozen silver-frosted Christmas trees lined the halls, thick garlands of holly and mistletoe hung on walls, and magical snowflakes drifted from the enchanted ceiling, warm and dry.
Hagrid trudged through the snow into the entrance hall, shaking flakes from his shoulders, his boots leaving wet prints. Passing the fir Christmas tree he'd hauled in, he couldn't help but look up.
It was transformed—candles flickering, ornaments gleaming like a work of art.
Even Mrs. Norris, trailing his prints, paused to stare at the sparkling decorations, momentarily ignoring the giant who'd dirtied the hall.
"Heh…"
Hagrid took a seat near the back of the head table, pulling a Daily Prophet from his moleskin coat. The newspaper, nearly as big as his palm, was opened carefully as he read.
The main story was still the Chamber of Secrets series.
Shock! Last Heir of the Founders, Investigation into Their Legacy…
Slytherin's Unknown Secrets: Beyond the Chamber and Basilisk…
The Truth Behind Slytherin and Gryffindor's Feud: A Love-Hate Tale…
Maybe because it was a Christmas special, the headlines felt odd but irresistible, even for Hagrid, who wasn't a newspaper fan.
Since the Chamber story broke yesterday, he'd been hooked. Last night, he read the paper, hugged Fang, and cried until midnight. Then he snuck to The Three Broomsticks and Hog's Head to hear patrons discuss it, analyzing the fifty-year-old case and its wild theories.
Whenever they mentioned his cleared name, he felt a surge of joy.
Unable to resist, he broke his sobriety vow with a bottle of Firewhisky.
Scanning the Great Hall, Hagrid didn't see Harry or the others. Coughing into his hand, he sniffed his clothes—no strong odor; the snow had blown away the alcohol's scent. Relieved, he relaxed.
Flipping to the last page, he found a report by the long-missing star journalist, Rita Skeeter.
On the fifty-year-old case, this reporter interviewed Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office. Scrimgeour stated that the ruling on Rubeus Hagrid was fair. The Ministry didn't pin the death on him due to insufficient evidence, but his unauthorized raising of dangerous magical creatures violated school and legal rules, justifying his expulsion.
Hagrid remembered that cold-faced Auror from last year's unicorn investigation. Unlikable git.
The reporter also interviewed Amelia Bones, who disagreed. For a minor student causing no deaths, expulsion was punishment enough; snapping his wand was excessive, per the Wizengamot's judgment.
After review, Rubeus Hagrid may submit a written request to the Ministry and visit Diagon Alley to acquire a new wand.
Hagrid's nose stung, his eyes welling, but he didn't cry. Muttering, he said, "Bunch of idiots, fools, dimwits. My wand was never destroyed."
Choking up, he noticed an odd glance.
Turning, he saw Melvin standing nearby, smirking. Embarrassed—having cried in front of Melvin before—Hagrid waved the paper. "Did you see this? That star journalist is back, not stirring trouble this time. She interviewed Ministry folks, cleared up that snapping my wand was wrong. I'm starting to like her!"
Melvin's smirk widened. "Is that so?"
"Thought she was a heartless hack, but she's got some integrity. I'm gonna write her a thank-you letter." Hagrid sniffled, masking his emotions, his voice lighter. "Oh, did you get my gift?"
"Got it. The Fwooper gloves are warm—I love them."
"Heh, Fang and I loved your beef jerky." He scratched his head. "Think I should send that journalist a pair of gloves to say thanks?"
"Skeeter probably wouldn't like them."
"How do you know?"
"Just a guess…"
Melvin chatted a bit before finding the hall's fireplace too warm. He headed to the courtyard for fresh air.
Hagrid planned to reread the paper. As Melvin walked off, Hagrid paused, sensing something off but unable to pinpoint it.
Melvin seemed familiar with that journalist.
Why?
…
The courtyard was livelier than last year.
A group of boys waged a snowball fight, chasing and shouting, their snowballs growing larger and harder. No one backed down, their clothes soaked with snow outside and sweat inside, playing until their overheated heads cooled, then panting back indoors.
Dumbledore and Flitwick watched from the corridor, eyes crinkled with warm smiles.
"Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas, Melvin."
Another professor joined them.
Melvin followed their gaze to Percy, a model student not joining the snowball fight, just watching. He wore a sweater knitted by his mother, his prefect badge pinned to his chest.
What was so interesting?
Melvin looked closer, seeing nothing odd, and asked, "What are you looking at?"
Dumbledore, grinning, said, "Waiting to see when he notices his prefect badge has been tampered with."
Melvin peered again and stifled a laugh. The badge's letters, originally "Prefect," had been transfigured to "Pinhead."
No question who did it—George and Fred Weasley.
Melvin shook his head. Students pulling pranks was one thing, but a headmaster and a professor gawking? He joined them anyway.
More students noticed, passing Percy with stifled grins. At first, he thought they admired him—a hero who faced the Basilisk—but the odd looks multiplied, and he grew suspicious.
Checking his outfit, he spotted the badge and flushed crimson.
"George! Fred!"