The two weeks following their return to a Basilisk-free Hogwarts were a period of intense, focused normalcy. The fear that had haunted the corridors was replaced by a renewed dedication to studies, as students scrambled to catch up on the lost time. The most significant and lasting change, however, was the new social standing of Hermione Granger.
Her transformation was the talk of the school. Boys who had previously seen her as nothing more than an insufferable know-it-all now stumbled over their words when she spoke to them. Girls who had once mocked her frizzy hair now asked her for styling tips, which Hermione, with a newfound, gracious confidence, would politely decline to provide. She carried herself differently, her posture straighter, her head held higher. Her contributions in class were no less brilliant, but they were now delivered with a calm authority rather than a desperate, hand-waving urgency. She was, in every sense of the word, glowing.
Her alliance with Ariana became even more formidable. The sight of the two of them walking together, a study in blonde and brunette, serene grace and vibrant confidence, was enough to make even the most boisterous upperclassmen step aside. They were no longer just 'the smart girls'; they were a recognized power couple of intellect and elegance.
Harry and Ron, for their part, were utterly flummoxed.
"Blimey," Ron muttered to Harry one morning at breakfast, watching Hermione and Ariana calmly discuss a complex arithmantic equation. "When did… how did Hermione get… you know?"
"I have no idea," Harry admitted, equally bewildered. "She just… came back from the holiday and she was… different."
They were happy for her, of course, but her transformation, coupled with her deep intellectual bond with Ariana, created a subtle distance. The girls operated on a level of focus and maturity that the two boys, with their interests still firmly rooted in Quidditch and exploding snap, couldn't quite match. Their friendship remained, but it had evolved. The girls were the strategists, the brains. The boys were the loyal, sometimes clumsy, field agents.
As the castle once again decorated itself for Christmas, the atmosphere was far more relaxed than the year before. The great mystery of the Chamber had been solved, the monster slain, and the threat, for now, had passed. Most students chose to go home for the holidays, but once again, the core group found themselves staying behind. Harry, by unspoken agreement, would never spend Christmas with the Dursleys if he could help it.
The Weasleys were having a quiet family Christmas at the Burrow, but Ron, having tasted the freedom of a Hogwarts Christmas, had begged to stay with his friends. Neville's gran was again visiting relatives. And for Ariana and Hermione, there was no question; the quiet castle was the perfect environment for their collaborative studies.
Christmas morning dawned bright and cold, the grounds blanketed in a fresh layer of snow. The pile of presents at the foot of each of their beds was a welcome sight. They gathered in the common room, the fire roaring, the five of them forming their own small, familiar family circle.
They exchanged the usual gifts—lumpy jumpers from Mrs. Weasley, books and sweets from each other. Then, it was time for Ariana's presents. As before, they were delivered without fuss, each one a product of deep observation and logical, targeted kindness.
She first handed a long, slender box to Hermione. Inside, nestled on velvet, was a wand holster. It was not a simple leather strap, but an intricate, beautiful piece of craftsmanship made of supple, dark brown dragonhide, embossed with a subtle, elegant pattern of intertwining vines. It was designed to be strapped discreetly to the forearm.
"I commissioned it from a specialist in Vienna," Ariana explained as Hermione stared at it, speechless. "It has a minor proximity charm woven into it. The wand will only release to your magical signature. It is a matter of efficiency and preparedness. A wand in your bag is a tool. A wand at your fingertips is a part of you." Hermione looked at her, her eyes shining with understanding. It was a gift that acknowledged her as an equal, a fellow combatant in whatever lay ahead. It was a symbol of their shared strength.
Next, she turned to Harry and handed him a nearly identical box. His holster was made of a sturdy, unadorned black acromantula silk, practical and built for action. "Yours is charmed for speed," Ariana said. "It has a faster release mechanism. In your case, reaction time is the most critical variable." Harry, who had often fumbled for his wand in a crisis, felt a surge of gratitude. It was a gift of safety, a tool that might one day save his life.
For Ron, she presented two items. The first was a professional-grade Beater's bat, made of magically reinforced hickory and bearing the scorched, snarling logo of the Chudley Cannons. The second was a pair of dragonhide keeper's gloves, also bearing the team's insignia. Both were signed by the entire current Chudley Cannons team.
Ron's jaw dropped. He stared at the gifts, utterly speechless. "But… how?" he finally managed to stammer. "I have an open line of correspondence with a contact from the Cannons," Ariana said simply. "I requested his assistance in procuring the items. He was happy to oblige." It was a gift that spoke directly to Ron's deepest passion, treating his dream not as a childish fantasy, but as a serious ambition worthy of professional-grade equipment. The fact that this contact came from the Flamels was for now, a secret kept to herself.
Finally, she turned to Neville. Her gift for him was not a box, but a single, sealed envelope of thick, creamy parchment. Neville opened it cautiously. Inside was not a card, but a formal-looking note embossed with the Ollivanders insignia. It was a voucher, paid in full, for the crafting of a new, custom wand. Tucked behind it was a handwritten letter from Ariana.
She watched his face as he read it.
Neville, the letter began. Over the past year and a half, I have observed your magical development.
You possess a significant innate talent, particularly in Herbology, a field that requires a deep, intuitive connection to living magic. However, I have also observed a persistent inconsistency in your spell-casting. This is not, I believe, a failing on your part, but a fundamental incompatibility with your instrument.
A wand chooses its wizard, Neville. It is a deeply personal, symbiotic relationship. The wand you currently use is your father's. While the sentiment is a beautiful and understandable tribute, it is his wand. It chose him. It did not choose you. You are attempting to channel your magic through a conduit that is not attuned to your specific magical signature. It is like trying to write a symphony with an instrument that is perpetually out of tune.
I have taken the liberty of speaking with your grandmother via owl post. I have explained my theory to her. She is a practical and proud woman who wants nothing more than to see you succeed and honour your family's name. The greatest way to do that is by embracing your own power, not by attempting to wield an echo of your father's.
This voucher is for you. But it is your decision to use it. I urge you to speak with your grandmother yourself. Tell her you are ready to become the wizard you are meant to be, with a wand that is truly your own.
Neville looked up from the letter, his round face pale, his eyes shining with a mixture of terror and a dawning, brilliant hope. For his entire life, he had believed he was a disappointment, a near Squib who constantly failed to live up to his heroic father's legacy. The thought that the problem might not be him, but his wand… it was a revelation so profound it shook him to his core.
Ariana had not just given him a gift. She had given him an explanation. She had given him permission to be himself.
"Do you… do you really think so?" he whispered, his voice trembling.
"I do not deal in speculation, Neville," Ariana replied gently. "I deal in observable data.
Your magical potential is significant. You simply require the correct tools to unlock it."
He clutched the letter and the voucher to his chest, a fierce resolve hardening his features. He would speak to his Gran. He would get his own wand. He would, for the first time, become his own wizard.
Ariana sat back, a quiet satisfaction settling over her. She had armed her friends. A holster for the strategist. A holster for the hero. Professional tools for the loyal heart. And for the quiet one with the hidden strength, she had given the most powerful gift of all: the key to his own potential.