Two days before Christmas, the great halls of Hogwarts buzzed with the excitement of departure. Students, bundled in coats and scarves, pulled heavy trunks behind them, chatting excitedly about gifts, feasts, and snow-covered reunions with family. Owls flew overhead with final letters home, while teachers stood by the doors, reminding everyone to take care on the train.
Cael stood silently near the castle's great oak doors, watching the throng thin out as the last of the students trickled through the gates. The wind brushed his hair back gently, carrying with it the distant whistle of the Hogwarts Express. Laughter echoed faintly, growing smaller and smaller as the students disappeared from sight.
The Weasley twins had gone this year, joining their siblings for a full family holiday. Even Harry and Ron had left together this year . Hermione had waved goodbye with a grin, promising to write. Cassandra, elegantly wrapped in a velvet cloak, had lifted her hand in a half-wave that ended in a toss of her curls.
And just like that, he was all alone.
At first, Cael had planned to return to his home in the countryside—to his mother's cottage, where the fireplace still smelled faintly of rosemary and oak. But something inside him had urged him to stay. Time was precious, and the stillness of an empty castle offered something rare: focus.
So, with a soft sigh, he turned back into the castle, his footsteps echoing through the quiet corridors. The twenty days of the Christmas holidays had begun.
⸻
Each day passed with quiet purpose. Cael threw himself into practice, retreating to the Room of Requirement or the castle's quieter towers with books, scrolls, and parchment spread around him like a general plotting war.
He worked on two spells most of all—the ancient and elusive Visio Futura, the spell gifted to him by Rose.
It had taken weeks of failures, headaches, and magical strain, but now… now he could peer fifteen seconds into the future. A blink, a breath, a flicker of the unknown made visible. In a duel, it would be everything.
The second spell—Veyarum, taught to him by the painting of Myrddin Wyllt himself—had once felt impossible. A spell that erased all magical presence, hiding him not just from sight, but from wards, spells, and magical detection altogether. He could now maintain it for a full thirty minutes. Ten minutes longer than just weeks before.
A significant achievement.
⸻
Then came Christmas morning.
He awoke to silence—no cheers, no bouncing bedposts from the twins, no rustling of gift wrap. Just soft light filtering in through frost-covered windows and the gentle crackling of the common room fire below.
Pulling on his robe, Cael descended to the Gryffindor common room, where the massive Christmas tree sparkled in the warm light of enchanted candles. At its base sat a pile of gifts waiting for him. He smiled quietly and settled down before them.
The first few made him laugh: boxes of chocolate frogs, extendable ears, and a trick wand from Fred and George, no doubt meant to explode into glitter at the slightest flick.
One package had a soft feel—when he unwrapped it, a neatly knitted orange jumper emerged, with a large letter "C" stitched in front. A note was pinned to the collar:
Dear Cael, I knitted this for you this year. I hope it keeps you warm. Merry Christmas. —Molly Weasley
Cael touched the jumper with more care than he expected. It was soft, a little awkward, and it smelled faintly of cinnamon. He folded it neatly and set it aside with a small, grateful smile.
Next came a sleek black box with a rich winter cologne inside—sent from Cassandra, naturally. Elegant, polished, and expensive-smelling. The note was brief: "To keep you presentable."
He smirked.
Hermione's gift was a long, black winter coat—fitted and smart, lined with a warming charm. There was no note, but he could tell she'd chosen it with care. It was exactly his style.
The rest of the girls hadn't forgotten him either. Alicia, Angelina, and Katie had all sent chocolates and a few knickknacks, while Luna's gift stood out: a handmade necklace made entirely of small silver carrots.
"To keep away Gurdyroots and bad dreams. Handmade by me!"
He held it up, blinking at the strange charm. Odd… but charming. He set it beside the coat, smiling.
Then, beneath the smaller parcels, he found a flat, thin package wrapped in deep navy blue parchment. He opened it carefully.
It was a photograph.
A girl stood in a field of wildflowers, her black hair flowing in the wind, icy blue eyes fixed on something in the distance. She couldn't have been more than twelve. The girl had his jawline, his eyes, his expression.
His mother.
A note was tucked inside the envelope, written in Sirius Black's familiar scrawl.
I found this photo among some of my old things. I thought you'd want to see what she looked like at your age. Merry Christmas, Cael. —Sirius
Cael stared at the photo for a long while, holding it gently in both hands. His mother had been beautiful. Graceful in the way she stood, unaware of the camera, unaware of time. A quiet sigh came out from his lips .
Then he noticed a final box.
This one was different.
Wrapped in unmarked parchment with no name, it sat silently at the bottom of the pile. No owl post mark. No wax seal.
He frowned.
As he unwrapped it, a small folded note fluttered out.
The handwriting was unfamiliar—elegant, slanted. But it was the words that made the blood drain from his face.
I've finally found you. I hope this gift is of use to you.
From a father to his long lost son .
—T. Valoryn
Cael froze. The note trembled in his hands. Every hair on his arms stood on end. His stomach dropped. The parchment slipped through his fingers as he stepped away from the box instinctively, wand drawn.
He scanned the gift with three detection spells—traps, curses, portkey enchantments. Nothing. Still, he wasn't convinced. Holding his wand steady, he nudged the box open.
Inside lay a thick, leather-bound book.
The Forgotten Magical World: A History.
He stared at it.
He knew this book. He had already read it—borrowed it from the Restricted Section, annotated half of it. Why would someone send him a copy?
Why would he send it?
Still shaken, Cael picked up the note again, his eyes fixed on the signature.
Valoryn.
A surname.
He didn't know the name. Couldn't recall ever reading it in any of the wizarding bloodline texts or magical genealogies he'd studied.
But it was a lead. His first.
Cael stood up swiftly, snatched his wand, and tucked the book and note into his satchel. Within minutes, he was striding through the castle corridors toward the library. If this family—his family—existed in magical records, Hogwarts would have the proof.
And if it didn't?
He would find another way.
No one sent messages like that unless they meant to be found.
And Cael had just found a clue about his so called father who is allegedly his mother's killer .