December 25, 1992, Friday
I woke up to the warm, slightly damp sensation of someone drooling on my chest. Two someones, actually.
For a blissful, disoriented second, I wondered if I had died heroically in my sleep and been rewarded with the embrace of angels. Then the numbness hit me. My arms… Merlin's beard, where were my arms?
Oh. Right. Pinned under two beautiful women using me as very enthusiastic pillows.
I cracked one eye open. Aurora was curled against my right side, hair everywhere, lips parted as she breathed softly over my ribs. Rosmerta was sprawled over my left, one leg thrown over my hip, her cheek mashed against my shoulder, leaving a warm little patch of drool as a signature.
Both women snored softly in alternating patterns. Like some sort of romantic symphony.
I couldn't feel either arm from the elbow down, but looking at the two beautiful naked women sleeping by my sides made it absolutely worth it.
I exhaled slowly, trying to shift. My left hand twitched uselessly, like a dead fish. My right arm was completely gone, might as well have been blasted off in a duel.
Time to attempt the noble art of slipping away without waking anyone. I moved by millimeters, gently peeling Rosmerta's thigh off my hip and sliding an inch toward freedom.
No such luck. She clung even harder.
Then Aurora mumbled something into my chest, something that might've been my name or maybe a spell to hex my spine off.
Their warmth, their messy hair, the quietness of the room… it was paradise.
I tried again, slower this time. A soft groan escaped Aurora as her eyes cracked open, bleary and unfocused.
"…Gilderoy? What time is it?"
"Just six in the morning," I whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Far too early for you to be awake."
Rosmerta stirred next, blinking at me like a confused cat. "Why're you moving…?" she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
"I'm not escaping, I promise." I leaned over and pulled the quilt up over both of them. "Go back to sleep. You deserve it."
They blinked at me in sync, still half-dreaming, watching me as I slipped out of bed and quietly dressed. I'd just fastened the last button when Rosmerta propped herself up on an elbow. "Where're you going?" she asked, voice low and sleepy.
"To visit my mother," I said softly. "Just a short one. I'll be back in two hours, plenty of time for breakfast."
Aurora sank back into the pillow, eyes already drifting shut. "Mmm… okay… hurry back…"
Rosmerta's hand reached for me lazily. I went to her first and kissed her gently. She hummed happily, already half-asleep again.
Then I leaned down to Aurora. Her kiss was soft, warm, still drowsy. She didn't even open her eyes. "I'll be right back," I whispered.
They both made a content little noise, as if I'd just promised them Christmas itself.
And quietly, I slipped out into the winter morning.
…
The moment I stepped outside, the cold morning air bit into my skin. I pulled out my wand, took one steadying breath, and Disapparated with a soft crack.
When I reappeared, the world was silent and still. I stood before the tall iron gates of St Jerome's graveyard in Godric's Hollow, a quiet little place where magical families lived woven between unsuspecting Muggle neighbors. The gates were closed, as it was too early. But when you have magic at your fingertips, simple locks can't keep you out.
"Alohomora."
The lock clicked open obediently, and with a gentle push, I slipped inside.
My breath fogged in little ghosts as I made my way between rows of gravestones. Snow crusted the ground, crunching beneath my boots. The wind whispered between the monuments, carrying that unmistakable December chill, the one that always managed to sneak past scarves and coats to settle somewhere inside the bones.
I paused at the Potters' grave. Harry's parents. The stone was dusted with frost, so I cleaned it with a wave of my wand and conjured a bouquet of lilies. It felt like the right thing to do.
Then I kept walking.
It didn't take long to reach the one I was here for:
Euphemia Lockhart
1932–1983
(Beloved Wife and Mother of Two)
"Long time no see, Mum," I muttered.
Even though I'd read those words many times, the last line still stung. Mother of two. Not three. Never three.
I could fix it with a flick of my wand. Merlin knew it was simple enough. But I never did. My father and sisters had made their wishes clear long ago, and honestly… they weren't wrong to cut me out back then.
I pulled my wand again, but not to clean her grave with magic. Instead, I conjured a small bundle of mundane cleaning tools. Brushes, a bucket, and cloths.
Dad always hated it when Mum used charms for household chores. And my sisters… well. They hated magic because of me.
So I cleaned the grave by hand. For two full hours. Scrubbing stone until it gleamed, pulling weeds until my fingers grew stiff and cold. Only when the tombstone was pristine did I reach into my extension-charmed pouch and withdraw the bouquet of lilacs I'd grown with Professor Sprout's help.
Mum's favorite.
Also the reason lilac has always been my favorite color.
When I finished, I let myself drop unceremoniously to the frozen ground, leaning back against the tombstone. The cold seeped through my cloak, but it felt grounding.
"So," I said, as if she were sitting right beside me. "You won't believe this, but I'm a teacher now. A good one, even. I know, shocking."
I talked about Hogwarts. My students. The basilisk mess. Aurora and Rosmerta; my brilliant, stubborn, infuriating, wonderful women. I talked until the sky brightened from grey to a pale winter blue.
Around 8:30, I heard footsteps crunching through the snow behind me.
At first, I ignored them. People rarely approached strangers in cemeteries.
But the footsteps stopped right beside me, so I finally looked up.
A woman stood there, blonde hair the exact shade as mine, though tied back neatly; pale blue eyes, softer and duller than my own; a face that still looked younger than her years. She was two years older than me, but somehow always looked eternally twenty.
"Hello, Gwen," I said quietly. No posing, no charm, just me. "Long time no see."
"Gilderoy." Her voice was neutral. Flat. Not cruel, but not warm either. Just… distant.
"How's Dad? And Glenda?" I asked.
Gwen's expression softened by the faintest degree. "They're better now," she murmured. "Glenda got married after you left. She has a daughter now, Emily. She's turning seven next month." She swallowed. "She, um… shares your birthday."
That stunned me more than it should have, me, Gilderoy Lockhart, an uncle? And the last time Gwen had spoken to me, she'd looked at me like I was something she'd scrape off her shoe. Time really does dull sharp edges, I suppose.
"That's… nice," I managed.
A pause. The wind rustled frost-covered leaves. "Did you get my gifts?" I asked. For years, my infuriatingly vain former self had sent each of them signed copies of my books. This year, I'd sent something different, an album of memories from before everything fell apart. Extracted from my mind with a charm I found in an ancient book in the Room of Requirement, created by Rowena Ravenclaw herself.
Gwen bit her lip. "Dad thinks we don't know," she said quietly, "but he's read all your books. Countless times."
That alone nearly knocked the breath out of me.
"Glenda burned all the copies you sent her," she continued. "I did too, at first. I even helped her throw them in the fireplace. But I kept the last two you sent."
She hesitated. Then: "And… I loved the photo album."
My voice came out softer than I expected. "What changed?"
Her answer was barely above a whisper. "I held onto the grudge longer than I should have." Her eyes glistened in the morning light. "I missed you. But jealousy's an ugly thing." She kicked at the snow. "Mum always favored you. You were her miracle. Her magical child."
She swallowed again. "It wasn't fair to blame you for her mistakes. And Glenda, she'll never admit it, but she misses you too. Emily had her first bout of accidental magic a few months ago, and Glenda… she broke down crying. Said it was like finally getting what she always wanted." Gwen's voice cracked faintly. "She wasn't just jealous of Mum's favoritism. She was jealous you had magic. I was too."
I lowered my eyes to the frozen grass, processing the information. "I miss you all as well," I murmured.
Silence settled between us. Not harsh. Just… fragile.
I pushed myself to my feet and brushed snow off my cloak. When I met Gwen's gaze, her pale blue eyes were watching me carefully, curiously. As if trying to piece together who I'd become.
"I have to go," I said. "Somewhere important to be."
I hesitated, then added very quietly: "…Can I send you letters?"
She studied me for a long moment, like she was measuring the man in front of her against the memory of the arrogant, glittering phantom she once knew.
Finally, she nodded and almost whispered. "I'd like that."
And for the first time in nearly a decade, my sister gave me a real, honest smile.
…
By the time I returned to Hogsmeade, my fingertips were still numb from the cold graveyard wind, and my thoughts were drifting somewhere between melancholy and warmth. I could already picture Rosmerta's cozy inn, the smell of cinnamon and roasted ham, and of course, the two women currently asleep in her bed, no doubt sprawled across every available inch.
As I stood before the door of the Three Broomsticks, my mind drifted to the personalized Christmas gifts I had sent out. Choosing them had taken almost as much time as enchanting and crafting them, but I think it would be worth it.
For Dumbledore, three pairs of personally knitted woolen socks. Yes, knitted. By me.
Each pair enchanted to remain at the perfect temperature and decorated with animated animals: tiny phoenixes flickering into flame and back again, goats prancing and butting heads, and lions stretching lazily in miniature sunbeams.
McGonagall's was easy, simple, elegant and practical. A pair of enchanted reading glasses that automatically adjusted to the wearer's vision and helped increase reading speed by up to fifty percent. And a little ball of yarn filled with catnip just to mess with her, because I know exactly how often she uses her Animagus form when no one is looking.
Flitwick got an enchanted step platform. A tap of his wand and it rises, lowers, tilts, anything he needs so he never again has to climb a stack of books just to reach his own podium.
Kettleburn received the strangest and most adorable thing I could find: a rare kneazle-wampus hybrid cub. It looked like a normal kitten… if you ignored the extra pair of legs and the fact it would eventually grow to the size of a lynx. He'll definitely adore it, and knowing him, probably lose another finger or two to it.
Hagrid got an enchanted whistle that turns emotions into sound. Surprisingly useful with magical creatures. If he plays it while calm, creatures calm; if excited, they perk up. He'll love it.
Madam Hooch received every broom I found in the Room of Lost Things that still worked, along with enchanted flight-robes that reduce wind resistance. The brooms were for the school, the robes for her.
Bathsheda Babbling got a luxury rune carving kit. Professor Vector got a Muggle numerology book, she'll either mock it or get obsessed. Hard to tell.
Every other staff member received something tied to their subject.
The Weasley twins, of course, got Muggle prank gear: itching powder, fake vomit, joy buzzers, exploding pens. Their thank-you letter will probably be sent from whatever detention they earn first.
Ron, who had endured being my assistant for a full month, got something actually useful: an enchanted quill that writes faster, improves penmanship, and corrects spelling. Merlin knows he needs it.
And Snape… oh, Snape got the best present of all. A moving photograph of a young, third-year me dancing with Head Girl Lily Evans inside the Gryffindor common room during one of their parties. In the version I sent him, the picture freezes right when I look up at her green eyes with an infatuated expression, utterly lovestruck. That alone will torture him for months.
What he will never know is that the original continues.
Where, because of our difference in height, I accidentally slipped a hand onto Lily's perfectly shaped rear and gave it an unconscious squeeze, causing her eyes to blaze with fury.
And then James Potter swooping in like a jealous falcon, grabbing me under the arms and tossing me away like a sack of potatoes before spinning Lily around until she laughed.
A harmless copy of just the spinning and laughing part went to Harry.
I remember I had to bribe the photographer with twenty galleons to burn the negatives. So the only unaltered copy is mine.
Smirking to myself, I pushed open the door to the Three Broomsticks and immediately felt the warmth hit me; wood polish, cinnamon, mulled wine, roasted meat. And the familiar hum of magic.
Rosmerta was at the stove with her wand out, orchestrating half a dozen breakfast dishes that floated through the air like a parade. Aurora stood beside her with a notebook, scribbling down spells like a ravenous researcher.
The moment they saw me, their faces lit up.
Aurora rushed forward so quickly she nearly tackled me, her quill clattering to the floor. She peppered my face with kisses; cheeks, nose, and forehead, mumbling thank you, thank you, thank you between each one.
Her telescope had been my proudest creation this year: enchanted lenses, and the insides engraved with Rowena Ravenclaw's personally designed rune cluster, offering clarity beyond any model on the market. She could see nearly three times farther, with perfect sharpness. Even useful in daylight.
Her excitement warmed me more than the fireplace did.
Rosmerta, meanwhile, finished her spellwork with a flourish. Breakfast floated onto the table in neat lines; eggs, sausages, roasted tomatoes, fresh rolls. Only when the last plate settled, did she turn toward me.
And sashayed.
She stalked toward me like a cat who had already claimed me as prey. Then she hooked a finger under my chin, pulled me down, and kissed me deeply, slow, lingering, utterly confident. The kind of kiss that steals air, thoughts, and possibly years off your life.
All that for a pair of enchanted heels that made standing all day feel like lying down on a soft bed.
Oh yes.
Christmas was going very, very well.
…