The Anderson family's carefully laid plans for a Christmas spent on the snowy slopes were unexpectedly dismantled. The original arrangement—a Muggle skiing holiday complete with rented chalets and bracing winter air—was abruptly canceled, replaced by the far warmer, more domestic prospect of hosting relatives.
Luke and Sansa would be coming to stay, transforming the quiet house into a bustling hub of familial chaos.
Surprisingly, no one voiced a complaint. The relief was almost palpable; neither Albert nor his parents possessed a fiery passion for the tedious mechanics of competitive skiing.
Albert, in particular, was glad to trade the physical exertion of a cold mountain for the intellectual comforts of home, a place where he could quietly reconcile the new, magical facets of his life with the familiar, Muggle framework of his family.
On Christmas Eve, the house settled into a heavy, excited silence. The scent of pine and cinnamon mingled in the air, dominated by the fragrant, flickering presence of the large Christmas tree in the living room.
Albert, having completed his final checks—ensuring his valuable animal-hide bag of Galleons was securely hidden, and that the Weasley twins' Quidditch poster was neatly rolled—found himself pausing in the dim hallway. He noticed his father, Herb, hovering awkwardly outside Nia's bedroom door. Herb was carrying a brightly wrapped, suspiciously long package, his face etched with a look of profound contemplation.
Herb was clearly waging an internal battle: whether to maintain the dwindling, beloved myth of Santa Claus by discreetly slipping the present onto his daughter's bedside table, or to simply surrender to the practical, visible placement of gifts beneath the tree.
"The Santa jig is losing its efficacy, Dad," Albert murmured, leaning against the wall, a slight smile touching his lips. He understood the impulse—the desire to cling to the final traces of Nia's childhood innocence. "The effort-to-belief ratio is declining rapidly. Just leave the parcel downstairs with the others."
Herb sighed, acknowledging the truth in his son's pragmatic advice. "It's just… a tradition," he mumbled, turning to follow Albert's suggestion.
A soft voice broke through the quiet of the hallway. Daisy, Albert's mother, appeared in the dim light, dressed in a thick, comfortable nightgown, her expression one of weary, loving authority.
"Both of you, back to bed immediately. No staying up to plot strategy or debate mythological figures. If you don't get your rest, you'll be too slow to open your presents in the morning." She ushered both her husband and son toward their respective rooms, her presence a comforting, non-negotiable end to the evening's activities.
The next morning, the magical quiet of Christmas was violently shattered. Albert was roused not by a gentle awakening, but by a sudden, chilling pressure: Tom's entire, massive face pressed firmly against his, the cat's cold, damp nose and whiskers demanding immediate attention. Any lingering vestiges of sleep evaporated instantly.
"It's not here! I can't find the present you said you got me!" Nia's voice, sharp with urgency and irritation, followed the feline alarm clock. She stood by the bed, demanding redress for the missing parcel.
Albert carefully disentangled himself from the still-purring cat. "It's right here, I promise. I hadn't yet achieved the necessary level of alertness to successfully navigate the stairs and place it under the tree without waking Mum." He reached into his bedside drawer and retrieved a small, elegantly wrapped box, handing it to his sister.
"And mine?" he asked in return, a long-standing tradition dictating a mandatory, reciprocal exchange between them.
"Yours are downstairs by the tree. Mostly," Nia replied distractedly, tearing into the wrapping paper. She pulled out a newly-minted, brilliantly polished Phoenix badge, crafted in exquisite detail. She held the fiery, winged bird up to the light, her brow furrowed in concentration. "It's lovely, but… what kind of bird is this, exactly?"
"It's a Phoenix, or sometimes called a Firebird," Albert explained, settling back against his pillows. "It's a magnificent creature, associated with resilience and rebirth. I believe Headmaster Dumbledore keeps one as a pet. A highly symbolic creature, wouldn't you say?"
Satisfied with the answer, Nia carefully clipped the Phoenix badge onto her pajama top. Albert then reached back into the drawer, pulling out a small, crinkly plastic bag filled with dried whitefish—Tom's bespoke Christmas treat. "And this, my fat friend, is your reward for a year of moderate-to-high loyalty."
He tore open the packaging, extracting a sliver of dried fish, and held it tantalizingly just out of Tom's reach. The cat, suddenly animated, fixed its enormous yellow eyes on the fish, letting out an anxious, demanding mew.
"Don't tease him, Albert! That's cruel," Nia chastised, her protective instincts for the feline instantly kicking in. She scooped up the cat, confiscated the bag of dried fish, and started toward the door. "Come on, Tom, we're not playing with the mean one anymore. You and I are going to open presents."
Albert was left alone, chewing thoughtfully on the single dried fish he had managed to pilfer before the cat and the girl retreated.
"A White Christmas," he observed, finally rising. He walked to the window, pulling back the thick curtains to reveal a world muffled and pristine beneath a fresh blanket of snow. The flakes were still drifting lazily down, creating a picture-perfect holiday scene.
As Albert descended the stairs, his gaze went straight to the Christmas tree. The base was now ringed with packages, though the distribution was highly skewed. Nia, who had already begun tearing through her haul by the dining room table, left a substantial pile still waiting.
The vast majority must be for me, Albert realized, a small, wry smile touching his face. He had a considerably wider network of academic acquaintances than his younger sister.
He began the methodical unwrapping, assessing each gift not just for its contents, but for the sentiment and the social transaction it represented.
Books and Greeting Cards: The usual haul from his parents and relatives—classic Muggle literature, biographies, and several ornate, store-bought greeting cards. These were the anchors of his Muggle life, predictable and grounding.
Quidditch Poster: This was an explosion of color and speed—an aggressive, animated poster featuring the famous Puddlemere United team, its players zooming in and out of frame.
The gift, obviously from the Weasley twins, Fred and George, spoke volumes about their fandom and their assumption that Albert, now one of the inner circle, must share their passion. He made a mental note to display it prominently in the dormitory; it represented friendship.
Sweet Gratitude: A small, perfectly wrapped box of homemade treacle fudge. This was from Shanna, a token of thanks for his tutoring and general helpfulness at the start of the term—a quiet, sincere gesture.
A Challenge: A large, slightly battered box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, signed with a hastily scribbled note from Lee Jordan reading, "Revenge is coming. Enjoy the boogers!" A sign of their mutual, playful rivalry.
Metamorphosis Today Magazine (Old Issue): Albert paused at this one. It was an older edition, but highly specific—an in-depth analysis of Transfiguration theory concerning inanimate-to-animate object conversion.
The sender was none other than Professor McGonagall. A calculated gift, Albert thought. It wasn't sentimental, but practical and intellectual, subtly pushing his academic boundaries and confirming her quiet observation of his talent.
The Scarf: A large, thick scarf, a cozy blend of grey and pale blue wool.
"How is it?" Nia asked, having abandoned her own presents to watch him nervously. "I picked the color. It's supposed to be neutral and dignified."
"It's perfectly warm," Albert confirmed, immediately winding the soft wool around his neck. It was, admittedly, a bit too large and distinctly "child's winter" style, but its warmth was genuine, and the effort his sister put in was clear. A success of sibling affection, he determined.
The remainder of the pile consisted of candy and various reference volumes, bolstering his growing personal library—predictable, useful, and warmly received.
The family breakfast was delayed until Luke and Sansa arrived around 10:30 AM. The feast was magnificent: eggs, sausages, fresh pastries, and plenty of buttered toast, all enjoyed to the cheerful strains of Muggle Christmas carols playing softly from the radio.
After the meal, the family retired to the living room, settling onto the plush sofas for a comfortable afternoon of television and casual conversation. Nia, however, was restless.
"Show us something, Albert," she urged, bouncing on the sofa cushions. "Show us a trick! A magic spell! You haven't done anything since you came home."
Albert had anticipated this request, and his internal gears of magical security immediately whirred into action. "Not today, Nia. The Ministry of Magic has very strict rules about students performing magic outside of school."
He avoided the simple lie that he was "not allowed," instead focusing on the Trace—the undetectable monitoring system used by the Ministry to track underage magic. He had asked everyone he trusted—the twins, Lee, even subtly questioning Professor Flitwick about the general rules—but no one seemed to have a deep, technical understanding of how the Trace worked. Was it tied to the wand? The person? The location?
To use magic in the Muggle world without complete certainty of the Trace's mechanism would be profoundly reckless, he mused. If I am expelled for a minor transfiguration, one hundred Galleons will not be worth the cost. He was determined to master the theoretical law before attempting to exploit any legal loopholes.
"Don't be boring," Nia pouted, but Albert smoothly redirected the energy.
"We can play Wizard Chess. It's still a magical game, just without the need for a wand."
The subsequent hour was a massacre. Albert, whose calculated, strategic mind excelled at geometry and pattern recognition, played a brutal, flawless game. Herb, his father, lost repeatedly. Each defeat was a cacophony of shattering stone; pawns dissolved, knights were vaporized, and rooks screamed dramatically as they were checkmated.
After his fifth consecutive loss, Herb threw his hands up in defeat, the ruins of his stone king scattered across the board. "Enough! I'm out," he declared, wiping his brow. "I need a distraction."
Fortunately, Daisy emerged from the kitchen right on cue, carrying a large, fragrant bowl of freshly fried French fries. The savory smell instantly eclipsed the tension of defeat, providing a perfect excuse for an intermission.
As Albert went to the sink to wash the smell of defeat (and melted stone) from his hands, he noticed a brewing confrontation. He spotted the family cat, Tom, low to the ground, stalking the family's snowy white owl, Shera.
The owl was perched on a stand in the corner of the room, looking down with icy disdain at the approaching predator. Tom, in a moment of pure feline arrogance, reached out a cautious, mischievous paw and batted lightly at Shera's leg feathers.
"Tom, don't provoke Shera, or you're going to get a painful reminder of natural selection," Albert muttered, gently scooping the large, short-haired cat away from the stand. "Did I name you incorrectly? Perhaps you should be called Jerry. Tom and Jerry—a truly classic, combative combination."
"Shera sounds far more dignified," Nia reminded him automatically.
When Albert returned from washing his hands, the prediction had already come violently true. A high-pitched, indignant screech was followed by a yelp of shock and pain. Tom, having clearly returned for a second round of feather-poking, had received a fierce, decisive peck from Shera's sharp beak.
Shera was now aggressively defending her territory, swooping down from her perch, feathers ruffled in fury, and chasing the terrified cat. Tom, looking utterly disheveled and insulted, retreated at top speed, his large body somehow managing to wedge itself underneath the lowest sofa, from which he refused to emerge.
The adults burst into laughter at the spectacle. Sansa quickly went to fetch some owl treats for Shera, praising her defensive prowess, before kneeling down to coax the mortified Tom out from under the furniture with the allure of a few dried fish treats.
"Tom is getting far too chunky," Nia observed, showing off her Griffin Automaton, which was currently lying on the coffee table. She nudged its finely carved, outstretched wings. "When will this thing fly, Albert? And tell me honestly, do creatures like Griffins really exist in your world?"
"Yes, they exist," Albert confirmed, dipping a fry heavily into a dollop of ketchup. "But they are kept in places we don't know about. They are protected."
Daisy frowned, leaning against Herb, who wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Her frustration was evident. "That's what I don't understand about your world. Why do all you wizards hide yourselves away like that? It feels like you're ashamed of what you are."
Luke, a pragmatic man, offered the historical context. "It's simply self-preservation, Daisy. There are so few wizards, and power that ordinary people can't comprehend is almost always met with two reactions: fear and envy. The fear leads to persecution. It's a very human weakness to regard anything beyond one's own understanding as a threat that must be destroyed."
The conversation turned heavier, the warmth of the day momentarily overshadowed by the sobering reality of the Statute of Secrecy. Tom, now recovered and sprawled across the back of the sofa, poked lazily at the Griffin toy.
"Albert," Daisy interrupted, bringing the conversation back to a more personal level. "Did you read that book I chose for you? The Theory of Perceptual Manifestation?"
"I finished it on the train journey," Albert nodded, wiping his hands clean. "It's an exceptional piece of theoretical philosophy, Mum, a fantastic exploration of how intent shapes reality." He paused, looking at his family and then glancing towards the bag of Galleons hidden upstairs—the tangible proof of magic.
"It's just a pity that what is in a book often remains just that. The true nature of things is learned when you cross the line from reading about the world to actually living it."
He knew the ultimate challenge wasn't found in a page, but in the chaotic, often contradictory, application of knowledge—a challenge that, thanks to his recent, lucrative bet, he was now financially prepared to meet.
Now that Albert has successfully navigated the Trace issue and is well-funded, should we focus on his plans to leverage his new 100 Galleons for more ambitious magical resources, or should we explore the practical, hilarious side of the Weasley twins' delayed Christmas reaction to his win?