A/N: I wonder how many people have written something similar to this…many, no doubt. Well, I had nothing to do…so…Let's all pretend that I'm the only one to have come up with this, yeah? Awesome.
Disclaimer: I own nothing; never will…not that it's through a lack of want. But, eh. Not mine.
Albus sighed. Another year, another Christmas.
The old professor contemplated his Christmas tree, as he did every year. It was much the same as it always was, in the same spot in the corner of his chambers, tall and decorated with red and gold baubles and tinsel. The tree, however, wasn't the problem. The presents under it were.
There they were, stacked much the same as years past. His Christmas presents, his books.
Books. How he was tired of those damnable things he'd never read.
Sometimes he wished he weren't so smart.
He was resigned to the fate of every Christmas, however. He knew that he couldn't do much about his predicament without offending many, many people.
If only he'd stopped people giving him books as a child. He hadn't the heart, though. Not when everyone put so much thought into which books to give him – he did have a lot now, and consequently there were scarce few topics on which he could not read up on within his own personal library.
Setting his morning tea aside, he picked up the first parcel. It was wrapped in black and green paper, with a small tag written with small black writing. Ah, Severus'.
The gift was unwrapped, and Albus gave another long-suffering sigh. An obscure potions book. How predictable. The book was placed on the small table beside his chair.
And so it went, a book from Minerva, on something to do with feathers and their properties in patterns when transfiguring, a book on an obscure plant that has been known to eat people from Professor Sprout, from the Minister, a book on inter-generational politics, and from Aberforth a book on goats (another book on goats, Albus thought grimly).
Books! Why books! Just because he's an educated man does not mean all he wants for Christmas is books!
Albus longed for the days when his mother would spend the year knitting and sewing, making scarves and mittens and coats for the winter and for Christmas…how he missed his mother's knitted socks. Albus reminisced for a moment longer before tossing aside the last of his gifts – a book on interpreting the future from cloud formations (no need to even read the tag to know who it was from) – and reclined in his chair with a somewhat defeated air.
He dreaded his birthday.
The glint of silver caught his eyes and Albus looked under the tree again. It seems he had missed a present. He flicked his wand and the messily wrapped parcel alighted in his lap. He eyed it critically. Hmm. It didn't look like a usual gift…it was all lumpy and wrapped terribly.
Albus shrugged, thinking it was probably just a book that got damaged on its way to his chamber. Deftly ripping away the silver paper, Albus gasped as he beheld his gift.
Socks!
He could have cried. They were socks! Miss-matched and terrible in taste – but socks nonetheless! He held them reverently in his hands, awed beyond words. One sock was a bright purple, with tiny stars stitched into them that glittered, one occasionally shooting away. The other was a bright green, patterned with small owls, all of which seemed to be flying in a never-ending circle of the fabric.
Albus simply loved them from the moment the silver paper fell away.
He looked at the remnants of the silver paper for a card. He wondered who had given the socks to him, but there was no card, and Albus was left wondering.
Kicking off his slippers, Albus pulled on his new socks and admired them, holding his feet out before him.
Suddenly his birthday was looking much brighter.