It was eleven in the morning, and the weather was clear but cold.
Melvin sat by the window, his expression a mix of curiosity and unease.
In his hands was a beautifully bound storybook with illustrations, a gift from Dumbledore: *The Tales of the Poisonous Fungus*. These short stories weren't original works but a collection gathered by the editor, many sourced from late 17th-century wizarding pubs. Back then, the Statute of Secrecy had just been enacted, and wizards harbored widespread resentment toward Muggles. The stories reeked of alcohol-fueled bias and prejudice.
The first tale was adapted from the *Hoppin' Pot* chapter in *The Tales of Beedle the Bard*. The original story told of a kind old wizard teaching his callous son compassion by using a magical hopping pot to show him the struggles of Muggle neighbors. In the end, the young wizard awakens to empathy and uses his magic to help them.
But in this book, the warm, simple tale had been twisted into something grotesque. By the story's end, the hopping pot devours dozens of Muggle villagers, and the young wizard rises to rule the village.
> "The wart-covered cauldron slithered forward, its insides gurgling like a churning stomach. From its rim spewed a sticky, congealed mass—the remains of Muggles melted by acid.
> The blacksmith's head protruded from the lump, his jaw dislocated, dangling to his chest, his limbs barely recognizable in the mangled flesh. The priest's spine twisted like a pretzel, yet his hand still clutched a shattered cross. The survivors let out wet, guttural moans.
> The few remaining villagers swore never to interfere with wizard magic again…"
Melvin snapped the book shut, half-wishing he could cast an Obliviate on himself. Even with his eyes closed, the vivid illustrations—printed with magical developing potion—lingered in his mind.
What kind of twisted fairy tale was this?
Didn't the Ministry have any publication oversight?
Rubbing his temples, Melvin stood and left his office. In the corridor, the portraits were in a festive mood. The Fat Friar's painting hosted a crowd of other portraits, throwing a boozy banquet. Sir Cadogan slumped against a wall in his frame, dazed and likely three sheets to the wind.
The Christmas feast in the Great Hall hadn't started yet. Melvin descended to the first floor and turned right, heading to the courtyard to clear his head of those grim images.
The open courtyard was a sea of white. Snow blanketed the shrubs and tree branches, piled high on stone benches. With most students gone for the holidays, the stone path remained untouched, covered in a thick, glistening layer of snow that sparkled under the sunlight.
Professor Flitwick stood near the corridor, occasionally glancing at the snow or down at his feet.
At his feet lay Mrs. Norris, Filch's cat, who seemed torn between basking in the sun and avoiding the cold. She sprawled across Flitwick's shoes, her hind legs tucked up, front paws nestled beneath her, and her tail loosely curled around his ankle—either sapping his warmth or keeping him cozy.
"Happy Christmas, Professor Flitwick," Melvin greeted.
"Happy Christmas, Melvin. I loved your gift," Flitwick replied, tilting his head up to smile before glancing at the drowsy cat. Mrs. Norris's eyes were half-open, lazily drifting shut again. "Last Christmas, you were at Ilvermorny, right? How's Hogwarts treating you this year? Settling in?"
"Hogwarts is great. The weather's even a bit milder here," Melvin said, a touch of nostalgia creeping in.
It had been a year already. Back then, the Boy Who Lived hadn't yet received his Hogwarts letter. The Horned Serpent at Ilvermorny was still in hibernation, and Melvin had thought it wouldn't wake until spring. But on Christmas Eve, it stirred unexpectedly, muttering about fate and insisting he leave before spring arrived.
He wondered if the serpent had foreseen this moment.
The sky was a clear, crisp blue, sunlight casting a faint warmth on his skin. But the thick snow was relentless, its chill seeping into exposed flesh. A sudden gust of wind swept through, snuffing out the fleeting warmth.
Melvin exhaled a puff of white mist.
Mrs. Norris, still sprawled on Flitwick's shoes, shivered and curled her tail tighter, her front paws burrowing deeper as if chasing the scarce winter sunlight—not for warmth, but simply to savor its rare glow.
"It's getting chilly. I'm heading inside," Melvin said.
"Alright," Flitwick replied, still gazing at the silly cat.
Melvin stepped back into the castle. The Great Hall had been decorated the day before. Twelve towering fir trees sparkled with crystal ornaments and tiny ice beads. Golden bubbles floated above the branches, their leaves shimmering with a dreamy glow. Holly and mistletoe garlands draped the walls, and hundreds of candles hovered in midair, their flames twinkling softly.
Only a dozen or so students had stayed for the holidays, with Gryffindor claiming six of them. Most had gathered around the Gryffindor table, watching Harry and Ron play a lively game of wizard chess.
The onlookers were eagerly offering Harry advice, while Ron, across the board, wore a smug, villainous grin that made him look delightfully punchable.
The other professors who'd stayed were already seated. Dumbledore, at the center of the staff table, sported a women's knitted winter hat adorned with a fresh flower. He waved Melvin over with a cheerful grin.
As Melvin approached the staff table, he exchanged greetings with the others:
"Happy holidays, Professor McGonagall. Your book was very… enlightening."
"So glad to smell tulips in winter, Professor Sprout."
"Thanks for the beast tooth, Hagrid."
"Happy Christmas, Headmaster Dumbledore."
Dumbledore caught the subtle difference in Melvin's tone, blinking thoughtfully. "Melvin, I loved the sweets you sent," he said with a twinkle in his eye.
"I'm honored," Melvin replied politely, sidestepping the headmaster's expectant look and avoiding any mention of the cursed storybook. Instead, he glanced at the empty seats. "Where are the other professors?"
"Sybill's had a bit too much to drink and is resting in her room," McGonagall explained calmly. "Professor Quirrell is still unwell and recovering in the hospital wing, though Poppy's on holiday, so it's empty. Severus volunteered to keep an eye on him."
"Ever the dutiful one," Melvin remarked.
About twenty minutes later, Flitwick entered the hall with Mrs. Norris trailing behind, and the feast officially began.
With a tap of Dumbledore's silver spoon against his goblet, an array of dishes materialized. The tables groaned under the weight of roast turkey, sizzling chops, creamy soups, and bottles of sherry, whiskey, soda water, and assorted juices.
Ron was already tearing into a roast drumstick.
But Harry's mind wasn't entirely on the feast. This was his first proper Christmas, and while he was thrilled, his thoughts swirled with questions: Who was Nicolas Flamel? What was hidden beneath the fourth-floor corridor? What were Snape and Quirrell plotting? And who had sent him that Invisibility Cloak this morning?
As Harry sliced his steak, he glanced up at the staff table, his expression freezing—
Hagrid, clearly tipsy, had just planted a kiss on Professor McGonagall's cheek.
McGonagall, usually stern as stone, didn't seem to mind. She giggled at one of Hagrid's jokes, her black hat tilting askew with her laughter.