Christmas arrived in the blink of an eye.
In the early morning, the hooting of owls outside was a bit noisy.
Melvin stirred awake, slowly opening his eyes.
The logs and charcoal in the fireplace had burned to ash, leaving only a smoldering pile of embers. The room still held a lingering warmth, the air dry and slightly stuffy. With a flick of his wand, Melvin opened the window halfway, letting a rush of crisp air flood in, carrying the howling sound of the north wind whipping across the grounds and towers.
A pile of parcels sat on the carpet beside his bed.
He changed out of his pajamas and leisurely went through his morning routine.
Hogwarts had 24-hour hot water—who could believe it?
All thanks to the house-elves, the true backbone of the school.
By the time he stepped out of the bathroom, the stale air that had built up overnight had cleared. Melvin sat by the bed and began unwrapping his Christmas parcels.
With old friends an ocean away, he wasn't expecting gifts from them this year. Having only been at Hogwarts for three or four months, he hadn't made many wizarding acquaintances, so the gifts weren't exactly overflowing. He sorted through them quickly.
Madam Marchbanks had sent some homemade cookies—charmingly imperfect in appearance, clearly her own handiwork.
A few elective professors sent tasteful men's accessories, likely thinking they suited his style.
Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick sent books, while Professor Sprout gifted dried flower buds with a lingering fragrance.
Dumbledore's gift was a storybook, The Toadstool Tales: Origins by Beatrix Bloxam. The publisher's note on the title page described it as: "These stories obsessively focus on the most dreadful themes—death, disease, bloodshed, dark magic, unhealthy personalities, and the most revolting bodily eruptions and explosions."
Melvin didn't bother guessing what the headmaster was thinking. Maybe he'd pass it off to a student for a reading comprehension assignment.
Snape's gift was a small vial of antidote for a silencing potion—a pointed jab.
Sensing the potion's thinly veiled malice, Melvin tucked it away, planning to offload it to Mr. Borgin later.
The final letter was the most unusual. It wasn't on parchment, and the ink lacked the usual wizarding fragrance. It was a plain Muggle letter, yet it bore the seals of both the Owl Post Office, marked by the American Magical Congress and the British Ministry of Magic.
Opening it, he found it was from his assistant:
Melvin—
Hey, it's me, your forgotten subordinate, Claire. I bet you're shocked to get this letter. I was just as surprised when I started writing it. After I moved to Disney, I tried reaching you—phone calls, texts, emails, nothing. The theater didn't have your contact info either. I half-wondered if you'd been arrested.
Then someone from Woolworth Tower tracked me down. Honestly, I have no idea how they found me. They knew my address, knew I was looking for you, and asked about your time at the theater—specifically how you pulled off those special effects. I'm guessing they're some kind of government agency, Pentagon types maybe? Their questioning style screamed "clueless bureaucrat." You know the vibe.
A semi-decent guy named Graves let slip that you're teaching at some remote, backward school on the British border. No electricity, no internet, completely cut off. Regular channels can't reach you, so letters it is. This is my seventh attempt—the first six got sent back for "international review." Honestly, I'd rather believe you're locked up for leaking state secrets or something.
…
Anyway, I have no idea how you pulled it off, but I thought I was just heading to some Hollywood company for training. Instead, I landed at Walt Disney, with full employee benefits and bizarrely smooth promotions. Everyone thinks I've got some big-shot backing.
Thanks to that, I'm being transferred to Paris after the Christmas break to help manage the new Disneyland opening next year…
Boss, are you still my boss!? Write back soon.
Merry Christmas. Hope you get this before the holiday.
Your not-so-loyal subordinate, Claire.
Melvin set the letter down, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He opened an ink bottle, and while waiting for the quill to soak up the ink, he began mentally drafting a reply.
…
In the headmaster's office.
Perched on a shelf, Fawkes the phoenix nestled in a tattered old hat, legs tucked under, head bobbing sleepily. Though too drowsy to open his eyes fully, he couldn't fall back asleep. His dark eyes glared at the silver-haired wizard's messy head, radiating human-like resentment as his short beak let out a series of "cluck-cluck" grumbles.
He sounded like a broody hen guarding her eggs.
The portraits of past headmasters had also stirred awake.
Some frames were empty—their occupants gone, some since the previous night, likely not returning for the holidays. The vacant frames sparked envy among the other portraits.
Certain wizards' portraits were linked across locations. For instance, Madam Derwent, a former Hogwarts headmistress, had also been a St. Mungo's director, so she could flit between the hospital and school. Others had portraits in their family homes, allowing them to visit for the holidays.
For them, it was a sign their family lines endured. Some headmasters hailed from once-prominent pure-blood families now faded into obscurity. Take Phineas Black—his family hadn't had a student at Hogwarts in years. The Black line might well be extinct.
The portraits whispered among themselves, their eyes drifting to the long-legged round table below, where a dozen delicate silver instruments puffed out tiny wisps of smoke.
The early-rising headmaster was opening his Christmas parcels.
One by one, exquisitely bound books emerged from the packages—thick tomes with dense, daunting titles like A Manual for Taming Dangerous Magical Creatures: Stings and Scales, The Seven Gates of Alchemy, Fluids and Frameworks: The Philosophical Paradox of Non-Living Transfiguration, How to Gracefully Escape When a Spell Backfires, and Me, the Magical.
Nearly all the gifts were books, even from the professors. The exception was Melvin's gift: a bag of Muggle whistling candies, hollow rings that whistled faintly when you blew through them.
Dumbledore popped one in his mouth, his mood lifting slightly.
Setting aside the intimidating tomes, he picked up Me, the Magical.
Opening the cover, he was greeted by a dazzling smile—a wizard in sky-blue dress robes flashing pearly white teeth. Below was a lengthy author bio: Gilderoy Lockhart, Third-Class Order of Merlin, Honorary Member of the Anti-Dark Magic League, Four-Time Winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award…
"Hm…"
The portraits behind him grimaced in distaste, but Dumbledore flipped through a few pages with relish, placing the book closest to him for later reading.
Next, he turned to replying to letters from old friends.
"Madam Marchbanks from the Wizarding Examinations Authority, Mr. Tofty…
"Amelia Bones from the Ministry, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Alastor Moody…
"And the ever-earnest Minister Cornelius Fudge…"
Dumbledore read each letter carefully, responding thoughtfully, even to simple holiday greetings. Many of his friends were getting on in years, and each letter could be their last.
A century-old wizard had seen this too many times.
Newt Scamander, retired in Dorset, sent greetings, mentioning his grandson Rolf starting Hogwarts next year and asking Dumbledore to keep an eye on him. Nicolas Flamel, currently in Paris, wrote casually, asking about progress on the Philosopher's Stone and offering help if needed. Molly Weasley included a box of fudge, noting that she and her husband were visiting their son Charlie in Romania, while her other children stayed at school for the holidays. She asked the headmaster to keep them in line.
Soon, only one letter remained.
Dumbledore held the envelope, his expression complex, studying the worn parchment. It was dirty, creased, speckled with mud and dust. The sealing wax was a dark, blackened red, like congealed rat's blood.
The envelope was tattered and carried an odd smell.
Dumbledore stared at it for a long time, hesitating. Finally, he opened a drawer and placed it in a wooden box without breaking the seal.
From their angle, the headmaster portraits couldn't see the envelope's details, only catching a glimpse of the wax seal's inscription:
"Nurmengard – Sent"