A week passed like a stone skipping across still water, each day sending out ripples Oliver could barely keep track of.
The days at the Flamels' home fell into a rhythm: mornings with Nicolas in the alchemy chamber, afternoons helping Penny in the greenhouse or atrium, evenings bent over parchment in his room, copying down the notes Nicolas asked him to translate. His hand grew steadier, his eyes sharper. He never said it out loud, but he could feel something inside him expanding—his memory working quicker, his mind piecing things together faster than before.
Nyx was always nearby, her feathers shedding faint light across his pages at night, her eyes following him in the classroom, sometimes trilling encouragement when his focus wavered. Once, when he nearly fell asleep mid-sentence, she nipped his ear sharply, dragging him back to alertness. He'd laughed, rubbing the sting away. "Alright, alright, I get it. Don't slack off."
Neither Nicolas nor Penny ever revealed just how impressed they were, though Oliver caught their glances sometimes—Penny's soft smile as she watched him puzzle something out, Nicolas's thoughtful silence when Oliver asked the right question at the right time. They didn't coddle him. They didn't pretend everything was easy. But they treated him as though his progress mattered, and that was enough.
It was a week that seemed to change him more than years had.
And then, one crisp morning, Penny appeared at his door, dressed in deep green robes with gold thread at the cuffs.
"Come along," she said brightly, hands clasped behind her back. "We've work to do."
Oliver blinked from his notes. "Work?"
"Shopping," she corrected with a wink.
He frowned. "Shopping's work?"
"For a boy who's never done proper Christmas shopping, absolutely," she said. Then, more seriously, "It's nearly the holiday. You've spoken often of your friends at Hogwarts, and Hagrid, and those twins who make you laugh. Let's find something for them."
Oliver hesitated, then nodded slowly. He had been thinking of gifts, but he hadn't known where to start. The thought of walking through a marketplace with Perenelle Flamel—Penny, as she insisted outside the home—was daunting and exciting all at once.
By the time they set out, Nyx riding silently on his shoulder, Oliver felt a jitter of nerves in his stomach.
The magical shopping center sprawled like a city within a city. Cobblestone streets wound between tall, crooked buildings with painted signs that twitched to catch the eye. Enchanted lanterns floated above, glowing different colors to mark each section—blue for booksellers, gold for potion shops, silver for wand-crafters. Vendors shouted their wares in a dozen languages, carts bursting with trinkets and enchanted goods. Children darted between stalls, chased by enchanted toys that squeaked and sputtered sparks.
Oliver stopped dead, wide-eyed. "It's… huge."
Penny smiled at him, patient as ever. "Yes. But we'll take it one step at a time."
He followed her, still staring at everything as though afraid to blink. A stall of enchanted masks laughed as they passed. A broommaker hovered six feet in the air on his newest model, shouting about its speed. The air smelled of cinnamon, leather, and the faint metallic tang of potion fumes.
"So," Penny said gently, "who first?"
Oliver thought immediately of Hermione. "She's… smart. Smarter than anyone I've met. Always reading, always writing. She helps me, even when she doesn't have to."
Penny tilted her head. "Then we find her something worthy of that mind."
They stopped at a bookshop with shelves spilling out into the street. Tomes floated lazily overhead, their titles shifting colors as if to tempt buyers. Oliver reached up, touching one curiously, then pulled back before it could snap shut on his fingers.
A clerk noticed him, eyes twinkling. "Looking for something unusual, boy?"
Oliver nodded shyly. "For a friend. She likes… books. And writing."
The clerk's grin widened. He ducked behind a shelf and returned with a slim leather-bound volume, its cover blank except for a small silver clasp. "This one's old magic. Write nothing, yet it will write everything—so long as its owner gives it a drop of blood. Then it becomes theirs, reflecting thoughts they would never say aloud."
Oliver hesitated, turning it over in his hands. "So it's like… her mind, on a page?"
"Precisely," the clerk said.
Penny's brows lifted slightly. "It's not a toy. Such a book can be dangerous if abused."
But Oliver's mind was already made. He shook his head. "Hermione will use it right. She'll understand it better than anyone."
Penny studied him, then nodded once. "Then it's a fine gift."
Oliver handed over a handful of galleons from the pouch Penny had pressed into his palm earlier. The book shrank neatly to pocket-size and wrapped itself in plain brown paper with a soft shimmer. He tucked it carefully into his satchel.
"Who's next?" Penny asked as they left the shop.
Oliver's thoughts leapt immediately to the twins. Fred first, though he grinned faintly at the thought of George watching jealously. "Fred's always making jokes. He's… clever about it. He'd like something fun."
That brought them to a potion shop that smelled strongly of mint and sulfur. Rows of vials lined the walls, glowing in every color imaginable. The shopkeeper leaned over the counter, looking delighted when Oliver asked about potions for pranks.
"Oh, I've got just the thing," he said, producing a battered little book bound in lurid orange leather. "Practical Mischief-Making: A Brewer's Guide. Recipes for stink bombs, itching powder, instant dye hair potions—safe enough for students, dangerous enough to amuse."
Oliver flipped through the pages, grinning despite himself. The illustrations showed stick figures coughing in clouds of smoke, turning purple, sprouting enormous noses. He could already imagine Fred cackling over it.
Penny's lips twitched. "You're encouraging mischief."
Oliver shrugged, trying and failing not to smile. "Fred deserves it."
She let out a quiet laugh. "Very well."
The book wrapped itself in bright green paper and leapt into Oliver's bag with a soft thunk.
He patted the bag, grinning. Two gifts down, and somehow it felt… good. Better than he'd imagined.
He didn't mention the other wrapped parcels waiting in his trunk back at the Flamels' home—the ones that carried his handwriting inside them, a whole story bound in ink. Those would remain his secret, a surprise for Christmas morning.
For now, he let himself enjoy this: choosing, giving, imagining the smiles on his friends' faces when the paper tore away.
Oliver's bag felt heavier as they wove back into the crowds, though not from weight alone. It was a new kind of heaviness, something warm.
"Two friends seen to," Penny said with a sideways smile. "Who next?"
Oliver didn't have to think long. "George. But not the same as Fred. He's… different."
"Different how?" she asked lightly.
Oliver hesitated, searching for the right words. "Fred's the one who charges ahead. George… he's clever too, but quieter about it. Like he's always thinking two steps past the joke. He'd like something… useful."
That brought them to a quieter shop tucked between a broommaker and a wand-polisher. The windows were dim, but inside the shelves gleamed with careful order—neat rows of jars, instruments polished to a shine, books stacked precisely.
Oliver drifted along the shelves until his eyes landed on a small book bound in dark blue. The title, written in silver script, read: Alchemy for the Curious: A Gentle Introduction.
His fingers traced the cover. It wasn't heavy with theory or impossible diagrams. It was meant for beginners, clear but intriguing.
George would grin at it, Oliver thought, but he wouldn't laugh it off. He'd read it. Maybe even try it.
"This one," Oliver said softly.
Penny tilted her head. "Interesting choice. You're giving him a piece of your world."
Oliver shrugged, suddenly shy. "He'd make something brilliant out of it. Him and Fred both. But this… this is just for him."
Penny's smile deepened, a quiet approval in it. The book wrapped itself in a swirl of silver paper, slipping neatly into Oliver's bag.
By now, the bustle of the market felt less overwhelming. The sounds of vendors, the flare of enchanted signs—it all blurred into a steady rhythm. Oliver found himself walking with more confidence, his satchel bumping reassuringly at his side.
"Now," Penny said, "what about the famous Boy Who Lived?"
Oliver's lips quirked. "Harry."
The weapon-seller's stall stood out long before they reached it. Swords and daggers floated in the air, gleaming in the sunlight. A crowd of boys clustered around, wide-eyed, reaching for hilts before being shooed away by the stern-looking smith.
Oliver slipped closer, Nyx fluttering to a perch on the awning above. His eyes caught on a sword—not the largest or flashiest, but balanced, its blade plain steel with a faint etching of a lion along the guard.
It looked… right.
He touched the hilt, and the sword lowered obediently into his hand, light and steady.
Penny raised a brow. "A sword? For an eleven-year-old?"
Oliver nodded, his grip firm. "Harry's a Gryffindor. And every Gryffindor should have a sword."
There was no jest in his tone. Only certainty.
The smith grunted approval, muttered something in French, and wrapped the blade in deep crimson cloth. It vanished into Oliver's bag, leaving him with the faint smell of oil and steel.
When they stepped away from the stall, Oliver glanced up at Penny, half-expecting her to scold him. But she only said softly, "You're not wrong. Symbols matter."
The final gift took longer. They drifted through stalls of enchanted hats, potion ingredients, even cages of rare birds. Oliver grew restless, worrying he wouldn't find anything for Hagrid.
Then he spotted it: a stall stacked with leather cases and heavy wooden crates, each embossed with the symbol of a pawprint. Inside were kits—creature-care sets with enchanted brushes, salves that shimmered faintly, bindings charmed not to harm but to hold wings or paws steady for healing.
Oliver stopped dead.
Penny followed his gaze, and her smile warmed. "Ah. That's the one."
Oliver opened one of the cases, brushing his fingers along the tools. "Hagrid will love this. It's… it's perfect."
He imagined Hagrid's face lighting up, his hands dwarfing the brushes but treating them like treasure.
The vendor wrapped the kit in sturdy brown cloth, enchanted to withstand knocks and drops, and handed it over with a knowing grin. "For someone who loves creatures, eh? Good choice."
Oliver thanked him quietly, tucking the final gift into his bag.
By now, the sun was lowering, painting the streets in shades of amber. The lanterns overhead brightened, casting the marketplace in soft, glowing light. Shoppers bustled around them, their arms full of packages, their laughter rising with the smoke of roasted nuts and candied fruit.
Oliver adjusted the strap of his bag, heavy with gifts now. He thought of Hermione's careful hands opening her book, Fred's gleeful laughter over his potions guide, George's quiet grin at the alchemy text. He thought of Harry holding the sword, Hagrid bent reverently over his creature kit.
And then—of the other gifts. The ones already packed and waiting in his trunk. Wrapped books, each carrying his own words. Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief, bound and signed, waiting to surprise them all.
He didn't tell Penny. She didn't need to know. It was his secret—for now.
As they turned toward the exit, Penny slowed, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He looked lighter somehow, his step steadier.
"You enjoyed yourself," she said softly.
Oliver smiled faintly, eyes on the bustling crowd. "Yeah. I did."
Nyx trilled softly from above, her wings catching the glow of the lanterns.
For the first time in his life, Oliver wasn't buying because he had to. He wasn't giving because it was expected. He was giving because he wanted to, because these people mattered to him, because he finally had people who felt like family.
And that, more than any potion or spell, was the magic of it.