The weeks leading up to Christmas saw Hogwarts transform. A blanket of thick, pristine snow covered the grounds, muffling the world in a peaceful silence. Suits of armour were enchanted to sing slightly off-key carols, and great wreaths of holly and mistletoe appeared in the corridors. The impending holiday created a schism in the student body; the majority were giddy with the prospect of returning home, while a quiet minority prepared to stay.
This year, the number of Gryffindor first-years staying behind was unusually high. Harry, having no home to go to, was an obvious resident. The Weasley parents, it was announced, were travelling to Romania to spend the holiday with their second-eldest son, Charlie, who worked with dragons. This left Ron, for the first time in his life, spending Christmas at Hogwarts, a prospect he greeted with a mixture of disappointment and a secret, thrilling sense of independence.
Hermione, whose parents were dentists and avid skiers, had decided to stay to take advantage of the quiet libraries for "light revision," a decision that surprised no one. Neville's grandmother was taking a rare trip abroad, leaving him in the care of the castle.
And Ariana, for whom the orphanage was no longer a home but merely a place she had once stayed, had never considered leaving. Hogwarts was her reality now, her laboratory and her sanctuary.
The dynamic of their small, burgeoning group solidified in the quiet castle. With the majority of the student body gone, the five of them became a self-contained unit, an odd little surrogate family. They claimed the prime armchairs by the common room fire, playing explosive snap—a game Ron had to teach Ariana the complex, illogical rules of—and wizard's chess, at which Ariana proved to be a terrifyingly prescient player, her quiet, strategic mind seeing threats ten moves in advance.
Hermione and Ariana's intellectual alliance deepened. They would spend long afternoons in the library, Hermione devouring facts and histories while Ariana deconstructed the fundamental theories that underpinned them. Ariana, in turn, began to quietly guide Hermione, pushing her beyond rote memorization towards a true understanding of magical principles. "Don't just learn the counter-curse, Hermione," she would say softly, "understand why it works. What is the magical axiom it's exploiting in the original curse?"
It was a paradigm shift for Hermione, one that was both challenging and exhilarating. Throughout this time, Ariana was engaged in a quiet, methodical project of her own. Her gifts were not last-minute purchases. They were carefully considered, meticulously planned operations. She spent an afternoon with a tearfully grateful Hagrid, who happily shared a handful of blurry, joyous photographs of James and Lily. She made formal appointments with Professors McGonagall and Flitwick, who, after some initial surprise, delved into old school archives to produce photos of two of their most brilliant former students. She sent a carefully worded letter to Augusta Longbottom via the school owls, beginning with her sincere gratitude for Neville's well-being and gently broaching the subject of his mother's connection to the Potters. The formidable old witch, already
impressed by the girl who had saved her grandson, sent back a small packet of photos with a curt but approving note.
Her most difficult acquisition came from the dungeons. She approached Professor Snape after a Potions class, waiting until every other student had fled his intimidating presence. She did not ask for a photo of his old classmate. She approached it with cool, unassailable logic.
"Professor," she had said, her voice calm in the frigid air of the dungeon classroom. "I am compiling a historical record of two of Hogwarts' most distinguished former students for their son. A complete record requires samples from all disciplines. Your Potions class was one in which Lily Evans, in particular, excelled. For the sake of academic posterity, any pictorial evidence of her work would be invaluable."
She never mentioned James. She framed it not as a personal request, but as an academic one. She called Lily by her maiden name. And she looked at him with those unnerving, placid eyes that held no judgment and no fear. Snape, bound by Dumbledore's edict and faced with a request so logically sound and emotionally detached, found himself cornered. After a long, tense silence, he had simply nodded curtly and, a day later, left a single, unlabelled photograph on her desk.
Christmas morning arrived with a pale, golden light filtering through the dormitory windows. Harry awoke to a sight he'd never seen before: a pile of presents at the foot of his bed. A real pile. For him. He, Ron, Neville, Hermione, and Ariana gathered in the common room, which was decorated with a magnificent, magically-lit Christmas tree.
The gift-giving began. Harry received a lumpy, hand-knitted jumper from Mrs. Weasley in the signature emerald green of his eyes, a gesture of maternal warmth that touched him deeply. Hagrid had sent him a roughly carved wooden flute. There was a box of Chocolate Frogs from Hermione, and a fifty-pence piece taped to a letter from the Dursleys, a pathetic, almost comical reminder of the world he had left behind.
Then came Ariana's gifts. She presented them without ceremony, her movements calm and deliberate.
First, she turned to Neville. She handed him a small, enchanted terrarium. Inside, nestled in rich, dark soil, was a small, unassuming plant with woolly, pale green leaves. "It's Dittany," she explained softly. "The cultivated form, Origanum dictamnus. Its essence is a powerful healing agent and restorative. I thought it might be… useful."
Neville stared at the plant, his eyes wide with reverence. He knew what it was. It was rare, potent, and incredibly valuable. It was a gift that acknowledged his passion for Herbology and also trusted him with its care. It was the most thoughtful present he had ever received. "Thank you, Ariana," he whispered, clutching the terrarium like a precious jewel.
Next, she gave Ron his present. It was a long, thin box. Ron, accustomed to lumpy, second-hand gifts, opened it with caution. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, was a small, silver ball with fluttering wings. It wasn't a Golden Snitch, but a handcrafted Silver Practice Snitch, perfectly weighted and enchanted to be just as erratically fast as a real one. It was new. It was shiny. It was magnificent. And it was just for him.
"Wicked!" Ron breathed, his eyes shining. He let it out of the box, and it zipped around his head, its silver wings a blur. It was a gift that saw past his status as Harry's friend and acknowledged his own love, his own identity as a Quidditch fanatic.
For Hermione, Ariana presented a single, heavy book. It was bound in dark, unmarked leather, and the pages were thick, aged parchment. There was no title on the cover. Hermione opened it, and her breath caught in her throat. The title page, written in elegant, archaic script, read: De Novo Artificio: A Primer on the Foundational Principles of Creation Magic. It wasn't a school book. It wasn't even a book Ariana could have bought in Flourish and Blotts. This was something from a private collection, something ancient and profound. It was a book on the very branch of magic that Ariana herself seemed to embody. It was an invitation. It was a shared secret. It was the highest intellectual compliment Ariana could possibly pay her.
"Ariana," Hermione whispered, her fingers tracing the title as if it were sacred text. "I… I don't know what to say. This is…"
"I thought you might find it interesting," Ariana said simply.
Finally, she turned to Harry. Her gift was the last one he opened. It was a large, heavy, rectangular package wrapped in simple brown paper. He tore it open. It was a photograph album. But it was far more than that. The cover was made of rich, dark dragonhide leather, smooth and warm to the touch. The clasp was a single, polished piece of silver, intricately charmed. He opened it.
The first page held a single, moving photograph. A handsome man with untidy black hair and glasses was waving happily, his arm around a beautiful woman with startlingly green eyes and thick, dark red hair. They were laughing, the joy radiating from the picture so real it was a physical blow. It was James and Lily Potter. His parents.
Harry's breath hitched. He turned the page. And another. And another. The album was full of them.
James as Head Boy, looking proud and slightly smug beside a stern-looking Lily Evans.
Lily in Potions class, her brow furrowed in concentration, a faint smile playing on her lips as she looked up from her cauldron—the photo from Snape.
James and his friends—a handsome, arrogant-looking Sirius Black, a quiet, scarred Remus Lupin, and a nervous, watery-eyed Peter Pettigrew—laughing in the Gryffindor common room.
A beautiful picture of Lily and another pretty witch, whom Harry dimly recognized as Neville's mother, holding two swaddled bundles—baby Harry and baby Neville.
He saw his parents grow from Hogwarts students into young adults, members of the Order of the Phoenix, and finally, into parents themselves.
Page after page, a life he had never known unfolded before him. He could feel the tears welling in his eyes, hot and unstoppable, blurring the smiling faces. He looked up at Ariana, his throat too tight to speak.
She was watching him, her periwinkle eyes soft and full of a quiet, profound understanding. "It is important to remember those we have lost," she said gently. "Not as legends, but as people."
Harry finally found his voice, a choked, broken whisper. "Thank you." He didn't know what else to say. It was the greatest gift he had ever received, a gift of memory, of identity, of family. It was a gift that told him he was not just an orphan, but the son of two people who had lived and loved and laughed.
He closed the album, holding it to his chest as if it were the most precious object in the world. The five of them sat there in the warm silence of the common room, the fire crackling, the Silver Snitch hovering forgotten near the ceiling. It was a strange, cobbled-together little family, united not by blood, but by the quiet architecture of a friendship built on understanding, respect, and the profound, calculated kindness of the girl at its center.