"He's clearly more interested in the hanging lights than in your company, Sirius," Anduin observed dryly.
The tension that had gripped the room moments before seemed to dissipate entirely as the group of seasoned fighters were reduced to cooing, oversized toddlers surrounding the two infants.
Sirius, however, saw Anduin's emergence from the kitchen as an opportunity. He swooped down, deftly scooping one of the babies—Harry—into his arms. The child, tiny and oblivious, immediately stopped flailing and nestled against the comforting warmth of Sirius's chest.
"Hey, look, you miserable kitchen genius!" Sirius declared, his face softening completely, the usual reckless mischief replaced by a deep, almost painful tenderness. "This is my godson, Harry. Pay attention!"
He gently maneuvered the unaware Harry toward Anduin. "Hey, Harry, this is Anduin. You must remember not to be as dramatic and arrogant as this man when you grow up. Learn to appreciate a little chaos," the mischievous wizard whispered into the baby's ear, treating the infant like a confidant.
Anduin rolled his eyes, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. The sight of Sirius, usually a whirlwind of carelessness, holding the tiny child with such absolute, focused affection was genuinely endearing.
"Hello, little Harry," Anduin murmured, reaching out to gently grasp the baby's miniature hand. "Your godfather is not only annoying, but he is fundamentally more annoying than he appears. He is also profoundly sloppy. Don't inherit his wardrobe or his impulsiveness."
Sirius Black immediately objected, snatching Harry back in a mock-offended huff. "What do you think you're doing? Don't corrupt my little godson with your cynical, overly tailored perspective on life!"
In that brief exchange, all traces of the fugitive and the war-fighter vanished. Sirius was simply the doting guardian, his face filled with an affection so pure it was heartbreaking, looking as though Harry was his own biological son. Anduin, momentarily dropping his guard, found himself playing along, enjoying the light, ridiculous banter.
Anduin played with Sirius and Harry for a few more minutes, the two adults maneuvering the uncomplaining infant like a tiny, precious doll, until James Potter called out, signaling that the last-minute security discussion with Sirius was necessary.
Sirius reluctantly handed Harry over to Anduin. "Hold him steady, don't drop him, and for Merlin's sake, don't lecture him on the history of ancient runes," he instructed, before quickly striding off to join James.
Anduin was left holding little Harry. He stared down at the boy, who was now contentedly sucking his thumb, his small hands grasping Anduin's fine waistcoat. This was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the supposed Savior. Right now, he was nothing more than a warm, drooling bundle of pure, oblivious innocence.
The weight of the prophecy, the Prophet's chilling pronouncement that defined this child's future, felt utterly ludicrous in the face of this tiny human reality.
Sirius returned a short while later, waving excitedly. "Anduin! James suggested we take a full group photo—a Christmas memento! Come on, hurry!"
Anduin agreed, carefully cradling Harry as he walked toward the living room fireplace. James and Lupin had quickly cleared the furniture, setting up a self-triggering magical camera on a tripod. Alice Longbottom called Lily and Augusta from the kitchen.
The group lined up haphazardly. James and Lily stood toward the center, their arms loosely linked. Frank and Alice, looking slightly more formal, stood next to them. Sirius, Lupin, and Peter quickly clustered on James's side, while Augusta positioned herself next to Alice.
Anduin instinctively moved to the end, aiming for symmetrical balance. Augusta immediately took Neville from Alice, holding her grandson with stiff, traditional pride. James and Lily were so focused on getting the framing right and ensuring everyone was smiling that they completely failed to notice the small weight missing from their own arms.
Anduin adjusted his grip on Harry, and the camera's flash suddenly erupted in a blinding, silvery blue light, capturing the moment forever.
But as the flash faded, a sharp, unsettling realization hit Anduin. Harry was still securely tucked into his arms. Neville was on Augusta's lap. The parents—the Potters and the Longbottoms—stood in the center, unburdened by the children that defined them.
Anduin lowered his gaze to the young couple, his expression utterly blank. "Ahem. Does anyone else notice a slight, glaring anomaly here? Were you not planning on holding your own child in your family photo?"
The quiet room erupted in a fresh wave of delighted, slightly embarrassed laughter. Everyone looked at the developed photo slip that had instantly popped out of the camera, and then at Anduin, still holding a calm, thumb-sucking Harry.
Lily gently took Harry back from Anduin, her eyes sparkling with warmth. "Oh, my word! I didn't even notice, Anduin. Harry must genuinely like you; he didn't cry or fuss once. He's usually a terror if I pass him to anyone but James."
"Should we take another one?" Anduin asked, a slight tension in his voice. "Neither of your children are actually with you. Is this still considered a family photo?"
Lily shook her head, gathering Harry close. She looked at the picture—at the collection of friends, allies, and chosen family, all tightly packed together. Her smile was philosophical and generous. "It's perfect. It shows who we are. Our family isn't just about blood, Anduin; it's about the people who stand beside us in a crisis and who look after our children when we're distracted. We are all family tonight. We don't need another one."
James and the Longbottoms readily agreed, seemingly unconcerned by the error. To them, the photo simply symbolized their unity. But to Anduin, the image was a potent, chilling foreshadowing: James and Lily standing proud and free, while their most precious possession was entrusted to an outsider. It was as if fate had dictated the true future in that single, messy snapshot.
With the immediate tension broken, they finally moved into the dining room to enjoy the meticulously prepared Christmas dinner. The food was magnificent, and amidst the laughter and clatter of silver, everyone lavished genuine praise on Anduin, declaring his mushroom soup and spicy cakes to be the highlight of the evening.
After the feast, the group retreated to the living room for the traditional sharing of Christmas gifts. Anduin, known for his meticulous preparedness, brought forth his wrapped gifts, distributing them with quiet ceremony.
He gave Lily the children's storybooks and the elegant music box. James received a beautifully wrapped bottle of Euphoria Potion, explaining its function as a powerful, non-addictive mood-lifter perfect for stressful times.
He then produced several more wrapped bottles of the same potion, gifting one to almost every adult present—a clever, subtle move that provided a genuinely useful magical tool while reinforcing his position as a valuable, proactive ally.
The thoughtfulness of the gesture improved everyone's impression of him significantly. He didn't just give frivolous toys; he gave utility and emotional support.
Augusta Longbottom, entirely touched by Anduin's kindness and the rare luxury of a perfectly executed, modern culinary feast, was suddenly flustered. She had prepared nothing for the boy.
"Goodness, child, your generosity is overwhelming," Augusta declared, standing up decisively. "I have nothing for you. This is utterly unacceptable." She marched to her handbag and pulled out a delicate, half-finished silver chain.
"This," she said, presenting it to Anduin, "was meant to be finished by a craftsman for my own use—I was planning to attach a small locket with Neville's picture. However, I have nothing else suitable to offer on behalf of the Longbottom family, and I refuse to let your kindness go unrewarded. Consider it yours, to wear or to complete as you see fit. It's a start. I can easily make another for myself."
The gesture—giving away a cherished, personal project—was deeply moving. Anduin accepted the simple silver chain with genuine gratitude, recognizing the depth of her spontaneous, maternal connection to him.
The Potters' gift was equally profound. Lily presented Anduin with a heavy, leather-bound collection: a set of books titled "The Defense Against Obscure Magic," a multi-volume series copied from the Potter family's restricted library.
"Professor Flitwick told me how diligently you work, Anduin, and he spoke highly of your raw potential," Lily explained, her expression serious. "This is an extremely rare academic set, and James and I have even copied some of our own personal charms and prayers into the margins of the first volume. Treat them with care. We hope they help you develop your magical theory."
Anduin was genuinely overjoyed. This set of books, especially with the hand-written notes, was an invaluable treasure trove of advanced academic magic—far superior to anything available in the typical Hogwarts curriculum. He thanked Lily and James profusely, his excitement visible.
Finally, Sirius Black mysteriously revealed his gift. Anduin had braced himself for a large bag of Galleons or another piece of reckless, expensive, but ultimately thoughtless equipment.
Sirius produced a small, unassuming linen pouch tied with a simple draw-string. When Anduin picked it up, he instantly recognized the faint, complex residual energy. It was a powerfully crafted alchemical item, enchanted with the Perfect Stretching Charm.
"Go on, open it," Sirius urged, beaming.
Anduin pulled the string, and the small pouch instantly swelled inside. The internal space expanded, encompassing an incredible volume—easily three or four cubic meters of uninterrupted space, visible only as a shifting, silent void inside the small fabric shell.
"How about that, eh? Pretty good, huh?" Sirius said, puffing out his chest. "I saw how much rubbish you were trying to cram onto my bike the other day, and I realized you're a collector. This magical bag is enchanted to last about five years. It should cover all your needs until you graduate. I thought it was about time you had a decent place to put all your ingredients and those dusty tomes you lug around."
Anduin was truly stunned. He had been considering purchasing a spatial item, but the quality, even for a temporary charm, was prohibitively expensive—easily twenty or thirty Galleons for something that lasted only a year. Sirius hadn't just bought a standard item; he had acquired a high-grade, long-duration alchemy piece. It was the most practical, thoughtful, and perfectly suited gift he could have received for his survivalist, prepper instincts.
For once, Anduin abandoned all pretense of superiority. He laughed, genuinely and without a hint of mockery. "Sirius, this is... truly invaluable. Thank you. This is exactly what I needed. It's an exceptionally considerate gift."
Sirius Black, unaccustomed to such earnest gratitude, simply scoffed in happy contempt. "Of course it is! Don't get used to it, kid."
And so, the evening continued, filled with the warmth of shared laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the happy rustle of wrapping paper. It was a deeply successful, emotionally resonant evening, the perfect appearance of normalcy.
But as the festivities began to wind down and the tension of the long, silent night returned, Sirius leaned in, his eyes darting toward the main entrance, despite the heavy, layered charms protecting them.
"This is almost too quiet, Anduin," he whispered, the earlier euphoria fading from his voice. "I doubt the Death Eaters will show up now—the opportunity is spoiled. It seems Dumbledore's gamble on the consolidation worked. But now I wonder... how are things going over at the Burrow? I hope Edgar Bones and the others are having as boring a Christmas as we are."
Anduin nodded, holding the silver chain Augusta had given him. He didn't respond immediately. He knew the lack of an attack was likely due to the traitor seeing the fortified defenses and sending a discreet warning. He had a strong suspicion that the night's peace was bought not by Dumbledore's strength, but by betrayal's caution. And the Weasleys, the secondary target, were likely just as secure, their protection successful.
But the real threat—the person who ruined the ambush—was still sitting in a room nearby. And the only way to confirm it was to wait for the next move. The Christmas dinner was over, but the waiting game had just begun.