Chapter 27: Christmas—Harry Gains a Treasure
While they feasted, Ron ripped Chocolate Frogs to collect cards.
"Burrrp—let's see." He opened one. "Nicolas Flamel? Ugh, got him already."
Chatting with Lavender, Hermione heard the name and brightened. "I know!"
Ron jumped. "What?"
"Nicolas Flamel!" Hermione whispered. "He created the Philosopher's Stone."
Flamel was a grand wizard of alchemy and Dumbledore's old friend. The Stone was his post-heaven treasure.
Ron, wide-eyed, asked, "How do you know?"
"In Famous Wizards of Our Age." She ran for the book; Ron fetched Harry.
Huddled on the sofa, they found the entry. "Here— the Stone can turn any metal to gold and brew the Elixir of Life," Hermione read.
"No wonder it was moved from Gringotts to Hogwarts," she said. "He and Dumbledore are friends.
"And Dumbledore beat Grindelwald and Voldemort—safer with him than a bank."
They praised Dumbledore; Harry, propping the blade, thought: What a wondrous thing. If I had it, my brothers and I would be earthly immortals—what joy.
He wanted it again. Next day the trio scoured the castle for hidden vaults.
Alas, they found nothing. Burdened with lessons and the capricious stairs, Harry's temper flared. If not for Dumbledore's counsel, he'd have hacked them.
As the year's end neared, Harry fretted—he had gifts to send to heroes and teachers, a sumptuous drain. Generous to a fault, he ordered the twins to procure gold beads and brocades, silks and satins, rare materials, bright gold and silver—each parcel neatly tied for Snow-White, the owl, to carry.
She was nearly worked to death.
On Christmas Eve, the common room was cold and empty; the dorms deserted. Half a year away from home—who didn't miss their parents?
Students departed in flocks. Only Harry and Ron kept the hearth.
Harry was orphaned; Ron's parents had gone to Romania to visit the second son, so he couldn't go home.
Just the two of them—lonely but unbound. Harry brought two bottles of contraband spirits; Ron laid out meats from the hall.
They sat cross-legged, drank deep, and ate to bursting. Drunk, they flopped onto beds and slept till midday.
"Ahh—Harry, haven't felt this good in ages…"
Ron sat up blearily. No Harry. The door opened; Harry swept in with the cold.
His whole figure milky white with frost; an undershirt glittered with ice pellets; hair hung in icicles; cuffs crusted; each step creaked; a stamp shook down snow.
"You're up early—training again? I thought you were as drunk as me."
"I was born to hold my drink. Eighteen bowls only half tipsy."
Ron whistled. At their feet, a heap of ribboned parcels. "Right! Presents!"
Harry's pile was a hill. He opened Hagrid's—a wooden flute.
Then more: horseshoe chocolates from Hermione; a fifty-pence piece from Uncle Vernon; wool socks from Dumbledore; and from Mrs. Weasley a sweater and fudge.
Ron reddened at the bright green. "She knits us one every year. Didn't think she'd knit you one too."
Harry sighed. A mother's thread in a wanderer's clothes. With just one meeting, she sent him a hand-sewn sweater—how could he not be moved?
"Your lady mother's needle is a wonder. If she's free, I'll thank her in person."
Ron blinked. "You really like it?"
"Each stitch is feeling—how could I not?"
Ron saw the sweater anew and liked it better.
Harry opened another—Flitwick's: a black steel vambrace etched with runes.
A note in a bold hand:
Merry Christmas, Harry. This is the vambrace I once used in the dueling ring. When danger approaches, the runes will glow.
It's not as fine as your blade, but it's the best gift for you I could find.
He strapped it on; it resized itself.
"A fine guard!" He flexed, grinning. "What a professor! It scratches right where I itch!"
They packed their gifts and wrapped up to visit Hagrid.
Hagrid too was luck-cursed: mother cast him off; father died when he was Harry's age. On Christmas, while others gathered with kin, he sat alone in his shack.
Harry and Ron, carrying warmed wine, stepped into the white and trudged through the snow.
Half an hour later, they knocked. Inside was a clanging.
"Who is it?"
"It's Harry—come to visit, Brother."
The bolt slid; the door opened a crack. "Oh—Merry Christmas. Come in."
Inside was a furnace; snow melted from their boots.
Ron immediately sweated. "Hagrid, it's boiling."
Hagrid's eyes darted. "Oh—yes—Fang's afraid of the cold. I want it warmer."
Ron glanced at the boarhound sprawled limp, tongue lolling—more heat-stroked than chilled.
Something was fishy. What lay hidden in this heat?
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