Hogsmeade, the Shrieking Shack.
The first rays of Christmas morning sunlight slanted through the broken window panes, landing on a mud-streaked poster taped to the wall.
"Firebolt—the Black Forest Company's latest masterpiece after the Swiftstick!"
The broom handle was crafted from polished ash wood, finished with a diamond gloss that gave it a sleek, aerodynamic curve. Down near the bottom, tiny lettering noted that the tail twigs could be customized with birch or hazel, each one hand-carved with a unique serial number.
Sirius ran his fingers over the poster, staring at it quietly.
He didn't know exactly what Harry liked, and he couldn't exactly owl him to ask, so when he'd mail-ordered it, he'd gone with birch—it looked flashier, more impressive.
The delivery was supposed to arrive today, Christmas Day. There might be delays, of course; the owl could show up anytime, as long as it was sometime during the day. Sirius wasn't sure if the broom would end up at Harry's bedside or delivered straight to the Great Hall.
But none of that really mattered.
Just imagining the look of shock and joy on Harry's face when he opened it made Sirius grin like an idiot.
He stared at the poster for a long time before finally folding it up, stretching, and heading for the door. As he stepped outside, he couldn't help muttering happily to himself, "I've gotta hide under the Whomping Willow. I need to see Harry flying on that thing…"
…
Hogwarts, Muggle Studies office.
Melvin opened his eyes in his bedroom. The air was warm and dry, the north wind howling outside the window. A small gray-and-white snake was curled up beside his pillow.
He washed up quickly, then pulled on thick winter robes.
As he organized his wardrobe, he felt eyes on him. He turned around—the little snake was awake now, coiled in a neat circle, yawning and flicking its pink tongue curiously.
"Hiss…"
Ever since the snows hit the Scottish Highlands, the snake had come back.
The Forbidden Forest was freezing, and only the inside of Hagrid's hut was halfway warm. But Hagrid spent most of his time patrolling the forest, firewood was limited, and the hearth didn't burn around the clock.
Hitching a ride on Fang for warmth worked in theory, but Fang was a boarhund—full of energy and always out running around for hours.
Cold wind slipped between the scales, leaving Yulm drowsy all day. It didn't want to hibernate, though, so it had slunk back to Melvin in the castle, enjoying 24-hour fireplace heating. Occasionally it ventured outside, where a woolen coat kept it warmer than dog fur ever could.
Thinking about that, Yulm lifted its head. "Hiss~"
"You want clothes too?"
Melvin shook his head. "Not happening. Fang's got four legs—he can wear little dog sweaters. You're all smooth scales; nothing would stay on. Wait till winter's over and it warms up. Until then, you can either stay in your emerald snake nest or ride in my pocket."
"Hiss…"
Yulm slithered toward the outstretched hand, nuzzling affectionately against the palm before wrapping around the wrist and crawling up into the coat pocket.
The emerald nest was comfy, but it still preferred the pocket. The young professor smelled nice.
Melvin weighed the now-heavier pocket. When it had first hatched, it was just a tiny thing, no thicker than a finger. Now it had some real heft. Without the Undetectable Extension Charm, it'd look like a lumpy bulge.
Jostled by the movement, Yulm poked its head out and hissed in protest.
Melvin casually grabbed its head, gently pried open its mouth, and checked the gums.
Soft pink flesh, two slender fangs retracted into the gums—weapons sharp enough to tear through steel, but practically invisible when not bared.
The teeth were clean and white, no weird colors, nothing that obviously screamed "venomous."
"Wonder if snakes need to brush their teeth?" Melvin mused as he let go.
Yulm wriggled free and nipped his thumb lightly—purely out of annoyance. Its lazy eyes held zero menace.
"Don't hide in the pocket. Come out and play in the room by yourself—I've got Christmas presents to open." Melvin lifted it out and set it on the bedside table. "If you get bored, go brush your teeth in the bathroom or tidy up the room for me."
"Woof?"
The snake's eyes were full of refusal.
A few minutes later, Melvin stepped into the outer office. The little snake followed, looking deeply confused in a very human way. It kept spitting like Fang after eating a bad bug, and if you got close you could smell mint.
The desk was piled high with presents like a small mountain, more scattered across the rug. As a well-known figure in the wizarding world, Melvin had received nearly a hundred Christmas greetings.
The gifts were all over the place: colleagues sent things related to their subjects, Dumbledore gave a travel memoir from a famous wizarding bard, pub owners sent bottles of firewhisky and butterbeer, members of the Mirror Club and friends from Budapest sent odd but perfectly legal magical gadgets, regional trinkets and souvenirs, and some parents had sent homemade cakes and pastries.
Mrs. Weasley, still grateful for that performance fee, sent a tin of cookies, a chocolate cake, and some roasted nuts she'd gathered and prepared herself.
Madam Eckmore sent experimental notes from the Department of Magical Transportation—Wright and the team were still trying to free Mirror signals from reliance on the physical Floo Network, looking for a faster, wider-ranging way to transmit them.
No luck yet.
Then there were the Longbottoms. Frank and Alice thanked him again in their letter and sent a unicorn horn—definitely controlled contraband—confiscated during a case, they said.
Almost every card was signed by someone familiar; most had sent gifts last year too. Melvin opened and sorted them, occasionally fishing Yulm out of a shredded wrapping-paper box.
The farthest package came from the Pyrenees. Inside was something special: handwritten lesson plans.
"…Beauxbatons, Defense Against the Dark Arts, courtesy of Professor Rosier."
Melvin's lips curved into a faint smile. He'd sent a set of Muggle education textbooks in return.
After enjoying greetings from faraway friends, it was time to say hello to the ones close by. He tapped his wand on the desk drawer, undoing the anti-unlocking charm. The hardwood door swung open silently.
Inside sat a small golden cup and a black ring sealed in a glass dish.
He started with the cup.
He took out the memory-revealing potion, dripped two drops into the cup, and silvery memory mist swirled up. Riddle's illusory figure appeared in midair.
Pale but handsome, light-colored eyes, a sharp aquiline nose—features entirely normal.
Two years out of school, working at Borgin and Burkes, studying dark magic in his spare time. He'd recently murdered Hepzibah Smith and turned the cup into a Horcrux. This fragment held the earlier memories.
The young professor had unsealed it, half-coaxed and half-tricked it into cooperating, trading some dark magic research for information about Harry Potter… Things had gone smoothly at first. Then, over the summer in Paris, the professor slipped up—acting suspicious, trying to magically probe memories that were meant to stay hidden.
That was the later part stored in this fragment.
"Long time no see, Tom, my friend," the young professor said with a smile.
The professor—dressed in a long Muggle trench coat, brown sweater, and white shirt—sat behind the desk, meeting the phantom's gaze calmly.
Melvin Lewent.
Riddle hesitated a moment before quietly settling across the desk, facing the professor. No physical sensation—just a polite gesture. His awareness came through the cup.
"Melvin… can you honestly tell me whether the history you relayed to me was actually true?"
Riddle looked back on it all—the sweeping takeover by Voldemort and the Death Eaters, followed by their rapid downfall—all information passed on by Melvin.
Now, in hindsight, even though many details checked out, he had no idea how much was real, what he could trust, what he couldn't.
Everything he'd learned from classroom chats with the young wizards had happened under Melvin's watchful eye. It could all have been an elaborate con.
"Does the truth really matter that much to you?" Melvin shrugged. "In your perception, you're just a preserved fragment of memory that can think. Those events are Voldemort's experiences—the past of this world."
"But this is about my future!"
"Maybe… Tom, I'm not here to argue with you."
"Then why did you summon me?"
"To wish you a Merry Christmas."
As Melvin finished speaking, the potion in the cup ran out. Before Riddle could react, the phantom figure faded away.
Next came the sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle.
Just as handsome, expression calm and mature beyond his years, yet compared to the cup fragment, he still had traces of unmistakable youth.
"Merry Christmas, Tom."
"It's Christmas already? Well then, Merry Christmas to you too, Melvin."
"…"
Melvin couldn't help smiling. This one was so much easier to fool.
…
He headed down the spiral staircase toward the Great Hall.
Even before he reached the doors, he could see the beautifully decorated corridors—walls draped with holly and mistletoe garlands, twelve towering Christmas firs lining both sides of the hall.
Branches hung with everlasting icicles that gleamed and sparkled. Some trees were dotted with colored candles that burned smokeless and cool to the touch.
The four house tables were laden with breakfast: sausages, buttered peas, thick cranberry sauce, fresh-baked breads of every kind… Yet only a handful of students sat scattered about—all the ones who'd stayed over the holidays.
On Christmas morning, the young witches and wizards weren't all that interested in food. They were too busy excitedly swapping presents.
"Mum sent us sweaters again, with our initials on the front," Ron chattered. "Though Harry's is nicer than any of ours—she puts more effort into the ones that aren't for her own kids." Harry grinned beside him.
Hermione sprinkled salt on the Weasley twins' wounds: "I got one too. Mrs. Weasley told me to keep an eye on you lot and owl her if you break any school rules."
"…"
Professor Flitwick stood by the door on a tall stool, waving his wand to shoot streams of golden bubbles that he hung on the newly placed trees.
"Hey, Melvin! Come help me check—are these bubbles centered? They look a bit off to the right to me."
"I think they're leaning left…"
Before Melvin could finish, he caught sight of Snape coming down the stairs out of the corner of his eye—face blank, stride brisk. The students behind him fell silent and gave him a wide berth, intimidated by the Potions Master's presence.
"Severus, come help us decide!" Flitwick beamed.
"…"
Snape had clearly planned to breeze right past without getting involved in this nonsense, but seeing Flitwick straining on tiptoe—and then glancing at Melvin—he pressed his lips together and stepped over.
"Move it an inch to the right."
"It really was off to the left. These old eyes of mine…" Flitwick muttered as he adjusted, his high-pitched voice bright with holiday cheer.
"Up delivering Remus's potion again?" Melvin asked Snape with a smile.
"Hm."
Snape's face stayed expressionless, looking for all the world like he'd just committed murder instead of doing a good deed.
"You two talked about Black and Harry again, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"And you forgot to slip Veritaserum into Remus's potion again, didn't you?"
"…"
Snape shot him a cold glare that could have cast Sectumsempra all on its own.
The Potions Master was always threatening to dose students and make their friends brew the antidote, but in over a decade of teaching, no one had ever heard of him actually doing it. The only notable classroom mishap in recent years was Neville tipping over a cauldron of Scabbers potion and ending up in the hospital wing.
Even on the black market in Knockturn Alley, Snape-brewed potions came with a quality guarantee.
The man was almost religiously devoted to his craft—personal feelings rarely got in the way.
Melvin just smiled back.
"Merlin's beard! A Firebolt! That's definitely a Firebolt!" someone shrieked from inside the hall.
Everyone staying over had crowded around the Gryffindor table, eyes wide, staring without blinking.
Harry looked hesitant as he reached out to touch the magnificent broom. The wood was perfectly smooth—no splinters anywhere.
It gleamed, hovering gently in midair with nothing holding it up, at exactly the right height for him to mount. A golden serial number was etched into the handle, the sleek body shaped like a frozen wave.
"I'm not dreaming, am I?" Harry's face was pure disbelief.
"Who sent it?" Hermione asked immediately, sounding worried as she rummaged through the wrapping. "There's no card—nothing! Who on earth would spend that kind of money on you?"
"Well, one thing I know for sure—it's definitely not the Dursleys."
"Maybe Dumbledore? He gave you the Invisibility Cloak, didn't he?" Ron whispered.
"That was my dad's. Dumbledore was just passing it on. The headmaster wouldn't give a student something this expensive."
"What about Professor Lupin?" Ron guessed again.
"Lupin…" Harry couldn't help laughing. "If he had that kind of money, he'd buy himself some new robes first so he wouldn't keep catching cold."
"…"
Under one of the fir trees by the hall entrance, the students' excited chatter drifted over.
"Oh, a broom worth thousands of Galleons—definitely a big sum," Flitwick remarked casually. "Any guesses who sent it?"
"Who knows?" Melvin glanced sideways at Snape, answering with feigned nonchalance. "Could be Sirius Black, for all we know."
"Why would you say that?"
"Just a hunch. Doesn't need evidence."
"…"
Snape frowned at the words, staring at a tiny icicle on the tree. Something flickered faintly in his dark eyes.