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Part 2: Illicit Dairy Produce

Episode VI

Only a few weeks later, after the train had departed and Harry was left by himself in his dorm, the usual magnificent Christmas decorations had been put up all around Hogwarts, despite the fact that hardly any of the students remained to enjoy them. Thick streamers of holly and mistletoe were strung along the corridors, mysterious lights shone from inside every suit of armour, and the Great Hall was filled with its usual twelve Christmas trees, glittering with golden stars. A powerful and delicious smell of cooking pervaded the corridors, and by Christmas Eve, it had grown so strong that Harry could smell it all the way from Hagrid's hut.

On Christmas morning, Harry was woken by an obnoxiously loud hoot from Hedwig, which would have woken up even Ron, had he not gone home for the holidays. Harry had asked if he could join either the Weasleys or the Grangers, but Hermione's father was supposedly highly overprotective and needed some time to get used to the idea of his daughter dating someone, so as to not beat him to a pulp for corrupting his princess the moment Harry stepped through the door, while the Weasleys had already invited Lee and Oliver, and didn't have any sleeping spots left, unless Harry wanted to camp out in the garden, which, mid-winter, didn't seem like such a good idea.

Harry reached for his glasses and put them on, squinting through the semi-darkness to the foot of his bed, where a small heap of parcels had appeared overnight.

"Hoot, hoot!" Hedwig was perched next to a large, bright red box, and seemed anxious for him to open it. When he removed the green ribbon, the sides fell open to reveal a small mountain of – bacon? Harry looked at the tag.

For Hedwig (and her human) it said, written in Arthur's handwriting. Harry grinned, shook his head fondly, and turned to his own presents as his owl happily started munching away.

For starters, Harry had gotten another sweater. Molly had sent him a scarlet jumper with the Gryffindor lion knitted on the front, together with a dozen home-made mince pies, some Christmas cake, and a box of chocolate-covered nuts and raisins. Over the top, just like always, but honestly, Harry didn't mind in the least.

Aside from that, Harry got a miniature foe-glass from Ron (Miniature Sneako-thingy, miniature foe glass – what else could a paranoid man want?), a small booklet from Lupin (This teaches you the fundamental basics of the Patronus Charm. Read and practice it before our first lesson.), and a framed wizarding photograph from Hermione that had the both of them in it, on the lawn near the Black Lake; sometimes kissing, but often just holding each other. It had been taken by Colin Creevey once, and Hermione had threatened to castrate him for the picture. Needless to say, he'd never tried to take a photo with her in it since. To remind you of me was written on the back of it.

Hagrid had, surprisingly enough, gotten him a violin (If nothing else, it said in Hagrid's usual messy scrawl, it looks good hanging from the wall.). Despite what Hagrid might have thought, Harry did not have deft hands, and he'd more likely snap a string before he made the barest of noises, so yes, it was more than likely going to become a fancy wall ornament over anything else. Neville, meanwhile, had gifted an incredibly fancy peacock-feather quill, which he said was spelled to hold an endless amount of ink, while Ginny had given him a pair of gloves (Specifically made for polishing brooms – and not like that, prat. For when you get a different broom).

As he moved the mountain of wrapping paper aside, however, he saw that a long, thin package still remained, lying underneath.

"What's this?"

Curiously, Harry ripped the parcel open and gasped as a magnificent, gleaming broomstick rolled out onto his bedspread. "I don't believe it." He muttered to himself as he touched the twigs on the end softly.

It was a Firebolt, identical to the broom that had been on display in Quality Quidditch Supplies' window, only this one wasn't a prop. Its silver handle shined in the soft morning light as he picked it up. He could feel it vibrating, and let go; it hung in mid-air, unsupported, at exactly the right height for him to mount it. His eyes moved from the registration number at the top of the handle – 00001, it read, engraved in actual gold – down to the perfectly smooth, streamlined birch twigs that made up the tail.

He sorted through the remaining wrappings for a card, looking for some kind of handwriting that would help Harry find the sender – but came up with nothing. Who on earth would spend that much on him? A normal Firebolt was one thing, but the first ten that came off the production line were priced even higher than the normal ones, which were already 'price on demand'.

Then, after further admiring the steadily floating broom, Harry decided to go for a fly; it had been extremely long since he'd been on a halfway decent broom, after all.

Oo0oO

Harry only came back down for breakfast because the smells were too powerful to ignore. The Nimbus, as close to his heart as it was, didn't hold a candle to the speedy death trap that was the Firebolt.

One thing was for sure: it wasn't a broom for amateurs. Even Harry, who had been flying at neck-breaking speeds near daily for two-and-a-half years, had problems controlling it. If you ignored the possibility of death by faceplant, however, it was exhilarating, and he felt disappointed to be back on the ground.

The house tables had been moved against the walls, and a single table, set for ten, stood in the middle of the room. All of the Heads of Houses were there, along with Dumbledore and Filch, who had taken off his usual mouldy brown coat and was wearing a very old and just-as-mouldy tailcoat. There were only three other students: two first-years – one from Ravenclaw and one from Gryffindor – who were staring at Dumbledore with wide eyes, surprised to see him act so normal, and an unknown Slytherin who seemed vaguely familiar and was hiding his face behind a book.

When Harry walked in after putting his Firebolt back in his room, Dumbledore smiled from the head of the table, eyes twinkling like Christmas lights. "Welcome, my boy! And merry Christmas! Sit down, sit down, breakfast's only just been served."

Gratefully, Harry plopped down between the two firsties, who were looking even more nervous than before. "Hullo." He greeted. "Merry Christmas, everyone."

"Crackers!" Dumbledore said enthusiastically, offering the end of a large silver one to Snape, who took it reluctantly and tugged. With a bang like a gunshot, the cracker flew apart to reveal a large, pointed witch's hat topped with a stuffed vulture.

Harry, remembering Neville's boggart, grinned; Snape's mouth thinned and he pushed the hat towards Dumbledore, who swapped it with his wizard's hat at once.

"Tuck in!" he advised the table, beaming around.

Harry grinned and took two of the crackers, holding them out to the first-years, who took the other ends unsurely and tugged at the same time – with another loud bang, they flew apart and revealed four more vulture headpieces, two from each.

He peered suspiciously at Dumbledore, who tried – and failed – to look innocent. Just as innocently, as he took one of them and held it out to Snape, who glared hotly. "You don't seem to have one, sir." Harry reminded helpfully. "We have too many – would you like one of ours?" The old bat sneered, but snatched it out of Harry's hand anyways, not to put it on his head, but to snatch McGonagall's Witches' hat from her head and put in on her instead.

Everyone gaped, and Dumbledore, unruffled as ever, chuckled fondly. Professor McGonagall fumed silently, and snatched her – clearly feminine – hat back, only to force it onto Snape, who immediately tried to take it off, but found that he couldn't. "Calm down, children." The Headmaster, who was holding his wand, reprimanded sternly, though his eyes were smiling. "Unless you're willing to sacrifice a ring of hair, your hats are glued to your head. Much better than taking House points, I think."

Professor Flitwick giggled, nearly falling off his chair; Sprout laughed loudly, the Gryffindor firstie grinned mischievously, and even the Slytherin cracked a slight smile. The Ravenclaw first-year clearly didn't know what to think, however, and was watching wide-eyed as Snape and McGonagall glared at Dumbledore. "We're not students anymore, Albus!" Professor McGonagall hissed. "Undo this –"

"Well, you certainly seem to behave like them." The Headmaster smiled serenely, stowing away his wand. "And don't even try to remove the sticking charm, it's a special version that can only be undone by the caster." The Headmaster smiled. "Filius taught it to me last summer – I didn't think I'd actually get to use it, though."

McGonagall and Snape glared at Flitwick instead, who quickly put on his own hat, disappearing entirely within its brim. Only his mouth was still visible. "I'm not here!" He claimed, before reaching out to the table. "Can someone pass me a sandwich? I can't see the bowl." Professor Sprout handed one over, and Filius smiled, his head still covered by the hat. "Ah, thank you, Pomona."

It was at that point that the doors to the Great Hall opened, and an unfamiliar woman came stumbling through; Harry recognized her from Ron's description, however. Massive fuzzy hair, wide, nothing-at-all-seeing eyes covered by glasses the size of her face, and a green dress that made your head hurt from just looking at it – that could be none other than Professor Trelawney.

"Sybill, this is a pleasant surprise!" Dumbledore said, standing up.

"I have been crystal-gazing, Headmaster," said the Divine Fraud in her misty, faraway voice, "and to my astonishment, I saw myself abandoning my solitary morning meal and coming to join you. Who am I to refuse the promptings of fate? I at once hastened from my tower, and I do beg you to forgive my lateness…"

"Certainly, certainly," said Dumbledore, his twinkle full-blast. "Let me draw you up a chair –"

And he did indeed draw a chair in mid-air with his wand, which revolved for a few seconds before falling with a thud between Snape and McGonagall, who were still glaring at one another. "Thank you, Headmaster." She sat down.

"Where is Professor Lupin?" Harry asked suddenly. He'd seen the man around already, even though it was Christmas, together with – "And Madam Hooch?"

"I'm afraid the poor fellow is ill again," Dumbledore said, indicating that everybody should start serving themselves. "Most unfortunate that it should happen on Christmas Day. Rolanda is with him, keeping him company."

Harry frowned, thinking that the man was sick awfully often, but let the matter drop.

The rest of the meal was spent talking to the firsties, Derek Falkner and Roxanne Irvine, who both loosened up over time, though not to the point where they actually became comfortable enough to drop the Oh-Merlin-I'm-speaking-to-a-celebrity-he'll-kill-me-if-I-say-something-wrong speak.

Derek, a dark-haired boy with wide, worshipping blue eyes Harry was really, really uncomfortable seeing on a boy came from a family of American Purebloods who were apparently famous accountants, for people who didn't want their gold stored with Goblins or didn't trust them to keep their bookkeeping strictly legal.

Roxanne, meanwhile, was pretty much the exact opposite. An auburn-haired Muggleborn, she lived somewhere in eastern Crawley with her mother, an unemployed single mother who'd resorted to becoming a street artist to keep her and her daughter fed. With a dead father and a mother that was almost always away, she'd grown up largely independently, with only a single friend until said friend went to a boarding school – not Hogwarts, obviously, but some French school she'd never heard of called Beauxbatons.

When Harry was finally done eating and excused himself from the table, Professor McGonagall stood up along with him. "Mr. Potter, could you please follow me? I would like to speak with you." By now, Dumbledore had undone the sticking charm, and the hats had all been returned to their rightful owners.

"Erm – sure, Professor." Harry answered, surprised. "In your office? That's a little far away."

"We can use one of the classrooms." McGonagall answered, leading the way out of the doors. They went down to the right of the Great Hall, and entered the first door. The room was empty, aside from a single desk, and three chairs. "The old parent conference room, when that was still a mandatory thing. Sit down, Mr. Potter."

Harry did as ordered, and watched as his Transfiguration professor walked around the desk, and took a seat on the other side. She regarded him silently for a few seconds, before sighing. "I… wish to apologize for not allowing you to go to Hogsmeade." She said. "I made up that your slip wasn't viable, trying to keep you safe. That backfired rather badly, as you found out on Halloween." Harry blinked.

"So, in reality, I could've evaded Black entirely?"

Professor McGonagall nodded, sighing. "Yes. If you had stuck with the stage coaches, you would never have strayed from your friends, and I know Miss Granger well enough that she wouldn't have gone to the Shrieking Shack on Halloween – which, by the way, you should have known as well."

"Yes, but –" Harry scratched the back of his head sheepishly, "I thought that they might have split up. Ron could go to the Shrieking Shack, while 'Mione would've spent hours in a bookstore." He chuckled briefly, before falling silent. After a small moment, he spoke up again. "You know what, Professor? I'm glad things went the way they did. Otherwise, I wouldn't have known what a monster Black really was."

The Deputy Headmistress smiled. "Thank you, Harry. Thank you for saying that. But I'm sure that Black isn't really a monster; at most, everyone is a mutant, made to be that way by the people and environment around them."

"Well, forgive me for doubting that, Professor." Harry replied, frowning. "He did, after all, kill my parents. But may I be excused now?"

She nodded, even though she didn't seem happy about the way he brushed her off. Harry didn't really care, at the moment. It wasn't until he said it, plain as day, that it fully came to him how close he had been to death that Halloween; Black had been Voldemort's right hand, a title which didn't come from being a particularly decent librarian. He'd been one of the best duellers in the war, and had, on more than one occasion, battled Bellatrix Lestrange to a standstill; Harry suspected that the only reason he hadn't killed her was because they were secretly friends, BFFs even.

The question was – why hadn't Black immediately cast a Killing Curse, or some other deadly Dark Magic? Azkaban's influence was one answer, but the Prophet had quoted several of Azkaban's guards, who all claimed that he had been quite lucid, even through the Dementors' aura. Not that the Prophet was all that reliable, but it had to hold at least some standard of truth, right?

With a polite nod to Professor McGonagall, Harry stood up and left the small office, thoughts and theories slowly brewing in the back of his mind.