Across Hogwarts Castle, Christmas morning unfolded with a curious mixture of surprise, amusement, and, though some would never admit it, genuine appreciation.
(Albus Dumbledore)
The Headmaster sat alone in his office, framed by the soft crackle of the fire, Fawkes preening lazily on his perch. When Dumbledore opened the parcel addressed in Lockhart's characteristically flamboyant handwriting, he expected, well, he wasn't quite sure what he expected. Glitter? Narcissism? Possibly both.
What he found instead were socks.
Three pairs of warm, woolen, animated socks, tiny phoenixes, goats, and lions stitched into the fabric, all moving gently as if alive.
Dumbledore froze.
For a moment the old man simply stared, a wistful softness coming into his eyes. Ariana had always knitted him socks for Christmas. Her stitching had been uneven, sometimes lopsided, but to him, they were perfect.
He traced a finger over the fabric. Fawkes let out a low, sympathetic trill.
"Thank you, Gilderoy," he murmured to no one in particular, and folded the socks with a tender smile that had nothing to do with flamboyant Defense professors at all.
(Minerva McGonagall)
Professor McGonagall's reaction was considerably more… efficient.
She opened her parcel at her desk, adjusted her spectacles, and pulled out the enchanted reading glasses first. A single test glance across a page had her eyebrows rising in unmistakable approval. They were crisp, precise, magically economical, just like she preferred.
"Mm. Very practical. Well done, Mr. Lockhart," she said, in the same tone she used when a student finally got a transfiguration right on the fourth attempt.
Then she reached into the box again and froze.
A ball of yarn.
She narrowed her eyes. "…Very funny."
Minerva tossed it onto a side table with a faint huff. Really, she had better things to do than indulge Lockhart's childish jokes about her Animagus form.
Hours later, after grading essays and suffering through a headache conjured by Ronald Weasley's handwriting, she closed her office door, transfigured elegantly into her tabby form, and jumped onto her favorite cushion for a quick nap.
That was when she smelled it.
Something warm, pleasant, comforting, and utterly irresistible.
Her feline head swiveled. The yarn ball sat on the table, the same one she'd dismissed earlier. She approached cautiously, sniffed once, froze…
…and then promptly flopped onto her side, paws wrapped around the yarn as she purred herself into an undignified, blissful nap.
(Filius Flitwick)
Flitwick opened his parcel with the enthusiasm of a child. When he uncovered the enchanted platform, he practically squeaked.
"Oh! Oh, marvelous!"
He hopped on immediately.
With a tap of his wand, the platform rose a few inches. Another tap, much higher.
Then he tapped again and injected much more magic, which made it shoot upward like a startled hippogriff.
"OH DEAR!"
He flew up with a startled yelp, robes billowing, hair streaming behind him as the ceiling rushed toward him at alarming speed. He barely managed a cushioning charm before landing in a soft magical puff across his own desk.
He lay there dazed for a moment, then laughed breathlessly.
"Exquisite!"
(Pomona Sprout)
Pomona opened her package and found a miniature dancing tree, barely eight inches tall, swaying happily from side to side like a very cheerful mandrake with rhythm.
"Oh, aren't you lovely?" she crooned.
The tree wiggled its branches excitedly.
She placed it on her desk, where it immediately began dancing in time with her humming. It was love at first sight.
(Bathsheda Babbling)
Bathsheda stared at the wrapped box as if it were about to explode.
"A gift. From him," she muttered. "Bold of him to assume I'll open it."
She nearly tossed it directly into her fireplace, but curiosity gnawed at her. After all… rune-carvers didn't receive many presents.
She opened the lid and her breath caught.
A top-tier rune-carving kit, polished to a shine, tools arranged with almost ceremonial care. Perfectly balanced chisels. Diamond-tipped styluses. Even a stabilizing charm etched onto the box itself.
"…Damn," she whispered.
She loved it.
She hated that she loved it.
And she hated even more that Gilderoy Lockhart of all people had given it to her.
(Silvanus Kettleburn)
Kettleburn's present did not sit still long enough to be examined. The kneazle-wampus hybrid kitten immediately pounced onto his shoulder, then leapt onto his arm, then bit his thumb with unnerving enthusiasm.
"HA!" Kettleburn roared, blood dripping onto the floor. "A spirited one! Brilliant!"
He cuddled the tiny beast while it gnawed on his sleeve, absolutely overjoyed.
(Rubeus Hagrid)
Hagrid examined the whistle thoughtfully. "A whistle, eh? Wonder what kinda sound it makes…"
He blew it gently.
A soft chime echoed, warm and calming, a literal sound of contentment.
Fang, across the room, perked up his ears, tail wagging so hard his entire backside swayed.
"Well, I'll be," Hagrid laughed. "Look at yeh, yeh great lump."
He blew it again, bright and encouraging, and Fang immediately bounded over to him, panting happily.
"That's a right clever gift," Hagrid muttered, rubbing Fang's ears with a grin.
(Severus Snape)
Snape opened the package with the expression of someone expecting a dungbomb.
The moment he saw the photograph, that expression soured further.
Gilderoy Lockhart, dancing with Lily Evans.
His grip tightened. Disgust churned in his chest, yet beneath it, as Lily's laughing face twirled through the frame, something else flickered. Something softer, painful, and familiar.
Longing.
He swallowed hard.
Then, with a curt gesture, he drew his wand. A shimmer ran across the surface of the photo. Lockhart's image vanished, replaced by a young Severus; awkward, stiff, but undeniably present in Lily's arms.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Then he tucked it away deep inside his cloak, where no one would ever, ever find it.
(Harry Potter)
Harry opened the simple envelope on his dormitory bed. When the picture slipped out, he blinked in surprise.
His parents were laughing, spinning, utterly carefree.
He watched it again and again. His smile only grew.
Ron glanced over. "Looks like they were happy, mate."
"Yeah," Harry whispered, warmth blooming in his chest. "They really were."
(Ron Weasley)
Ron's quill didn't impress him at first, until he tested it.
The handwriting came out neat.
Neat!
He sat bolt upright. "Bloody hell!"
Hermione, nearby, looked offended. "Ron! Language!"
But Ron didn't care. He was grinning too broadly, already writing faster than he'd ever written in his life.
(Fred & George Weasley)
Fred opened the box and George peered over his shoulder.
Their eyes met, and slow, identical grins stretched across their faces.
"I think," Fred said thoughtfully, "that Percy has been far too relaxed lately."
"Criminally relaxed," George agreed.
Ten minutes later, Percy Weasley let out a shriek that echoed across Gryffindor Tower, courtesy of exploding pens, a joy buzzer handshake, and several squirting ink flowers left carefully arranged on his desk.
Fred and George high-fived. "Best Christmas ever."
…
December 27, 1992, Sunday
Two days had passed since the best Christmas I'd ever had. I was still riding the afterglow of good food, warm firelight, and… well, the kind of affectionate enthusiasm that leaves a man walking funny the next morning.
When Aurora and I returned to the castle yesterday, I'd slipped away to my room to check the presents waiting for me. Thanks to the owl-redirection ward I'd set up, every student, staff member, distant acquaintance, and overexcited fan had successfully funneled their gifts straight into my private quarters.
I could barely open the door.
The entire floor was buried under parcels. Stacks of them towered against the walls like unstable monuments to my own vanity. Even my bed had vanished beneath boxes tied in every conceivable shade of ribbon. Thank Merlin for the intent wards layered over everything; nothing malicious got through. A man of my fame doesn't only attract admirers, after all.
Aurora and Rosmerta had already given me their gift in person. Just one, shared between the two of them. Understandable, considering what it was: a full set of dragonhide battle robes. Pearly white with lilac accents, handcrafted from Antipodean Opaleye hide, known for its incredible beauty. They shimmered faintly when I put them on, like moonlight rippling across armor.
I'd looked like the magical version of a knight in shining armor, straight out of a romantic painting.
Rosmerta and Aurora had apparently agreed, as they'd dragged me straight to the bed for another round of lovemaking before I even had the chance to admire myself in the mirror.
As for the staff…
Dumbledore sent a handwritten book of his own making, a compilation of battle-magic insights and clever tricks with Transfiguration. How to turn the terrain against your opponent. How to use basic charms in unexpected ways. Exactly what I needed, considering battle experience remains the one thing my talent can't fake.
McGonagall's gift was a precise, uncompromising treatise on Transfiguration efficiency. Every line read as if she'd personally slapped my wrist for sloppy spellwork.
Flitwick sent a dueling manual. Sprout gave me a small potted plant that changed its scent every few hours; always pleasant, always surprising.
From Kettleburn, I received something surprisingly thoughtful, and deeply practical. It was a thick, battered notebook stuffed with his own handwritten notes detailing all the things that might make different magical creatures try to kill, maul, bite, gore, or dismember you. Every page was filled with frantic scribbles, warnings, revisions, and the occasional scorch mark. It was, without question, the most valuable survival guide I now owned. Judging by the ink blots and the dried blood stains, he hadn't held anything back. Touching, in a deranged sort of way.
Hagrid's gift nearly gave me heart failure. A blanket made entirely of unicorn tail hair; pure white, impossibly soft, and magically warm. The kind of thing that should have been locked in a Gringotts high-security vault, not folded neatly in brown paper with a ribbon tied crookedly on top. For someone who constantly insists he's broke, Hagrid has an uncanny knack for gifting things worth more than my entire wardrobe.
Bathsheda Babbling, of all people, sent me a hundred-year-old bottle of aged Ogden's Firewhisky. A hundred years old. That's the sort of thing you drink only on the eve of a world-ending prophecy or after defeating an ancient eldritch horror. She even included a thank-you note for the rune-carving kit I'd sent her. The handwriting was neat but tense, as if she wasn't sure whether showing gratitude to me might curse her reputation. Still, Firewhisky is Firewhisky. I consider it a victory.
And Snape… well.
I hadn't expected anything from him. Not after the little photograph I'd gifted him. But there, wedged between a pink box of Honeydukes chocolates and a knitted scarf, sat a thin package wrapped in morose charcoal-gray paper.
Inside was a bottle of slow-acting poison.
The note that came with it was wonderfully poetic in that uniquely bitter way he seems to have patented. According to him, ingesting the contents would provide "forty-eight uninterrupted hours of exquisite, indescribable agony," during which one's body would slowly liquefy from the inside out. Organs dissolving. Bones softening. The brain being the last to go, so one could appreciate every horrific detail until the final gracious second.
He concluded with the suggestion that I "do the world a favor" and eliminate my "cursed existence."
Charming, really.
But the bottle had passed through the intent wards without complaint. Meaning he didn't actually mean to hurt me. Empty threats, wrapped in black humor. Snape's version of affection. He'd never admit he cares in any conventional way, but underneath all the scowling and melodramatic gloom, he's the magical equivalent of a tsundere with a cauldron.
…