December 24, 1992, Thursday
Yuletide at last. Or Christmas, as the Muggles insist on calling it, though between you and me, the only thing magical about their version is how spectacularly wrong they manage to be about everything. You would imagine wizards might avoid celebrating a Muggle holiday altogether, but no, the magical community adores Christmas. The only difference is a matter of tone: Yule is sacred, solemn, steeped in ancient spellcraft and rituals, while Christmas is more of a cheerful farce, a playful mockery of how easily Muggles believe anything wrapped in tinsel and sentimentality.
If you're wondering why we treat the holiday like this, simply consider the method by which "Father Christmas" supposedly enters homes to deliver gifts. Chimneys. Truly. Magicals couldn't resist poking fun at the idea. Christmas itself dates back to the fourth century, but wizards didn't begin celebrating it until the nineteenth, specifically after a very drunk wizard stumbled through several households using Floo Powder to pop in through chimneys, leaving transfigured gifts behind that would revert back into coal after a day and stealing whatever food he liked.
That, naturally, became the foundation for the modern Muggle depiction of Saint Nicholas. And thus, a drunken burglar became the blueprint for every Muggle child's favorite saint.
As for me, I am more than prepared. My gifts are arranged with impeccable taste and efficiency:
A small box of handmade chocolates and an autographed photograph of myself in impeccably tailored Father Christmas robes for every fan who has ever sent me a letter. It's important to nurture one's public image, after all.
For my students, I've assembled an assortment of sweets; charming, thoughtful, and universally appealing. And for those closer to me, including my colleagues, I've chosen more personal gifts. One must maintain professional goodwill, especially in a castle full of academics inclined to gossip.
…
The castle feels different during the holidays; quieter, yes, but not lifeless. Hogwarts never becomes truly silent. The ancient stones hum with old magic, the kind that stretches and yawns when most of the students are gone, relaxing like a house relieved to have a few days to itself. The air feels warmer in winter, oddly enough; perhaps the castle enjoys the season.
By lunchtime I make my way to the Great Hall, humming a tune I composed years ago and never bothered to publish, far too catchy; I'd never get any work done if the entire country was singing it at me.
The Hall is decorated beautifully: enchanted icicles drip soft silver light from the ceiling; a cluster of twelve Yule trees stand proudly in the corners, glittering with snow that never melts; and garlands of holly twist themselves into new shapes whenever someone isn't looking, as if competing for attention.
Only a handful of students remain for the holidays, maybe two dozen at most. Without the crowd, their chatter feels more intimate, echoing softly beneath the enchanted sky. And instead of the long house tables, a single round table sits at the center of the hall, large enough to seat the students and the few professors who stayed behind.
It gives the impression of a cozy gathering rather than a school meal. A nice change, really.
I sweep in, robes impeccable, and if a few students straighten up in excitement, well, who can blame them? Christmas may be tomorrow, but for them the holiday spirit arrives precisely when I do.
"Professor Lockhart!" a Hufflepuff girl calls, waving cheerfully. She has chocolate on her sleeve already. Good for her.
I offer her my most dazzling smile. "Miss Penwright, lovely to see you enjoying the festivities. Chocolate is an excellent source of magical energy and happiness, you know. Fully approved by experts like myself."
She beams at that.
I take my seat between Sprout and Flitwick. Sprout is wearing a hat shaped like a puffing mushroom, puffing out little clouds of spores from time to time, and Flitwick has a tiny wreath pinned to his robes that jingles whenever he moves.
Across the table, a few Gryffindors are laughing with some Ravenclaws over something on a plate, exploding snowball truffles, by the look of it. One goes off with a piff!, sending cinnamon-scented smoke drifting into the air.
It's domestic, warm, and almost normal.
Conversation drifts easily.
Flitwick asks, "All prepared for tomorrow, Gilderoy?"
"Prepared?" I chuckle. "My dear Filius, I was born prepared. Ask Father Christmas himself, he'll tell you I practically do his job for him."
A few of the students giggle; even Sprout snorts into her mulled cider.
I lean back, surveying the room. The candles float lower than usual today, casting a golden halo across the table. Snow drifts lazily from the enchanted ceiling, vanishing before it reaches the floor. Somewhere behind me, the Yule trees murmur softly, yes, they murmur, a gentle sound like branches whispering spells to one another.
This, this is the side of Hogwarts people rarely write about. The peaceful magic. The quiet wonder between disasters.
And, of course, the admiration of my students. A man needs something to warm the soul.
I take a sip of spiced tea, pleased with myself and with the day. Tomorrow will be excellent. My gifts will delight, the castle will shine, and everything is proceeding according to my grand plans.
If only the rest of the staff understood the sheer work that goes into being this festive.
…
The rest of the afternoon passed in a warm haze of Christmas decorations, carols, and the smell of cinnamon drifting through the corridors. But as sunset drew near, I found my nerves simmering beneath the surface.
A private dinner with Aurora and Rosmerta.
Together.
Both at the same time.
Whose idea? Aurora's; sweet, brilliant Aurora, who could stare down a Bludger but turned pink at the mere mention of romance. She insisted that if we were all to "move forward sensibly," as she put it, the three of us needed to speak openly and comfortably. A perfectly logical approach.
Still, logic didn't stop my stomach from twisting. Would they get along? Would jealousy flare? Harmony was vital if the plan for a new House, and two future Mrs Lockharts, was going to work. I could not lead a prestigious, history-shaping branch of wizarding society if my wives hexed each other across the breakfast table.
The walk to Hogsmeade soothed me a little. The snow fell in soft spirals, the village lanterns glowing like golden orbs in the dusk. I reached the Three Broomsticks, heart steadier now.
The door stood open invitingly, and slightly suspiciously.
I stepped inside, and the door slammed behind me with a dramatic BANG!.
"Not ominous at all…" I muttered.
The lights were dim enough for me to squint. In the center of the otherwise deserted establishment stood a single small table illuminated by a tall candelabra. Steam curled up from plates of Christmas dishes; glazed ham, roasted potatoes, spiced vegetables, and a magnificent turkey prominently displayed like a prize-worthy beast. Three sets of utensils were neatly arranged, polished to a mirror shine. Two bottles of wine waited beside them, breathing temptation into the air.
But Aurora and Rosmerta were nowhere to be seen. "Hello?" I called.
The Wizarding Wireless in the corner crackled, and suddenly Celestina Warbeck's voice suddenly filled the room, belting out one of her most theatrical Yule songs. The lights flared to life at the back of the bar, revealing a small stage I'd never noticed before.
And on that stage…
Oh. Oh my~.
Aurora and Rosmerta stood in matching sexy Muggle-style Santa dresses, short red skirts trimmed with white fur, tall black boots, little hats tilted roguishly to the side. Rosmerta was practically glowing, hips swaying with practiced, sultry confidence. Her movements were so smooth they might have been choreographed.
Aurora, on the other hand, was blushing so fiercely she could have melted the snow outside. She tried to mimic Rosmerta's steps, but every wiggle was timid and hesitant, adorably so. I could tell immediately whose idea this had been.
"Morgana's perky rear…" I whispered, trying not to gape like a first-year.
The song reached its crescendo, and both women struck a synchronized pose that would probably haunt (or bless) my dreams for decades. When the final note faded, they held still for a heartbeat.
Then I erupted into applause, clapping so hard my hands stung.
"Bravo! Bravo! Spectacular! Encore! Encore!"
Rosmerta practically glowed with satisfaction. Aurora ducked her head in mortification but couldn't hide the small, proud smile tugging at her lips.
The two of them sauntered toward me, Rosmerta with a slow, deliberate sway of her hips, Aurora more timid but still determined.
"Did you like it, Gilderoy?" Rosmerta asked, fluttering her lashes with weaponized charm.
To my surprise, Aurora looked at me hopefully, eyes bright and nervous, waiting for my verdict as if this were a performance graded on a scale.
"Like it?" I laughed in disbelief. "No, my dear ladies, I loved it."
They both lit up instantly.
Rosmerta swooped in, pressing a kiss to my left cheek; warm, bold, with the faintest teasing lick at the end.
Aurora leaned in on the right, her kiss feather-light, shy but unmistakably affectionate.
I blinked, taken aback, feeling pleasantly overwhelmed.
Oh yes.
This promised to be a very interesting evening. And if things continued like this… perhaps an even more interesting future.
…
We sat at the little table arranged like a perfect triangle. Rosmerta to my left, Aurora to my right, and myself at the apex between them. The candles flickered warmly, throwing soft gold over their faces as we slipped into small talk. Nothing heavy, nothing complicated, just the comfortable, familiar chatter of three people who genuinely enjoyed each other's company.
Rosmerta, naturally, had outdone herself.
The turkey was glorious, no other word fit. Perfectly golden, skin crisped to a delicate crunch, the meat tender, juicy, and almost indecently flavourful. Each time I praised her cooking, she rolled her eyes in that playful way of hers…but her smile kept tugging wider. What surprised me more was Aurora, sweet, shy Aurora, joining in.
"Rosmerta, the seasoning is incredible," she said at one point. "I've never tasted anything quite like it."
Rosmerta preened, delighted. I hid a grin behind my wine.
No jealousy whatsoever. No tension, not even a bit of awkwardness.
If anything, they seemed… happy with each other. A little too happy, perhaps, given the way they kept exchanging knowing glances.
By the time we finished the meal and leaned back with glasses of wine, I was blissfully content. Relaxed, warm, and just tipsy enough to stop worrying.
Then it happened.
A stocking-clad foot brushed my inner thigh, light, teasing, and dangerously close to territory that would make even a centaur blush. I stiffened, inhaling sharply.
Before I could react, a second foot joined from the other side and I froze.
My eyes darted between them.
Both women wore identical mischievous blushes from the wine, lips curved in sultry little smiles that could fell lesser men. Their gazes smoldered.
And they were tag-teaming me.
Me.
Gilderoy Lockhart.
For a moment I genuinely feared this was a hallucination brought on by too many Christmas fumes. That I'd blink and find myself alone in my bed back at Hogwarts. I gulped loudly.
Then shockingly, it was Aurora who broke the silence.
She leaned forward, eyes glowing with nervous determination. "Gilderoy," she said softly, "we… have another surprise for you."
My brain short-circuited.
Rosmerta's foot rose a little higher, giving little Gilderoy a gentle nudge, just to make sure I was paying attention.
Aurora continued, cheeks pink but voice steady, "But for this one, you'll need to follow us into Rosmerta's private quarters."
Rosmerta stood with fluid confidence, looping her fingers through my left hand.
Aurora rose more carefully, but she reached for my right with surprising resolve.
They both tugged.
And I, utterly undone, let myself be pulled up between them, wine glassy-eyed and stunned, moving with all the willpower of a man placed under a very pleasant Imperius Curse.
Whatever awaited me upstairs…
Well, Merry Christmas to me.
…
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