Harry turned his head, still reeling from the startling scene, eager to talk it over with Ron. But Ron was busy wolfing down a chicken leg and slid a glass of fruit wine his way with a sly grin.
The drink was sweet, fragrant with fruit and a hint of alcohol.
Harry took a cautious sip, barely savoring it before he spotted George and Fred pouring drinks nearby.
Oh no! Anything handled by the twins was suspect. Don't drink it!
But… it was tasty. Sweet and tangy, with notes of apple and blueberry, the wine's aroma was there without the harsh bite of alcohol. No burn, no bitterness.
After careful observation, Harry confirmed the fruit wine was safe. The Weasley twins had nicked it from the head table when the professors weren't looking—not some prank potion.
Halfway through his glass, Harry let his guard down and went back to enjoying the Christmas feast.
"Taste good?" Fred asked, plopping down beside him with a cheerful grin, pouring himself another glass. He seemed kind, dependable—like a big brother you could trust. Maybe Harry had misjudged the twins.
"It's great," Harry said. "First time I've had anything like this."
"Shame you only get it at the Christmas feast. We were this close to grabbing a bottle of whiskey or sherry, but they were right in front of McGonagall. If it was Dumbledore, we might've pulled it off."
"I like the fruit wine better."
"Like it? Then have more! The feast's got more than just good drinks—there's fun to be had. Here, take this."
"What…?"
Dazed, Harry followed Fred's lead. He set down his cutlery, grabbed a Christmas cracker with his left hand, and held the fuse with his right. With Fred's help, he gave it a sharp tug.
BOOM!
The crack exploded with a deafening bang, rattling his brain. A puff of blue smoke enveloped him, and the red cracker in his hand transformed into a navy-blue sailor hat. Inside it, a few lively white mice squeaked and scurried out, darting across the floor. Mrs. Norris pounced after them, causing a commotion.
Trust the twins? I must have a troll's brain!
Harry's head buzzed, but the cracker was just a toy—no real harm done, just a bit disorienting.
Once he recovered, he actually found the crackers fun. Growing up, he'd never had toys, let alone something as wild as this—exploding and giving you gifts? Brilliant.
He pulled a few more, and soon his table was piled with treasures: a bag of glowing balloons, a grotesque wart model, and a brand-new set of wizard chess.
"All from the crackers," Fred said with a grin.
"Fun, right?"
"Loads of fun."
"Want to pull another?"
"Nah, I'm good. What's the plan for this afternoon?"
"Snowball fight on the Quidditch pitch. Then a tea party back at the common room tonight."
"We could play chess tonight," Harry said, clutching his new set with confidence. "You and Percy can watch, but no giving me dodgy advice. Your tips this morning got me trounced."
"…"
The Weasley brothers fell silent, exchanging looks.
At the head table, Dumbledore sipped his fruit wine, a warm smile spreading across his face.
This year's Christmas feast was livelier than ever. Nearby, Minerva and Pomona were chuckling at Filius recounting an embarrassing story from his youth. Hagrid was trying to drag Melvin for a drink—not here in the Great Hall, but at the Hog's Head in Hogsmeade.
Melvin promised to join him "sometime soon," which sounded like a polite dodge.
Filch, the caretaker, was carefully deboning a piece of fried cod to feed Mrs. Norris. The two were plotting an evening patrol, hoping to catch students sneaking out during the holidays.
Some students would be sneaking about, but Filch likely wouldn't catch them.
Dumbledore sipped his wine, quietly scheming.
As the feast wound down, the Weasley kids and Harry left, arms full of cracker prizes. The professors lingered, chatting, while Melvin mentioned heading back to his room to read—not Muggle books, but some obscure wizarding fairy tale called The Tales of Beedle the Bard.
There were two editions of the book. The one gifted to Melvin was the second version. The other was filled with saccharine prose meant to "fill our little angels' pure minds with healthy, happy thoughts, shielding their sweet dreams from nightmares and preserving their innocent bloom."
In truth, that version's cloying style was nauseating.
Next year, I'll find a way to pass that one off, Dumbledore thought.
He downed a few more glasses of fruit wine and returned to his office. Standing by the window, he sobered up from his slight buzz.
The windows and doors were sealed tight, the fireplace blazing warmly. Outside, the cold northern wind was kept at bay by the glass. The room was toasty, but the frigid air outside caused condensation to form on the window, droplets sliding down like wriggling worms.
Peering out, the sky was clear.
The students staying for the holidays were having a snowball fight on the Quidditch pitch. Harry, like the other kids, was running through the snow, having a blast—until his clothes were soaked with snow and sweat. A chilly breeze sent him shivering, and he reluctantly trudged indoors.
Older wizards often grew weary of holidays, especially grand ones. The quiet after the festivities was hard to bear. And after decades—centuries, even—of celebrating, holidays stirred memories of the past. Past events. Past people.
In southwest England, there was a place called Godric's Hollow, nestled in a valley at the foot of High Conek Hill. A small village, home to a few hundred families, half-wizard, half-Muggle. It was the birthplace of Godric Gryffindor and where Bowman Wright crafted the first Golden Snitch.
At the village's heart was a small square with a monument, surrounded by a few shops, a post office, a pub, and a little church. Even after all these years, Dumbledore could still recall the shimmering light of the church's stained-glass windows.
Behind the church lay a graveyard, where the village's wizards were buried. Occasionally, wizards visited to pay respects, or ghosts drifted through, fueling rumors of hauntings.
Muggles went to the church for prayers but steered clear of the graveyard due to those rumors. Still, some bold Muggle children ventured there for adventure, never finding ghosts but meeting a frail, sickly girl.
Ariana loved playing with them.
She hadn't liked winter at first. The harsh snow and wind kept her indoors, her weak health making it worse. That year, she'd gotten frostbite on her ears—not severe, and she didn't mind the discomfort, but Aberforth felt awful about it.
The next winter was even harder. She couldn't even step out for a walk, let alone visit the church. That is, until Dumbledore came home for the Christmas holidays and cast warming and weatherproofing charms on her.
That holiday, she went to the church every day. With her Muggle friends, she skated on icy paths, shook snow-laden branches over unsuspecting heads, and built snowmen or had snowball fights. Everything in that wintry valley felt fresh and joyful to her.
Because of that, when he graduated and suggested they leave the valley, Ariana wasn't thrilled.
Back then, he thought chasing the Deathly Hallows was for a greater purpose—to gain the power to cure his sister's illness. He argued relentlessly, and Ariana, ever the caring sister, eventually agreed.
It was what he'd expected. Her village friends were dear, but her brother was more important.
He remembered the last day of that Christmas holiday, before returning to school. Ariana didn't want to go out to play, even when he took her outside and stood under snow-covered trees. She just held his hand, standing quietly, watching her friends.
He remembered their final night. Ariana, fighting exhaustion, refused to sleep, talking endlessly—about the fire in the hearth, the morning snow, the mice hiding in the woodpile, her Muggle friends, and the nearby Muggle neighbors. He hadn't paid much attention.
But when she mentioned Aberforth, he'd scoffed. If Aberforth had learned those warming and weatherproofing charms, Ariana wouldn't have gotten frostbite or been stuck indoors.
"…"
Standing at the window, Dumbledore thought of that snowy day, holding hands with the girl whose smile shone so brightly. A pang of sadness hit him.
He'd always known what Ariana wanted. She loved playing in the snow. She never hated Muggles… But he'd believed what he wanted for her was better, was right.
Then he thought of someone else.
That man, locked away in Nurmengard by Dumbledore's own hand, sent a letter every Christmas. Dumbledore never read them, never replied.
Together, they had caused Ariana's death.
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