On the stained-glass panes, the melting snow ran in thin rivulets dripping like rain.
Sean was writing thank-you gifts in return.
What he didn't know was that Professor McGonagall was smiling faintly at the gray, hazy sky in the distance—and down in the dungeons, a cauldron that was almost never allowed to go cold had finally cooled, too.
Anticipation was a strange thing. It happened before joy arrived.
In the Great Hall, Sean tucked his plan-map into an exquisitely wrapped box. In another box, he placed the notes he'd written lately—his research into potion rituals, and how he'd refined them.
Poor Whitey, though—she'd only just recovered some energy, and now she had to deliver letters again.
After handling the most important return gifts, Sean received a whole flood of unexpected presents.
Most Hogwarts students sent him thank-you letters, mixed with little mince pies, Christmas pastries, and nut brittles:
[Mr. Green, thank you for your notes.]
[The Green Notes will be my favorite book for the rest of my life.]
[Your Merlin-era Magical History section still isn't finished—oh, I mean, Mr. Green, Merry Christmas.]
There were so many letters that Sean used two quills at once to write back.
To the left of the Christmas tree, Justin and the others were whispering.
"A professor? The one I'm thinking of?" Hermione asked Justin curiously. If any student knew more, it would be Justin.
"I'm guessing it's not Snape," Ron muttered, lips twisting. "Snape would confiscate Quidditch Through the Ages if he could. Everyone knows he hates Quidditch."
"Maybe," Justin said, nodding gently.
Harry and Ron didn't understand what Justin was hinting at, but they didn't press. They just started opening presents.
Harry's small parcel was from the Dursleys.
They'd sent him a broom, along with a short note asking whether he wanted to stay at Hogwarts for the summer.
"How could they… I mean, I wish…" Harry stared at the note, then at the broom. The familiar irritation in him melted like snow, and for a moment he felt strangely dazed.
The Dursleys didn't know the difference between a magical broom and an ordinary one—they just assumed all brooms could fly—but that didn't matter. When Harry looked at it, he understood: his aunt and uncle's family knew he liked broomsticks.
He sat there for a long while before he opened the rest.
Hagrid had sent him a huge bag of treacle toffee—Harry decided he'd warm it by the fire before eating it. Ron gave him a book called Flying with the Cannons, packed with stories about his favorite Quidditch team. Hermione had bought him a gorgeous eagle-feather quill.
Harry opened the last parcel: a brand-new hand-knit sweater from Mrs. Weasley, and a large fruitcake.
He propped up her card and a pang of guilt rose in his chest. He thought of Mr. Weasley's car and the punishment decree.
And then, a letter slipped out:
[Dear, don't worry about the car. It came back on its own.
—Love, Molly]
In an instant, Harry felt the fire roaring hotter, driving away the bite of winter.
"All right, Harry—are you ready?" Justin suddenly spoke.
"Yes," Harry answered quickly.
He turned—and saw Ron looking smug, Hermione lifting a parcel, and even Neville standing up clutching a gift box.
They exchanged looks, then closed in around Sean.
Sean was still replying to letters when he looked up and saw their not-at-all-innocent faces.
…What were they planning?
He studied them with calm, slightly puzzled green eyes. Hermione broke first.
"Sean—Merry Christmas. Did you forget our gift too—idiot," she hissed, slapping a neatly wrapped box onto his table.
"It's our second winter together, Sean. Merry Christmas," Justin said, beaming, setting another identical box beside it.
Then Harry. Then Ron. Then Neville…
Sean watched the stack grow until Neville couldn't even place his on top—until Justin reminded him he was a wizard, and Neville hurriedly used a Levitation Charm to float it up.
Warm, dry snow drifted softly from the enchanted ceiling. The pile of gifts in front of Sean became as tall as the Christmas tree.
Like they'd just completed some hilarious group mission, the kids swarmed back around the fire, chattering away.
Now and then, Ron let out a shout—Sean's gift to him was a brand-new deluxe set of Wizard Chess (Weird and Wonderful).
Or Neville—egged on by everyone—turned into a big, chubby orange cat and went sprinting around.
Hermione and Justin chased after him nonstop.
"This is all your fault, Ron!" Hermione shot Ron a glare between sprints. "This was your idea!"
Ron had been happily chasing the big orange cat too—until he suddenly stopped being happy.
"Scabbers! MERLIN—get—Neville—AWAY—AHHH!"
Ron panicked.
Neville's paws were scrabbling at Scabbers.
Ron grabbed Scabbers by the tail with one hand and tried to snatch Neville with the other—only to smack straight into the corner of Harry's table. The pudding on top wobbled violently.
Ron clutched his hand and yowled in pain.
…
It was a joyful Christmas.
Sean looked down at the gifts, his green eyes drifting slightly out of focus.
Five sweaters. Hermione had added an extra scarf, and Justin had tucked in a pair of gloves.
"My mother says—"
It was Justin's voice, but it came from a letter, read aloud:
"The most worth caring about is this: when snowflakes are falling, the good news of the world lands in the low places."
Sean lifted his head.
They were all saying it together.
Justin led; Hermione's cheeks were pink from running; Harry was holding Neville-the-orange-cat, trying to make him spit out Scabbers' tail; and Ron, miserable, still had one hand tugging Scabbers while forcing a shaky smile.
"Cheese!"
Colin had appeared out of nowhere. The first-year snapped a perfectly timed photo.
And in that photo, everyone could see it: Sean's mouth was lifted in a huge grin.
Up at the staff table, Professor Dumbledore was leading the students in his favorite Christmas carols. Hagrid—after cup after cup of eggnog—was singing louder and louder. Percy still hadn't noticed Fred had jinxed his prefect badge so it read "Numbskull", and he kept asking why everyone was laughing.
At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy mocked Harry's new sweater in a loud, snooty voice—then turned around and praised Sean's sweater as "clearly tasteful," even though they were all, in fact, Mrs. Weasley's handiwork.
That winter felt like someone had scooped up every good memory, tossed them into the fire, and let the kids—piece by piece—warm themselves on them.
~~~
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