Snow drifted gently outside the windows of Gryffindor Tower, frosting the stone ledges and glowing silver in the early morning light. Inside, the common room was alive with laughter and the sound of tearing parchment. Wrapping paper flew through the air like confetti, the smell of warm bread and cinnamon wafting faintly from the Great Hall below.
Harry Potter sat cross-legged by the fire, his pile of gifts growing steadily smaller. Ron lounged beside him, already half-buried in chocolate frogs and sweaters from home. Hermione perched neatly on the arm of a chair, her hair a little wild from sleep, but her eyes bright with curiosity.
Fred and George were sprawled across the rug like overgrown cats, each with their own stack of presents, while the rest of Gryffindor chattered and laughed around them.
It was Christmas morning at Hogwarts.
Harry tugged the cloth off a long, oddly-shaped bundle. His eyes widened as crimson fabric spilled away to reveal the gleam of steel. A sword—plain, balanced, with the faint etching of a lion worked into the guard.
Ron sat up straighter, gaping. "Blimey. Who'd give you a sword?"
Harry's lips curved into a grin. "Oliver."
That silenced the common room for a moment, heads turning. Even Fred and George paused, blinking.
Harry ran his hand along the blade reverently. "He said every Gryffindor deserves a sword. Feels… right, doesn't it?"
Ron's mouth twisted. "Yeah, brilliant. A sword." His voice carried a sour edge, but Harry ignored it, holding the weapon up to the firelight.
He set it carefully aside, reaching for another package wrapped in plain brown. This one, when opened, revealed a slim hardback with his own name scrawled inside in neat ink.
"Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief," Harry read aloud, his brow furrowing. "By… Oliver D. Night?"
Hermione gasped, leaning forward. "He wrote a book?"
Harry's grin spread wider. "And he signed it for me." He turned the first page, showing Ron the neat inscription in Oliver's careful hand. To Harry — a friend worth fighting beside.
Ron flushed, his ears going pink. He tried to cover it with a snort. "Oh, so you get a sword and a book? What next, your own broom from him?"
Harry shot him a look. "Jealous, are you?"
Ron muttered something under his breath and reached for another chocolate frog. But his sulky silence didn't stop Harry from beaming as he flipped through the first chapter.
Across the rug, Fred had already ripped open a bright green-wrapped package. A battered orange book tumbled out, its cover emblazoned with the words Practical Mischief-Making: A Brewer's Guide.
Fred's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "Merlin's beard, look at this!" He flipped it open to a page labeled Exploding Dyes and howled with laughter. "George! He knows me too well!"
George had just unwrapped a smaller, more serious volume, bound in deep blue. Alchemy for the Curious: A Gentle Introduction. His brow arched as he flipped through neat diagrams and careful instructions.
"Well, I'll be…" George said softly. Then he grinned at his twin. "Fred, he's gone and given us both the tools to build an empire."
Fred cackled, tossing his arm around George's shoulder. "You hear that, brother? An empire!"
George smirked down at his book. "Not bad for a Slytherin."
When they noticed Harry holding his own copy of Oliver's novel, they leaned over eagerly.
"Oi, what's this?" Fred said, snatching the book.
"Oliver's gone and written a proper story, has he?" George finished, peering at the cover.
Fred flipped through a few pages, whistling. "Looks like an adventure. Wonder if there's room for two dashing pranksters?"
George elbowed him. "We'll give it a read. Cover looks interesting enough."
They both chuckled, but their eyes were bright, more impressed than they'd admit.
Hermione's pile of gifts had dwindled to a small package wrapped in shimmering silver paper. She peeled it open carefully—and gasped aloud.
Inside lay a slim leather-bound book with a small silver clasp.
Her hands shook slightly as she touched it. "This is… oh, this is extraordinary."
"What is it?" Ron asked, still sulking.
"It's a Thought Journal," Hermione breathed. "Old magic. It records what you think, not just what you write. All it needs is a drop of blood and it binds to you. These are… they're nearly impossible to find."
She clutched it to her chest, her eyes shining.
Then she noticed the second package tucked beneath it: another hardback. When she opened it and saw the title, she nearly squealed.
"Oliver wrote this? And—he signed it—oh, this is brilliant!"
She flipped frantically through the first pages before snapping it shut with sudden resolve.
"I'm not opening another gift," she declared. "Not until I finish this."
Fred and George roared with laughter. Harry grinned. Even some of the younger Gryffindors chuckled.
Ron rolled his eyes. "It's just a book."
Hermione shot him a look that could have cut steel. "It's not just a book, Ronald. It's his work. His imagination. And it's good."
She hugged it fiercely, already shifting to curl up with it by the fire.
Harry smiled faintly, watching her. Then he glanced again at the sword leaning against his chair.
Oliver's gifts weren't just clever. They were personal. Thoughtful. Each one seemed to fit the person perfectly, as though he'd looked past what they showed the world and seen what mattered underneath.
Harry couldn't help but feel proud. Proud of Oliver. Proud to call him a friend.
Ron, meanwhile, slouched deeper into his chair, muttering something about favoritism and "stupid Slytherins." His eyes darted toward the sword again, jealousy simmering just below the surface.
But the others had already moved on, lost in their gifts and their laughter, their chatter filling the warm common room as the snow continued to fall outside.
The common room quieted gradually as the wrapping paper dwindled and the fire burned lower, though bursts of laughter still sparked here and there. Hermione had already tucked herself into a corner, nose buried in Oliver's book, her quill scratching notes in the margins as though she were studying for an exam. Harry rested his hand on the crimson cloth-wrapped sword, a smile playing on his lips as he read the first few pages of his own copy.
Even Fred and George, though they pretended to argue over who'd brew the first prank potion, occasionally leaned together to glance at the blue-covered alchemy guide and Oliver's novel in turn.
Only Ron sat stiffly, arms crossed, muttering under his breath whenever his eyes drifted toward Harry's gifts. His mood was unmistakable, but no one pressed him. The warmth of the room simply outshone the sulk in its corner.
Far below, in the staff room off the Great Hall, Christmas breakfast was already winding down. A long oak table had been set with platters of roast ham, sugared plums, and spiced cider. The teachers sat comfortably, their heavy winter robes loosened, the usual formality softened by the holiday air.
"All things considered," Professor Sprout said, wiping her hands with a napkin, "the term has been a good one. The first-years are lively, but they've shown promise."
"Lively is one word for them," McGonagall said crisply, though her eyes softened slightly. "Still, standards are being met. I will say, however, one student stands out more than most."
Flitwick perked up from his seat on a stack of cushions. "Ah! Young Mr. Night. Yes, yes. Remarkable wandwork in Charms. His control improves daily, and the way he blends creativity into his casting—most unusual."
Sprout chuckled. "He's the same in Herbology. Pays attention, takes notes, asks questions I wouldn't expect from an eleven-year-old. Last week he tied together root growth patterns and charm theory so quickly I thought for sure he'd misread the text. But no—he was right."
McGonagall allowed a small nod. "In Transfiguration, he continues to impress. A quiet boy, but when his will is set, his results speak for themselves. His lion transfiguration was beyond the level of a first-year."
"Yet in Potions," Snape drawled from the far end of the table, "he remains entirely unremarkable. Consistent, perhaps, but there is no brilliance. No spark." His eyes glinted. "A fact too easily overlooked by those swayed by theatrics."
The table stiffened slightly, but Dumbledore only stroked his beard with a twinkle in his eye. "Consistency has its merits, Severus. Even brilliance can stumble without it."
Snape's expression soured further.
But before he could speak, Flitwick leaned forward eagerly. "Speaking of brilliance! Have you read his book?"
That turned heads. Sprout smiled. "Halfway through it now. Only put it down to come here. It's delightful—imaginative, well-paced, surprisingly moving for someone his age."
"I finished it yesterday," McGonagall admitted. Her voice was even, but her eyes were alight. "It is a work of discipline as much as imagination. Very well written. The boy has more than skill with a wand—he has a mind for words."
"I've finished too!" Flitwick squeaked happily. "It's genius. Adventure, mythology, heart—all woven together beautifully. I was rather sad to reach the last page."
Even Sprout chuckled. "I can't wait to pick it back up tonight."
Snape blinked, narrowing his eyes. "What book?"
Dumbledore chuckled, reaching into the folds of his robe. He slid a hardback across the table, its cover plain but polished. "This one. Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief, by Oliver D. Night. A first-year, as you know."
Snape stared at it, his face unreadable. "He gave you all copies?"
Flitwick nodded. "Every teacher, yes."
Sprout sipped her cider, smiling knowingly. "Except, of course, for you."
Snape's eyes flashed. "Except… me."
"Fitting," McGonagall said dryly. "Considering how you treat him in class."
The other professors murmured agreement. Even mild-mannered Sprout nodded, adding, "Children bloom where they're watered, Severus. You've offered him only frost."
Snape's lip curled. He said nothing more, though his hands tightened on the book as though he might crush it.
Dumbledore, still smiling faintly, topped off his cider. "You may find it a worthwhile read, Severus. And perhaps a lesson, if you choose to see it."
The conversation moved on, but the echo of laughter and praise lingered in the air long after.
Far away, in the Flamels' home nestled within its private grove in France, another Christmas morning dawned.
The house was draped in garlands of evergreen, golden fairy lights twinkling against the windows. A towering tree stood in the atrium, its branches hung with delicate glass baubles that glowed faintly from within. The scent of spiced cocoa and fresh bread filled the rooms.
Oliver sat cross-legged on the carpet in front of the tree, Nyx perched proudly on the back of a nearby chair, her feathers catching the warm glow. Nicolas settled into an armchair with a steaming mug, while Penny arranged parcels beneath the tree, humming softly.
Presents waited, stacked neatly, their paper glimmering faintly with charmwork. Oliver stared at them, fingers twitching. For once, it wasn't nerves that stirred in him, but anticipation.
Here, there was no orphanage matron, no silent meals, no cold stone walls. Here, there was family.
"Cocoa first," Penny said warmly, pressing a mug into his hands before he could reach for a package. "Presents after."
Oliver took it, smiling faintly. The steam fogged his glasses, but the warmth spread all the way to his chest.
For the first time in his life, Christmas morning wasn't something he watched from the edges. It was something he belonged to.
And tomorrow, when the paper was torn and the laughter filled the room, he would give as well as receive.