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When Malfoy sauntered lazily over to the Christmas tree after finishing his meal, he found Crabbe and Goyle already there, loitering awkwardly as if they had been standing around for quite some time.
At their feet was a small mess of empty boxes scattered across the floor, as though a miniature hurricane had just swept through. Yet in their hands, each of them was still clutching a couple of odd little items that, frankly, defied polite description.
"A bunch of junk!"
Goyle grumbled in his usual gruff and muffled tone, scowling as he hurled a squeaky rubber troll back onto the floor, where it bounced once with a pitiful squeal before falling silent.
Malfoy didn't bother responding. He moved with a kind of idle grace, reaching up to pluck a silver, glimmering box from one of the lower branches of the tree. He popped it open with a flick of his fingers, casually, like he couldn't care less what might be inside.
Nestled inside was a small, delicate vial filled with a clear, pale blue liquid. It was the telltale shimmer of a Calming Draught. This simple potion was said to ease anxiety and offer, if only for a moment, a fleeting sense of peace and contentment.
For the briefest second, a flicker of complex emotion passed through Malfoy's eyes. The expression vanished almost as soon as it appeared, too faint to name and too tangled to pin down. He curled his lip in vague disdain, then silently slipped the little bottle into the pocket of his robes.
And just then, a voice rang out, sharp and mocking, drawn out in a deliberately exaggerated imitation of his own sneering tone:
"I reckon anyone who's stuck at school for Christmas must not have a home to go back to…"
Arms crossed tightly over his chest, Ron Weasley stood nearby, parroting word for word the very insult Malfoy had once thrown at Harry. His tone dripped with sarcasm and contempt.
His hatred for Malfoy ran deep. It ran so deep that it had settled into something cold and heavy. Malfoy had made it his personal hobby to stir up trouble, mock Ron's family, and laugh at how poor they were. Ron had lost count of how many times he had daydreamed about knocking that smug look right off his face.
Malfoy whipped around, his pale face tightening, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed into sharp grey slits that bored straight into Ron.
"Weasley, you…"
His lips parted slightly, as though he was about to lash out with one of his usual venom-laced retorts, something cruel and cutting that he always had ready for moments like this. But instead, he stopped. The words never came.
He simply pressed his mouth into a thin, cold line.
Without saying another word, he gave Ron one last icy glare, heavy with unspoken threat. Then he turned sharply on his heel and strode out of the Great Hall, his robes flaring behind him as he walked away.
"Not normal. That is so not normal!" Ron immediately ducked toward Harry and Hermione, his voice lowered to a whisper but his expression filled with the kind of seriousness usually reserved for life-threatening situations. "He didn't even talk back? Malfoy always talks back. He's definitely up to something. That mad Bludger during the last match was probably just his warm-up act."
"Um… Ron, that Bludger was hexed by Dobby. Malfoy had nothing to do with it."
"What? It wasn't him? Seriously?" Ron and Hermione blurted it out together, both of them staring at Harry in open disbelief. "Wait, then who's Dobby?"
"He's that… the house-elf, I told you about before," Harry said, then launched into the full story. He told them everything: how Dobby had broken into the Dursleys' house to warn him, how he'd blocked the platform to stop Harry from reaching the train, and how he'd hexed the Bludger to try and "rescue" him from Hogwarts.
By the time Harry was done, Ron and Hermione were completely stunned, their mouths hanging open in silent shock.
"So… Dobby stopped you from getting on the train, and then broke your arm, because he wanted to save you from Hogwarts?" Hermione asked, clearly trying to make sense of it all, though her tone suggested she wasn't entirely convinced.
Ron shook his head slowly, his voice caught somewhere between disbelief and concern. "Harry, mate… I'm just saying, if he keeps 'rescuing' you like that, you might not survive the next one."
Harry understood exactly what Ron meant, but there wasn't much he could do about it.
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When Sargeras returned to his office, he found that his desk had all but disappeared beneath a small mountain of gifts and letters. Two travel-weary owls were still perched patiently on the windowsill, waiting in silence, their feathers slightly ruffled from the long flight.
The first thing he did was tend to the owls, pouring out fresh water and setting out a bit of food. Only after they began hooting softly in contentment did he finally turn to face the stack of parcels towering on his desk.
These past two days, Noctis had been so busy he barely touched the ground… or more accurately, barely stopped flapping his wings, as he zipped back and forth across the skies, delivering gifts to every corner of the wizarding world.
Sargeras, for his part, found all this festive exchanging a bit too ceremonial for his taste. It felt like a hollow tradition, more about appearances than meaning. But since he was here, part of this world now, he felt obliged to follow custom and go along with the seasonal spirit.
Fortunately, during his travels over the past few years, he had explored a good number of ancient magical ruins scattered across distant lands. Along the way, he had collected a variety of magical objects; some practical, others strange, all unique in their own way.
And then there were the magical creatures he had personally hunted and subdued… some of them extremely dangerous. He had carefully harvested and preserved rare materials from their bodies, making sure not to waste a single useful scrap.
Frugality, in his view, was a virtue. And making the most of what one had, that, to him, was true wisdom. Thanks to this mindset, his private storage was now packed with valuable and hard-to-find magical items, many of which turned out to make quite impressive holiday presents.
Now, seated behind the desk in his office, Sargeras calmly picked up the stack of letters and began opening them one by one. His expression did not shift, but his eyes remained sharp as they scanned through each note. Most of the gifts were practical and thoughtful — emphasis on most. Kestrel, of course, was the exception.
The little girl was apparently still on the road, and from the look of things, her travels had recently taken her through Britain. Her gift to Sargeras this year was a thick, hefty book titled: "A Comprehensive Guide to Traditional British Cuisine."
He flipped through a few pages at random, and after a quick skim, decided that this was definitely funnier than last year's gift: "A Collection of English Jokes," which had been unintentionally tragic in its lack of humor.
Next came a letter and parcel from Nightingale. This time, she had managed to capture a female barrel-sprite and had sealed the creature inside a specially enchanted glass bottle before mailing it off with great pride.
The letter boldly claimed this was the most "beautiful" one she had ever seen.
Sargeras turned the bottle slowly in his hands, eyeing the fat, round little creature dozing inside. He studied its bulging belly, stubby arms, and pudgy cheeks, and for the life of him couldn't understand what about this bloated gremlin could possibly qualify as "beautiful." Still, he wasn't foolish enough to write back and question Nightingale's taste.
After all, just last year, she had sent him a bottle of enchanted perfume that had come with an unexpected bonus: a stubborn barrel-sprite tucked inside. He rummaged through the drawers of his desk until he found it: a pale blue bottle with elegant silver script, labeled Song of the Deep Blue.
Inside, the same plump little creature floated on its back atop the potion's surface, snoring peacefully. The perfume level had dropped significantly, nearly a third of it gone.
"Living the good life, aren't you?" Sargeras murmured as he rapped his knuckle lightly against the glass.
The vibration startled the sleeping sprite awake. Its pea-like green eyes flew open, and when it saw Sargeras' magnified face peering in, it gave a shudder and nearly sank below the surface in fright.
"Hmph. Got you a companion," Sargeras said expressionlessly, then, with practiced efficiency, uncorked the bottle and dropped the newly arrived female barrel-sprite inside.
He didn't spare a glance at the commotion that followed. Two sets of tiny hands smacked frantically against the glass walls in protest as he reached instead for the next item: a bottle of North American dragonblood liquor, courtesy of Thunderbird.
He pulled the stopper free and brought the mouth of the bottle close, breathing in the dense, pungent aroma. The scent was intense, unfamiliar, and incredibly distinctive. His brow furrowed ever so slightly as he processed it.
Let's just say… this particular flavor was something he hadn't yet learned to appreciate.
On the desk, more gifts from friends awaited his attention:
From Snowy Owl, there was an old, heavy goblin-made gold coin, its surface worn smooth with age. On the back, a roaring chimera had been engraved in fine, intricate relief, its open jaws frozen in mid-snarl.
From Swift: a dark stone tablet, heavy in the hand, carved with fractured and incomplete ancient incantations whose meanings remained a mystery.
From Robin: a multi-functional sketching quill, its shaft inlaid with delicate magical runes, each one faintly glowing under the light.
From Hummingbird: a compact but fully equipped magical first aid kit, sleek, portable, and brimming with charm-infused supplies.
From Stork: a thick, timeworn book titled Atlas of Rare and Dangerous Magical Creatures' Habitats. Its yellowed pages detailed not only fearsome beasts but also their territorial range, hunting patterns, and behavioral quirks with exhaustive care.
There was more still.
His cousin, Astoria, had sent him a box of syrup-monster magic candies, each one fizzing with unpredictable magic. Professor Flitwick's gift was a carefully illustrated diagram breaking down the inner workings of his self-created spell, charmingly titled "Magical Missile." And then there was Hagrid's present, a generous handful of shimmering unicorn tail hairs, slick and glossy, each strand imbued with pure, untarnished magical essence, clearly selected with great care.
The task of writing replies to the letters and preparing return gifts stretched well into the night.
It was only when the final letter, sealed with a shimmering magical crest, vanished into the darkness with Noctis's silent departure that quiet finally returned to the office.
For once, Sargeras didn't immediately dive back into his research. Instead, he leaned back in his armchair and let himself settle into the rare stillness.
The faint glow of the dying fire cast gentle light across his face, illuminating the quiet weight of contemplation in his eyes.
His thoughts began to turn toward the teaching work that lay ahead at Hogwarts. The dueling club, scheduled twice a week, would require him to seriously drill the students on real-world self-defense. He couldn't afford to take it lightly. The subjects he was officially in charge of would need renewed structure and more rigorous plans as well; there was no room for carelessness in any of it.
Then there was the matter of the now-vacant Defense Against the Dark Arts professor position. Strictly speaking, it wasn't his responsibility, but Sargeras found himself wondering whether he should recommend someone to Dumbledore. He did know a few candidates who might be well suited to the task.
And finally, there was one more thing that needed his attention.
His "old friend" Lucius had been… rather active of late.
It might be time to pay a polite visit to Malfoy Manor. Perhaps sit down over a cup of tea and ask Lucius, ever so casually, what exactly it was that he was trying to stir up.
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[Chapter End's]
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