Chapter 51. The Christmas Feast
11:00 a.m.
The sky was clear and cold.
Melvin sat by the window, his expression distant.
In his hands, he held a beautifully bound and illustrated storybook — The Tales of the Mushrooms, a gift from Dumbledore.
These stories were not originals but compilations by an editor. Many came from wizarding taverns of the late seventeenth century, when the Statute of Secrecy had just been enacted and wizards, in general, still harbored hatred toward Muggles. The tales, widely circulated, were steeped in the stench of ale and prejudice.
The first story came from The Tales of Beedle the Bard — The Wizard and the Hopping Pot.
The original tells of a kind old wizard who teaches his apathetic son compassion through a magical cauldron, forcing him to experience the suffering of Muggles. Eventually, the young wizard realizes his mistakes and uses his magic to help his Muggle neighbors.
But in this version, the once gentle and moving story had been grotesquely distorted. In the end, the Hopping Pot devoured dozens of Muggle villagers, and the young wizard took control of the village.
"The cauldron, covered in fleshy growths, writhed slowly, its insides gurgling like churning entrails. Globs of viscous slime spilled from its mouth — Muggles melted by stomach acid.The blacksmith's head, rake still in hand, protruded from the mound of flesh, his jaw dislocated and hanging over his chest, his mangled limbs barely visible. The priest's spine twisted like a pretzel, his hands still gripping a broken cross — both moaning wetly.The few surviving villagers swore never again to interfere with a wizard's magic…"
Melvin shut the book, tempted to cast a Forgetting Charm on himself. But even with his eyes closed, the potion-etched illustrations lingered in his mind.
What an outrageous fairy tale!
Didn't the Ministry of Magic have any kind of censorship?
Melvin rubbed his temples and rose from his chair. The portraits along the corridor walls were also celebrating; in the painting of the Drunken Monk, several figures were hosting a feast, while Sir Cadogan leaned tipsily against the frame, oblivious to how much he'd drunk.
The Christmas banquet in the Great Hall hadn't yet begun. Melvin descended to the first floor and turned right, intending to clear his head with some fresh air in the courtyard.
The courtyard was already blanketed in white; shrubs and treetops sagged under the snow, as did the stone benches. Since the students had gone home, the flagstone path lay untouched beneath a pristine layer of snow that sparkled in the sunlight.
Professor Flitwick stood by the corridor, glancing alternately at the snow and at his own feet.
Beside him was Mrs. Norris, the caretaker's cat, torn between basking in the sun and fleeing from the cold. She lay curled on his shoes, her hind legs tucked in, her front paws folded beneath her chest. A tuft of her tail looped around the professor's ankle — whether to seek warmth or offer it, no one could tell.
Melvin approached. "Merry Christmas, Professor Flitwick."
"Merry Christmas, Melvin. I loved your gift," Flitwick said, looking up to greet him before glancing at the drowsy cat. Mrs. Norris half-opened her eyes, then slowly closed them again. "Last Christmas was at Ilvermorny, wasn't it? How are you finding Hogwarts this year? Adjusting well?"
"Hogwarts is wonderful — it's even warmer here," Melvin replied.
A pang of nostalgia struck him; a whole year had passed.
Back then, it was still more than half a year before the boy who had miraculously survived would receive his acceptance letter. The long-horned water serpent was hibernating, and everyone believed it wouldn't awaken until spring. Yet on Christmas Eve, it had suddenly stirred from its slumber, muttering about fate foretelling its departure before the coming spring.
He wondered if that creature had somehow foreseen it.
The sky was a pale blue, the sunlight faintly warm — but the thick snow was bitterly cold, its chill biting through his exposed skin. Suddenly, a gust of wind swept through, snuffing out that fleeting warmth.
"Hoo…"
Melvin exhaled a puff of white mist.
The cat, lying on the half-elf professor's shoes, shivered; its tail twitched, paws curling tighter beneath its chest. It wasn't lying there for warmth, merely savoring the rare winter sunlight, though it brought no heat.
"It's a bit cold. I'll head inside," Melvin said.
"All right," Flitwick replied, still watching the cat.
Melvin stepped into the hall; the Great Hall had been decorated the previous day.
Twelve towering Christmas trees glittered with crystal ornaments and tiny ice beads. Golden bubbles floated among the branches, glimmering and reflecting the light, creating a dreamlike atmosphere. The walls were draped with garlands of holly and mistletoe, and hundreds of candles floated overhead, their flames flickering softly.
Only about a dozen students remained at school, six from Gryffindor. Apart from a few Slytherins, most had gathered around the Gryffindor table, watching Harry and Ron play wizard chess.
Those behind Harry whispered advice, while Ron, sitting opposite, wore a smug, villainous grin.
The professors who'd stayed for the holidays were already present. Dumbledore sat at the center of the staff table, wearing a woman's wool hat adorned with a flower, smiling warmly.
As Melvin approached the staff table, he greeted each professor in turn:
"Happy holidays, Professor McGonagall — the book you gave me was truly inspiring.""It's a pleasure to smell tulips in winter, Professor Sprout.""Hagrid, thank you for the fang.""Headmaster Dumbledore, happy holidays."
Dumbledore blinked at the difference between Melvin's greetings and everyone else's gifts, then hesitated. "Melvin, I greatly enjoyed the sweets you gave me."
"My pleasure," Melvin replied politely, ignoring the expectant gleam in the headmaster's eyes. He didn't mention the cultish storybook. Instead, he glanced at the empty seat beside him. "Where are the other professors?"
"Sybil's drunk and resting in her room," said Professor McGonagall evenly. "Professor Quirrell's still ill in the infirmary — but since Madam Pomfrey's on holiday, Severus volunteered to tend to him."
"How very… devoted," Melvin murmured.
About twenty minutes later, Professor Flitwick entered the Great Hall with Mrs. Norris, and the feast officially began.
As Dumbledore tapped his goblet with a silver spoon, an array of magnificent dishes materialized, filling the tables with roast turkey, pork chops, creamy soups, and other delicacies — alongside bottles of sherry, whisky, soda, and an assortment of fruit juices.
Ron was already devouring a roasted chicken leg, cheeks bulging.
Harry, however, wasn't fully focused on the feast. It was his first real Christmas, and though he was overjoyed, his mind buzzed with questions:Who exactly was Nicolas Flamel?What was hidden beneath the trapdoor on the fourth floor?What were Snape and Quirrell plotting?And who had gifted him that invisibility cloak that very morning?
As he sliced his steak, Harry glanced up at the staff table — and froze.
Hagrid, thoroughly drunk, had just kissed Professor McGonagall.
To everyone's surprise, the usually stern professor burst into laughter at his antics, her pointed hat askew.
(End of Chapter)
Thanks to Yugoslavian for the review, I'll be uploading one chapter daily this week, next week's is coming soon