The castle changed in subtle ways during the biggest holiday of the year. If one looked carefully, the corners of doorways and arches were decorated with fancy little red bows. The gargoyle that guarded the headmaster's office wore a wreath as a necklace. The most noticeable addition were the trees. There were four of them, each in a tall-ceilinged part of the castle not far from one of the house's common rooms, immaculately decorated with red, blue, yellow, and green ornaments.
A boy stood in front of one of these. His brown hair was shaggy and unstylish. There was a foreshadowing of stubble under his nose, not yet worth the word. His skinny forearm protruded from his Slytherin robes as he touched one of the lowest ornaments. The ball of glass was green. It, along with the rest, gave off a subtle internal light. The boy let the glow wash across his face.
"It's a beautiful touch, right?"
The boy flinched. He turned slowly, trying to pretend he hadn't been surprised.
Harry was leaning against the wall. This tree had been placed in a crossroads where two major hallways met. The space itself was circular, with four curved walls making up the corners. It was roughly a third the size of Harry's classroom. Plenty of space for a bit of festive cheer.
"Can I help you?" The boy's half-open eyes were sullen.
"Who'd ask for help on Christmas?" Harry asked. "Especially a professor. This is supposed to be the one day when you kids don't have to pay us any mind."
The boy was silent. His thoughts were written across his face. If you think that, why are you bothering me?
"What brings you here so early?" Harry said. "It's half-nine on Christmas morning. I imagined every student would be holed up in their common rooms."
"Am I not allowed to be here, sir?"
"Of course you're allowed. Just consider me curious."
The boy turned back to the ornament. "You're out too." It sounded a bit nasty leaving his lips. "Why are you here?"
"I was delivering a gift. A student of mine had to stay behind for the holidays. His mother is out of the country, see, so I brought him a present to keep his spirits up."
The boy looked over his shoulder at where Harry was coming from. "The Slytherin common room is in that direction."
"It is, isn't it?" Harry said, like this news mildly surprised him. He pushed away from the wall, walking up to the tree. He gazed at its ornaments with his head tilted far enough back to see the star at the top. "So, Avery, which ornament is your favorite?"
The boy jerked. "How do you know my name?"
Harry looked at him. "You're a student. It's a professor's job to know your name."
"I've never taken your class!"
"You're still a student. I'll hazard a guess— the green ones are your favorite."
Avery looked between Harry and the ornament he was touching.
"Better green than red," he muttered.
"I disagree!" Harry said cheerfully. "But that's the thing about colors. Nobody's right or wrong about which ones are the best. One man's idea of beauty might make another one vomit. At the end of the day, they're just colors. Nothing more and nothing less."
He dug into the pocket of his coat. The rooting around attracted Avery's attention. The bridge of the boy's nose scrunched up as he stared at the Muggle garment.
"Ah! This should do," Harry said.
He pulled something from the pocket, drawing his wand at the same time. Before Avery could see what had been taken out, Harry's wand tapped the item. A layer of thin red paper wrapped around the outside. Harry stared at the paper, his lips in a thoughtful line. He tapped his wand and the wrapping paper turned green, a pitch black bow forming from thin air on top.
Harry held the present out. Slowly, Avery accepted it. He held it in two hands and watched the present like a bomb.
"Go on. Open it."
Without haste, Avery peeled the wrapping paper away. The pages and spine gave it away as a book before he reached the cover.
When he read the title, Avery dropped it.
He looked angry when it didn't fall. The book hovered in the air, Harry's wand pointing at it.
"Do you not like it?" Harry asked. "I heard you were from a family of Unspeakables. It seemed like a decent present."
The Scientific Method was written along the top of the cover, situated above an illustration of an atom. Avery's fingers stretched out and tensed, thinking about spiking it toward the floor.
"Magical experiments are valuable. My father pushed the boundaries of time, love, and life. Muggle science is as useful to me as a wand to a Squib."
"How did he push those boundaries?"
It wasn't the response Avery wanted. "What?"
"Time, love, and life. How did your father push those boundaries?"
"It— He couldn't say. No one knows except the Unspeakables."
"No one knows exactly what they do, that's true, but we know how they do it. The same way that any man or woman learns unknown things. They experiment and observe. They measure and test. To begin with they hypothesize, and to end they draw a conclusion. Being an Unspeakable requires a certain character. It takes the magic out of magic. Ironically, they reduce magic to a science. If I gave you a book about Muggle physics, it would be most valuable to you as kindling, because we create, transmute, propel, and stop the world with a swish of our wands. But the same way that those rules are true for Muggles, we have our own rules, and we discovered them with the same methods. Try, test, observe, understand." Harry looked at the tree, ignoring the disbelief on the boy's face. "In any case, give the book a try. There's no harm in it."
Avery touched the cover. He didn't hold it properly, pulling his fingers back like the surface was hot.
"You're wrong," Avery said. "There is harm in it. Especially now."
You Know Who was loose. Britain was entering a war. For a Slytherin to be seen with a Muggle book risked the label of Blood Traitor. Death, or worse, could lie at the end of that path.
"Avery," Harry said. "For as long as you stand in this school, no harm will come to you for reading a book. You're under my protection."
Avery finally lashed out, finally smacking the book onto the floor.
"My father is dead!" he said. "A person like you won't even have to feel bad, since he was Death Eater scum! My father believed in the Dark Lord since he was my age! He gave everything — everything — for You Know Who! Now he's gone, and you probably killed him! Is that why you're here? To gloat to me about it? Rub my nose in it? Say it! Say why you're here!"
"Because no student deserves to be alone on Christmas."
Avery stood there blinking, light from the ornaments cast across his young face. He was thirteen and he looked it.
"Merry Christmas, Avery," Harry said.
He refrained from offering any kind of touch, even a pat on the shoulder, understanding that it wouldn't be taken well.
As he left, the book floated back into the air. Avery was staring at its cover when Harry left him.
O-O-O
Harry held onto his right cuff, fixing it in place. His dress robes were a magically enhanced black, the threads having been enchanted to glow purple when hit with the right amount of light. A bit like the Christmas ornaments on the trees around Hogwarts, frankly.
Harry studied himself in a mirror conjured just for tonight. He checked his appearance over enough times to die a bit inside. Fussing over clothes never came naturally to him. Could he hire Molly Weasley to come and do it for him?
Alas, there was no time, so he handled it tonight. And everything was perfect, he just had a painful time getting there. Harry swished his robes out and left his room.
He passed Septima coming out of her room along the way. She stopped and stared at him. When he smirked back, she whispered something that sounded like, "Merlin."
Harry took the Floo to Hogsmeade. Rosmerta reacted similarly to Septima when he arrived inside her bar, though she was more forward, demanding a visit the next time he was free. Harry swore he would and stepped outside, turning on his heels to blink away.
The destination was on the outskirts of Greater Manchester. Harry visited a few times before. He hadn't been since his trip through time, nor had he ever bothered to place exactly where it was on a map. The building was a converted aristocratic residence donated to the Ministry from one old family or another at least a hundred years ago. It served as an event hall, hosting get-togethers for Magical Britain's elite. That included holiday balls.
Christmas was a time of celebration. Spirits tended to run high and people tended to be amiable. Someone, at some point, realized that those things could be used to close advantageous business dealings that might otherwise have dragged on. The Yuletide Gala was born from that realization, an annual event for department chairs, heads of old houses, and cabinet members from the Minister's office to brush elbows and pretend they liked each other a great deal more than usual, with the goal of getting something or other they wanted.
That's what the event usually consisted of. Tonight was different. People were scared— as Harry waited on the lawn for his date, he watched everyone who came scurry from the road into the house. Only he waited, looking relaxed. Tonight, people with comfortable lives had come to be reassured that nothing would get harder. They were looking for a nice lie.
Harry heard a pop and turned to find just the woman he was waiting for.
Anastasia was wearing white. He wasn't sure why he'd expected to see her in Slytherin-green. She looked angelic in her dress with her hair pulled into ringlets. All she was missing were wings, a halo, and a smile.
Her expression gave nothing away as she looked at Harry.
"Ready?" he asked.
She held out her hand.
Harry linked their arms. Together, they followed the path toward the front door. Harry walked slightly ahead. Their elbows were linked and Harry was reaching across his body, laying his right hand on top of her knuckle. It was a stance full of decorum, exactly the kind that he hadn't known when he first dressed up for the Yule Ball all those years ago. He had grown up, for better and for worse.
"Prepare for attention," Harry said.
"How does one do that?" Anastasia asked.
"Be ready to be looked at. Not that you have anything to worry about." Harry turned his head toward his date, smiling. "You're a compliment to anyone's eyes."
"Silver tongue."
They reached the door. Light was pouring out of two tall rectangular windows on either side. The hinges swung without needing to be touched, opening the way for the two of them. Harry helped Anastasia up a pair of steps to get inside. The instant they crossed the threshold, December's chill was replaced by a temperate warmth.
"Goo—" The Ministry clerk doing night duty as a receptionist performed a double take, recognizing Harry. He caught himself and carried on, albeit at an awkwardly loud volume. "Go straight down the hall to the ballroom! You can't miss it!"
"Thank you," Harry said.
Although he was still smiling, it was different from the one he'd given Anastasia outside. It held less warmth and no humility. Portraits hanging from the walls watched this pair pass with particular interest, giving Anastasia a taste of what was waiting for them.
The lights were momentarily blinding when they stepped into the ballroom. It was a big space, at least the size of Hogwarts' Great Hall. The ceiling had been enchanted with a motif of stars. It took one look for Harry to deem the display garish compared to its counterpart in Hogwarts. Instead of a recreation of the night sky, five-pointed shapes gleamed like electric pearls everywhere you looked. Beautiful, from a certain point of view, or gaudy, in Harry's view. It was difficult to look at. Harry didn't show any sign of his irritation as his eyes swept the room.
There were maybe fifty people in attendance. Harry and Anastasia were some of the last arrivals. As he planned it.
Harry took his hand off of Anastasia's knuckle and waved to the room. Flashes lit up in the corners that had nothing to do with the ceiling. Beyond bureaucrats and prominent members of the community, plenty of press were in attendance. Penny was here somewhere. She had written Harry to let him know she would be.
Harry led Anastasia into the ballroom. She was moving stiffly. To those watching, her nerves just looked like good posture. She was skilled at hiding her thoughts.
"Where does our night begin?" Anastasia asked softly.
"We pay our respects," Harry said. "It's the only proper place to start."
There were three majors groups forming within the ballroom if you knew what to look for. They mingled mostly with each other, with only a small portion of the attendees moving between groups. The closest group was the second largest. Scrimgeour was in the middle of it, holding a close conversation with Tiberius Ogden — an old man featuring exceptionally wooly eyebrows — and Eleanor Shafiq— a dark-skinned witch with a widow's peak and a ponytail.
Scrimgeour didn't end his conversations. All the same, he watched Harry walk toward his group. His eyes didn't leave when Harry walked right past, either.
The smallest group, though not far off the size of the one around Scrimgeour, was centered on Amelia Bones.
She looked beautiful, her fiery red hair tied into a bun above her honey-colored dress robes. As they drew close, easily squeezing between the bodies around Amelia, Harry's eyes were focused on the silver hairpins she'd used.
"I see you've upgraded from pens to something a bit fancier. Not planning on taking any witness statements tonight?"
"I'm sure you'll conjure a quill for me if I need it," Amelia said. "It would be easy enough for a wizard like you. Harry, there are some men I would love to introduce you to. This is Eustace Macmillan, and over here we have Marcus Abbott."
Two handsome men with different shades of blond hair greeted him. Marcus smiled while Eustace stuck to a nod.
"And over here," Amelia said, "we have the esteemed Griselda Marchbanks."
"Beh," Griselda grunted. She was wrinkled, frail, and short, with sharp eyes. "By esteemed, she means old!"
"You have seen younger days," Eustace said.
"So have you, and I was there to see them!" Griselda harrumphed. "I've seen all of you as whelps, quaking in your boots over your O.W.L.s All of them except you."
That sharp gaze rested on Harry. He tilted his head, smirking more than smiling.
"I was home schooled. I'm afraid I didn't sit my tests."
"I ought to pinch your parents!" Griselda said. "It's a wonder you were hired anywhere with credentials like that!"
"I made myself useful to Albus in enough ways for him to look past it. I wasn't opposed to doing dirty work, see."
Everyone in this group, which totaled to a bit more than ten people, were clearly listening to him, even the ones pretending to care about their personal conversations.
"Did you really kill Greyback?" Marcus Abott asked.
"I did."
"How?"
"Werewolves are good at shrugging off curses," Harry said. "They're less resistant to physical objects with speed behind them. I punctured him and his pack with glass shrapnel and followed him to his den. I suppose I didn't give the last blow, though. John Dawlish killed him as he was bleeding out."
"Why?" asked Eustace.
Harry worked a subtle bit of magic without taking his wand out of his pocket. Those around him heard his voice as normal. Yet, for those further away, his words were carried on some unseen breeze, reaching their ears in a conversational tone.
"Greyback's last words were about Tom Riddle. Dawlish executed him before he could confirm the Dark Lord had returned. There were non-Ministry personnel present, which I imagine is why he was so reckless. We ended up in a holding cell that night. If it wasn't for Amelia intervening, who knows how long the Aurors would've held us there."
"Held you for what reason?" Marcus asked.
"Why else? We heard more than they wanted us to." Harry paused, well aware of how many people were listening to him. "My companion had given Dawlish plenty of attitude, so that was their excuse. Scrimgeour was there, actually."
Griselda Marchbanks leaned forward, eyes alight. "To get you out?" she asked sweetly.
"No, that was all Amelia. She cleared up the misunderstanding, dressed Dawlish down, and even offered us an apology. Scrimgeour was just… there."
"Imagine that!" Griselda said.
The flow in the room started to shift. It was only at this point that the third group came into play.
Harry recognized some of these faces, too. There was Cuthbert Mockridge, head of the Goblin Liaison office, Germain Fowler, a member of Wizengamot, and Manson MacDougal, a rich Scottish wizard whose family made their fortune in parchment production.
Multiple things stuck out to Harry about this group, and had since he first walked into the room. First, they had no focal point. They mingled and talked as one interchangeable herd. Second, there was a clear distinction between it and the other two. It was obvious that these people were trying not to get too close to Amelia and Scrimgeour's groups, thereby avoiding the witch and wizard themselves. Lastly, they were the largest group.
When Harry's voice mysteriously wafted around the room, it reached this group just as clearly as it reached Scrimgeour. There was a rising stir. Conversation rose, then fell. When the third group settled down, three of them broke away, coming closer to hear Harry talk.
He wasn't the only one who saw this. Amelia was smirking. Eustace Macmillan raised his voice, being the kind of man who could do so without sounding rude. "What of the giants, Harry? You said you foiled Voldemort there as well!"
"That was a more exciting day. It all began in the Urals…"
He told all of it, adding a bit of flair to create engagement, although not much of that was necessary. It was already a good tale. He only left out the details about Apolline and the celebration they got up to afterward. When he finished, a few in the group clapped.
"There's no need, really," Harry said. His attention was on Cuthbert Mockridge and Manson MacDougal, both of whom had joined Amelia's group right before he got to his duel against the Gurg.
Harry looked back once, too, to see Scrimgeour. The man was standing stiffly. He had started telling his own stories of duels with dark wizards and dangerous arrests he'd made. They would have been entertaining if their competition wasn't so outrageous.
Eustace let out a low whistle. Harry thought the man was reacting to his story, but that wasn't it. Eustace — and others — were watching a tall man with black skin and a bald head make his way to them.
Kingsley Shacklebolt left a place so close to Scrimgeour that he could've touched the man, coming to stand directly to Amelia's right.
"Surely you've had other adventures," Kingsley said. "I'd love to hear them. I may learn a thing or two."
Kingsley was a candidate for Head Auror once the position was vacated. He was amongst the most experienced, accomplished, and respected names on the force. Harry knew him well and could say Kingsley deserved every inch of his reputation. In fact, it was baffling that he had chosen to stand by Scrimgeour in the first place.
At least until Harry saw Amelia's smile. It was a smug thing, not more than a curve at the base of her lips. If Harry hadn't known her so intimately, he might not have noticed.
But he understood.
From the start, Kingsley had picked her. She asked him to go to her rival. She told him to abandon her rival, when the timing was right.
The only thing stronger than receiving Kingsley's endorsement was publicly winning it from Scrimgeour.
It was devious. It bordered on being cruel. Part of Harry wanted to clap.
"I've got more stories," he said. "But first, I think a few more introductions are in order. I'm Harry. I believe your name was Kingsley, and you two are from the MacDougal and Cuthbert families? It's wonderful to meet you."
He shook their hands one at a time, drawing them into the middle of the group. Once their names were called, there would be no retreating without seeming rude. Amelia's group was no longer the smallest. It had grown slightly bigger than Scrimgeour's.
Based on the way she was looking at the man, Amelia was far from done.