Usagi's belly carried its own storage space—otherwise she'd never have managed to drag back so many gift-wrapped parcels.
Opening presents only felt truly magical on Christmas morning.
Tom began his ritual, recording the names of those who hadn't sent him anything (a list he kept meticulously) before starting with the gifts from his more ordinary classmates. Nothing spectacular—basic trinkets and token offerings.
Zabini, ever thoughtful, sent rare herbs—including revival grass and golden okra, both of which Tom had been hunting for. Nott's gift was a set of copied family tomes on obscure historical secrets. Rosier kept things as brutish as always, but at least this year's bribe had jumped to five hundred Galleons.
Then came the professors' gifts.
Last year, Tom hadn't received any, but since he had given each Head of House presents, this year he was rewarded in kind.
Snape's offering? A lump of bezoar.
"What the bloody hell—does he want me to develop gallstones?" Tom muttered, unimpressed.
Professor Flitwick's gift was far more whimsical: an entire crate of magical fireworks. When lit, they burst into glittering displays that transformed into firework-spirits, dancing elegant routines in the air.
Sprout had listened well to his not-so-subtle hints and sent him a bag of biting cabbage seeds.
And McGonagall…
Her gift stopped Tom cold.
A thick, leather-bound notebook, dense with meticulous annotations. Not notes from her student days, but her latest collected insights from the last two years—her full mastery of advanced Transfiguration.
Tom stared at it, stunned. A Christmas gift like this? Wasn't it too much?
Only when he read the accompanying letter did he understand.
It wasn't merely a holiday present—it was also a reward. His Fantasy Potion had passed peer review and would soon be published in Transfiguration Today. Hogwarts itself was preparing a batch to distribute among students. McGonagall's notebook was, in essence, her way of offering him royalties—her own life's work, given so that students like him might go further.
For a moment, Tom was silent. Say what you would about McGonagall—her devotion to her students was unquestionable.
Finally, his gaze settled on the last parcel: Dumbledore's.
"Well, well, old man," Tom murmured. "McGonagall's given so much to this school—if you, the Headmaster, try to fob me off with scraps, Hogwarts is in real trouble."
He tore it open.
Another notebook.
But this one was thin—barely a dozen pages.
He flipped it open and froze.
The title read: Fiendfyre's Pathbreaker.
Tom's eyes blazed.
Of course. Grindelwald was a master of flame, but so was Dumbledore. And this spell—this was one of Dumbledore's trump cards, burned into history itself.
He remembered the moment vividly: poisoned by the cursed Horcrux, his hand blackened and dying, weakened by Voldemort's potion, reduced to a shadow of his power. And yet, in that state, Dumbledore had unleashed this very spell—splitting a lake of fire wide open. His last blaze of glory.
The magic was insane.
Everything else forgotten, Tom bent over the notebook, absorbing every detail.
The first page gave the spell's structure, while the rest was a maze of layered incantations and ancient theory. Among all the magic Tom had studied, only Andros's ancient incantations rivaled this in complexity.
As he read, his expression twisted into something half-incredulous, half-wicked.
Could it be? Was this spell really designed to be… super effective against Grindelwald himself?
Otherwise why emphasize that it excelled against Fiendfyre, that it not only suppressed cursed flames but devoured them, feeding its caster with raw power?
Tom smirked.
He snapped open his study space, calling up into the heavens:
"Hey, old Gellert—ever heard of a spell called Fiendfyre's Pathbreaker?"
Meanwhile, in London.
Spinner's End.
Severus Snape's dingy home lay cloaked in grey morning. Christmas meant nothing to him—he rose at eight, as always.
The few gifts on his floor confirmed it. A handful from colleagues, a token from the meddlesome old Headmaster… and, of course, the obligatory offering from Lucius.
But this year—something was different. There were more boxes than usual.
Curious, he tugged open the largest one first—sent by the Greengrass family.
His face fell.
A rubbish bin.
A bloody rubbish bin.
For a moment, rage bubbled. But then he noticed Daphne's letter, neatly explaining how these were designed for his classroom, to collect potion dregs and scraps.
Practical, useful, even considerate.
It was just… odd. Receiving trash cans for Christmas.
And then, worse came.
Snape's hand froze on another parcel. The tag read: From Tom Riddle.
A cold sneer twisted across his lips.
Last year, that insolent brat had sent him a book titled How to Win the Girl of Your Dreams. Snape had wanted to hex him into paste. If he'd received that book decades ago—perhaps. But now? Pointless. Cruel.
What could the boy have sent this year that could possibly be worse?
Determined, Snape tore it open.
Another book.
The title leapt out like a curse:
"When Childhood Sweethearts Fall for Their Worst Enemy."
For a moment, there was silence.
And then—
"RIDDLE!!" Snape's roar shook the house. "I WILL KILL YOU! A THOUSAND TIMES WOULD NOT BE ENOUGH!"