Seventy Nine and a Surprise

Harry had led his band of friends, minus Luna who broke off towards Ravenclaw tower, halfway back to Gryffindor when a familiar tabby cat fell into step alongside him. Several things clicked into place in his head upon seeing it - her. How McGonagall had tracked him down in Guildford; how she had kept an eye on him and Hermione without them realising; why she was always preening her robes, or hat, or hair.

When he looked curiously at the cat, and she winked in response, he knew he was right. She followed them all the way back, so Harry was very glad their conversation had already moved on from the polyjuice plot to more legal subject matter - namely, Hermione had heard how terrible Neville was at potions and taken it upon herself to remedy that through an overwhelming weight of helpful tips.

Hemione and Neville were too wrapped up to notice when the fat lady didn't even ask for the password, merely glancing at Minerva before swinging open. They did notice the state the common room was in; tables were overturned and one sofa had exploded its down-cushions all over the place. Four familiar redheads and most of the first years were busy cleaning it up. Or rather, two identical redheads were joyfully giving ridiculous instructions, their older brother was frantically overruling said instructions, and the first years were ignoring all three as they did the actual work.

"What happened?" harry asked as he clambered through the entrance.

"A fifth year said a nasty word about our favourite bookworm-" the twin wearing a shirt that read 'George', so presumably Fred, answered.

"-so Ginny hexed him," George added happily.

"Bat bogey hex, it's her favourite."

Harry looked at Ginny, who avoided his eyes, but not quickly enough to hide that she was fuming. Any question of whether the twins were exaggerating left his mind; Ginny looked ready to go hex someone again.

"Course the fifth year didn't like that, so he-" Fred cut himself off as he noticed the tabby taking up residence on the only undisturbed armchair. He nudged his twin before the sentence could be carried on, then most uncharacteristically finished his own sentence; "so we all sat down and had a polite discussion about unacceptable behaviours. And then, uh," he cast about the room desperately, "there was an… exploding snap mishap?"

"That's bollocks!" Ginny snapped. "He tried to-"

There was a loud pop as an armchair suddenly found itself occupied by a professor, in place of a cat. Neville squeaked.

"I do hope," McGonagall intoned, adjusting her hat, "that in the course of this, spirited debate, a fifth year learned a valuable lesson?"

"Oh, they taught him a lesson alright," Percy seethed, looking and sounding murderous. "He won't be saying that word again."

"Well, if everything is in order, I shall retire for the night."

"We're... Not in trouble?"

"Whatever for, Mr Weasley? Mr Potter, Ms Granger, have you brought your things in already?"

"I fetched them, ma'am," Ginny answered, "like Hermione asked."

"Thank you Ginny," Hermione said, and Harry nodded his own thanks.

"Excellent. Mr Weasley - Percy, that is, please take a few steps back."

Percy followed the order, as McGonagall swished her wand and wordlessly sent the downy mess spiralling back into the exploded sofa, which promptly sewed itself up. Satisfied with her handiwork, McGonagall made a quick retreat, pausing only to remind Harry and Hermione that if they had any further trouble, they really should go to her right away.

The twins had ideas about bringing the Gryffindors who had always trusted Harry together for an impromptu welcome back party, but they were immediately shot down by a cold, tired, and therefore rather grumpy Hermione. Harry supported her stance wholeheartedly; his bed was calling him, and he had kept it waiting far too long.

Come the morning, apart from the odd askew glance, it was as though they had never been away. The mother lioness had spoken, and the pride dutifully fell in line. In the week that followed, Harry learned that many of them had never stepped out of line to begin with; a lot of his housemates had no clue why he had left the tower, as those responsible worked to shut down any rumours without revealing anything. Bitterly, he had wondered why they never came and asked him in person, though he didn't voice that question; peace was an unstable thing, best left alone as long as it held.

Christmas crept up on Hogwarts with little fanfare, and a muted sense of festivity. For many, it seemed the most joyous part of the holidays would be leaving the castle; there hadn't been any further attacks since Colin, but all were of the opinion it was only a matter of time. Hermione's research in the library had come to nothing - no creature nor spell she found could petrify a person so utterly.

For Hermione, the season came with a difficult decision. Option one was to head home for the holidays, to see her family both close and extended, and incidentally to take a much needed breather from the tension she had been under the whole term. The trouble was, she was worried she would only be trading one tension for another, because Harry was going to be staying at Hogwarts.

Harry wasn't all that concerned, because he so strongly believed Malfoy was the heir, and Malfoy would be at home for Christmas, along with all the worst bullies in Gryffindor. McGonagall hadn't given them a choice in that matter. Naturally, Harry's lack of concern was amplifying Hermione's; letting your guard down was the first step on the road to trouble.

One friend's sake would not have been enough to sway her into staying, but there were other advantages to being at Hogwarts. Or rather, one advantage with a million applications and implications: Magic. At Hogwarts, Hermione could continue to research, practice and learn her craft. At Hogwarts, she could use her paper planes, supersensory charms and a slew of other tricks to mitigate what would only come into painful focus at home: Her blindness.

At home she would be bumbling into furniture, afraid to go out lest she wander into traffic, having to be careful even when she used her transcribing quill. It was almost enough to see her forsake her parents and remain in the magical world; the world where her muggle blood was more restrictive than her affliction.

Almost.

So it was that she boarded the train, her heart heavy with goodbyes to her friend and the words of a literary titan on her mind.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveller, long I stood

Long it was that she stood, facing the window through which she could not see, before finally the jolting of the train prevailed upon her to find a seat. Settling into a compartment made noisy by Lee and the twins, she reassured herself that no matter how way led onto way, she had no doubt she would be back. If only that were the certainty she wished it to be.

"Rise and shine Harrikins!"

"Up you get, lazybones!"

The twins' blurry heads were poking through either side of Harry's bedcurtains, lit by a gentle lumos as they cheerily yelled at him. He was suddenly regretful of agreeing to bring all the first, second and third year stayover boys into the one dorm room - it had been pleasant enough bunking with Fred, George, and Ron, but here wer downsides. Like having to put up with Fred, George, and Ron's constant, unpredictable moods.

"What time is it?" he groaned, feeling like he had hardly slept a wink.

"Christmas!" the twins chirped.

"Yeah alright, I know that, but what time?"

Fred - Harry was starting to learn which was which now that he lived with them - checked his wrist, on which he had no watch.

"I make it three minutes past midnight, by my wrist. Do you concur brother?"

"Indubitably, brother. Three minutes of Christmas wasted already; poor show, Harrikins, poor show."

Harry threw his head back into his pillow and pulled the covers over his face. Early Christmas rising was nothing new, not with the breakfast spread Vernon had expected every year, but this did not count as morning yet.

"Hey!" Ron shouted from his own bed. "What's going on?"

"We're waking Harry up for Christmas! Wouldn't want him to miss it." Fred hollered.

"Waking Harry up? What about me?"

"What about you?" George puzzled theatrically.

"Why didn't you wake me first?" Ron grumbled. "I'm only your bloody brother."

"Which is precisely why we didn't wake you," grinned George, winking at Harry. "Come on Harrikins, if you're quick we'll give you his present too."

"You will not!" Ron shouted, accompanied by the sounds of a boy leaping from his bed. Harry started to rise, slowly as to not beat Ron to it (because whatever the twins had got for their brother, Harry was sure he didn't want to be on the receiving end of it). A moment later a third redhead burst through his curtains.

"Heya Harry. Still in bed?" he quipped. "Say, what time is it?"

"Midnight," Harry moaned. "Now can we all just go back to sleep?"

"Not a chance!" George argued, thrusting a vial of liquid out in front of Harry's face, close enough he could almost focus on it. "Drink!"

"Coffee?"

"Better," Fred grinned. "Bottoms up!"

Harry gave up arguing; his brain had switched on well enough to comprehend who he was arguing with, and how hopeless that was. Instead he took the vial and downed its contents; whatever it was, they were going to find a way to get it down him, so he may as well get it over with.

Both his ears popped violently, and the world was drowned out by the deafening sound of a boiled kettle going off inside his head. His throat was on fire, his head was buzzing, and his hands started to tremble, aching for something to do. Better than coffee indeed.

He shot bolt upright to thunderous applause, then sprung out of the bed, nearly colliding with Ron in the process as his sense of balance took a moment longer to wake. He didn't apologise as his attention had become fixated solely upon the sight that greeted him at the foot of his bed; a pile of presents. A mountain of presents towering several feet high and sprawling half across the room.

"Are they for me?"

"Well they aren't mine," Ron muttered, openly jealous.

"Where did they come from?"

Santa Claus was not a myth Harry believed in. His uncle disapproved of Saint Nick on the grounds of general freakishness, and of taking credit for all the hard work he had put in to afford to spoil Dudley rotten. Harry didn't harbour any secret fantasies either; any jovial saintly figure dedicated to bringing presents to children who deserved them needed to do a better job of checking in cupboards to earn Harry's belief.

"Must've been the elves."

And just like that, Fred threw Harry's belief system for a loop. Elves were Santa's workers, weren't they? If Fred believed in elves, and so believed in Santa... Was Santa real? Was Santa just a wizard with absurdly powerful magic and nothing better to do with it? Dumbledore certainly had the beard for the job...

But if Fred believed in Santa, why credit the elves? Why, why, why, Harry's brain threatened to remember what time it was and fry itself as a midnight snack, so he gave up on thinking and went back to being awestruck.

Approaching the mountain he found that, for all the shiny wrappings and glittery bows, his eyes were drawn to a small, unassuming envelope perched atop the hoard. He took it, broke the simple was seal and unfolded the contents: A generic Christmas card. The image on the front wasn't even animated, as wizarding photos were - it was just a nice picture of a robin.

Inside, he found a short paragraph in beautiful cursive script.

'Dear Harry

When i heard that the headmaster intended to return these presents to the fans who sent them, as he has done with your fanmail all these years (and for good reason on that count), I found I was not in approval. I have taken it upon myself to vet each present for dangerous or inappropriate materials; what you see before you is all that passed my tests. The only care you need take is in not consuming too much chocolate, of which there is a tremendous amount.

Have a merry Christmas, and may many more follow.

Yours, Minerva'

"Anything interesting, Harry?" George asked.

"Any money in it?" Ron prioritised.

Harry handed the card to George. He thought he was stunned by Minerva's thoughtfulness, but the twins managed to outdo him in the shocked department.

"Merlin's beard, you see that Gred?"

"I think so, Forge, but it can't be."

"Yet there it is, clear as day."

"There it is."

"There what is?" Ron asked, not having been allowed to read the card.

"Our Harry has done the impossible!" Fred crooned.

"What did I do?" Harry asked, confused; nothing in the letter referred to anything he'd done.

"Look how she signed it!"

"I never thought I'd see the day!" Fred swooned.

"What about signing it? She just put her name."

"No, Harrikins," George admonished. "Her name is professor McGonagall, or headmistress, or 'Yes ma'am'. Not Minerva; never Minerva."

"I lost house points the last time I called her that," Fred confided. "And the hundred and three times previous."

"How'd you do it? Tell us, tell us, you have to tell us!" they chorused.

"I don't know. She just said I could call her Minerva in private."

"In private... ooh la la," George said, earning a disgusted smack from both his brothers. "Don't say McGonagall's a Boy-Who-lived fan."

"McGonagall a fangirl? No way!" Fred contested, even as he sat down hard on a bed as though struck by a heavy truth.

"I think she was just being nice," Harry explained, hoping he was right; he did not need any fangirls, let alone one who was his teacher and head of house.

The conversation didn't stop there, though, as the twins roped Ron into a game of guessing increasingly odd and inappropriate reasons for Minerva to sign a letter that way. Eventually Harry gave in and laughed along with them as he made a start on the present mountain; it turned out she wasn't wrong about the chocolates.

His fellow Gryffindors who had seen fit to get him gifts followed the same trend, with a few minor quidditch items to boot - broom polish and such. He had worried that his presents for them wouldn't be enough because really, what idea did he have about the normal number of presents to get a friend, but they turned out on par. He still worried they would be unhappy when they heard what Hermione got in comparison, but then they hadn't stuck by him with the same tenacity she had.

They also hadn't bought him anything half as good as the pair of shoes she got for him: Fashionable in a perfectly unassuming sort of a way, hard wearing so he'd outgrow the before they wore out, and in his size despite her never asking him for it. Ginny hadn't been all that impressed with them, but it was obvious Ron and the twins, having older brothers in a large family, understood; hand-me-down shoes never fit right, or held together long enough, or lost the smell of someone else's foot-sweat.

Presents opened, all Harry had to do with the rest of his day was try not to fall asleep when the tiredness caught up to him, and find a few minutes to sneak off and stir another lacewing into the polyjuice (whilst fending off Myrtle's incessant advances), and it would be the most successful Christmas he'd ever had. Assuming, that was, his trip into Hogsmeade to sort Hermione's present hadn't been too late, and it had arrived on time.

Hermione rose at the perfectly acceptable time of six thirty. Throwing on a dressing gown and some fluffy socks, she made her way downstairs, following the scent of bacon and eggs. Running her hand through the tinsel wound about the banister, stopping to smell the fresh mistletoe by the front door, and almost tripping over the knee height reindeer statue in the hall, she wondered if the tree looked as beautiful as in years past.

The previous year she had helped decorate it despite her affliction; her mother had been kind enough not to say a word about how terribly uncoordinated the result had been, but this year Hermione had chosen not to have her family suffer through purple and orange tinsel with ice blue baubles and glumly sat it out. Whether that put her in the 'depression' or 'acceptance' stage of grief, she couldn't say.

Pushing negative thoughts aside, she entered the kitchen. Her dad was the one cooking; his tuneless humming she'd always secretly liked was proof of that. The words 'merry Christmas' were robbed from her by a yawn, and someone else beat her to the punch.

"Hoot."

Was that an owl?

"Chirp chirp."

Why is there an owl in the kitchen?

"Dad…?"

"Oh, good morning sweetie. Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas," she muttered on autopilot. "Is that an owl?"

"Oh, yes dear. I assume you're expecting it."

Hermione loved how readily her parents had adjusted to their daughter being a witch. Her mother's first words to professor McGonagall after the revelation had been "well, we always knew she was special," and nothing more had needed to be said. There were only put out that she had to go to boarding school to learn. And then that said school was frightfully lacking in STEM curriculum, which remedial tutoring over the summer and a second book list had been quickly arranged to address.

Coming home blind had made attending another year a harder sell. The logical loops she had twisted together to successfully play the blind card in favour of the place that had caused said blindness still gave her a headache to think about. Her dad had seen right through them, of course, but then his response had been "if she's willing to butcher logic itself to get back to that damned place, I'll be damned if I stand in the way."

She really did love her dad sometimes. He didn't even complain when her mind went off on a tangent and left him hanging on a reply.

"Oh, no," she answered, "but it is probably for me."

"Good, because it won't let me near enough to take the package off its leg. Just nicked a bit of bacon and hopped off."

"Hoot."

"Let me try then," she offered, going over to the table the bird had chosen as a perch. She put out a hand, palm down and fingers curled as she fully expected to be nipped - whoever came up with owls as a primary post system must have been as crazy as the rest of them for agreeing to it - but she wasn't bitten. Instead, something knocked against her knuckles, and she took it in her hand gently. It was a cuboid, hard and quite flat. She made to untie it from the owl's leg, but the bird beat her to it with its own beak. Soon as it was free, it bolted for the window as if unhappy to have been made to work Christmas.

Hermione hardly paid any attention to that, as the package in her hands grew slowly to the size of a respectable dictionary. Magic then. Or more accurately, a lack of magic, as the shrinking charm wore off upon successful delivery. Shrinking magic, Christmas morning delivery: Someone paid top galleon for premium service getting this to her. But who would blow money like that for her sake?

It's from Harry, then.

"Oh, is that a present? Or does my little Hermione have a secret admirer I need to know about?"

"The former, dad," she assured him as she studied the gift in her hands. The wrapping was neat and tight; professionally done, because no teenage boy could manage that. She lifted it to her ear to gently shake it, and thought there was no noise she did catch a whiff of something odd. Taking a deeper breath, she identified it; the wrapping paper was Zonko's 'Super Special Scented Surprise' variety, enchanted to smell like anything the buyer wanted. In this case, hot Christmas pudding and custard.

Definitely Harry.

"Ooh, what have you got there?" her mum asked from over her shoulder as she came into the kitchen. "From a friend of yours?"

"It's from Harry."

"You're sure? It doesn't have label," her mum pointed out.

"I'm sure."

"Ok, then," she said, in that voice which meant 'this is clearly magic, so please spare my poor muggle brain the pain of trying to understand it'.

"Merry Christmas mum."

"Merry Christmas sweetie," she beamed, kissing Hermione on the cheek and wrapping her into a hug from behind.

Hermione let her get away with it, without the obligatory complaint she never truly meant - it was Christmas, after all.

"Open it up then," her dad ordered. "One present before breakfast, them's the rules."

"Since when is that a rule?"

"Since a ruddy owl knocked on the window and totally threw out my sense of normality. Now let's see what your secret admirer sent you."

"Daaad, it's from Harry."

"Fine, your not so secret admirer then."

"He doesn't admire me," Hermione protested, thinking it was altogether too early for her dad's incessant games.

"Well he should," her mum asserted. "Now rip that lovely paper off - I want to see if he really made you a rectangular Christmas cake."

"That's just the smell of the paper, mum. And it's a cuboid."

"Ok, then."

Hermione folded and opened the present. She did not rip the paper off; she neatly unwrapped it, the sticking charms yielding to her touch, so she could store it away. It was the first present Harry had sent her - the first present from any real friend she had opened - and some day she was going to see what paper he had chosen. And if thinking like that kept her in the 'denial' stage, then so be it.

"Well, looks like he knows you; it's a book," her mum noted.

"Anything interesting?" dad asked.

"Um… I guess you could call it that… It's 'A Beginner's Guide to the Care of Abraxans, Unicorns and Other Magical Equines."

Oh, Harry.

"Why on Earth…?" dad started to ask, but Hermione's giggling cut him off. She thudded the book against her forehead, trying to control herself, but it was hopeless. Harry had managed to get her a useful book, wrap it in oddly sentimental paper and make a joke out of the whole thing; he had earned a laugh out of her. It seemed a crying shame he wasn't there to see it."

"Oh, what's that?" mum asked suddenly. "Something fell out of it, I think. No, no I've got it," she said, worming around Hermione to pick something off the floor.

"What is it?"

"It's a paper bookmark or somesuch. It says…" she trailed off.

"Says what?"

"Read it for yourself."

"Uh… Mum…"

"It's got braille print, sweetie. Here," she said, pressing a slip of paper into her hand and taking the book to free up her fingers.

Hermione read the print, haltingly as there were several mistakes.

'Thfs paper to be exchaqgeab for any one book frok Tomes nd Scrolvs'

"Oh for… What happened to parchment pages, Harry?" she muttered. Not that she didn't appreciate getting two books, but they had an agreement…

"Oh, there's another one," her mum said, surprised. "Just inside the cover. Same as the other: One book from Tomes and Scrolls."

Three books. Does this mean Harry's in more trouble, or less?

Hermione snatched the book back to check for herself, and found there was indeed another slip on the first page. Then, knowing Harry as she did, she turned the page with a terrible, wonderful feeling in her gut. She ran her hand down the inside centreline and, sure enough, found another slip of paper.

"Mum… Could you flip through this book and tell me how many pages don't have voucher tucked inside?"

"Sure thing, honey…" she agreed, taking the book and audibly flicking through. "Hmmm… It looks like… My word… And if we count the one on the floor…"

Hermione groaned. Harry was definitely in trouble for this, and the worst thing was there was no way she could actually act angry at him. The stupid boy had bought her a bloody library. He should have known better.

Then another thought struck her: Harry wasn't actually stupid. Reckless and impulsive, yes, but not stupid. When he took the time to think he was smarter than most, and this must have taken some planning. Which meant he wasn't being stupid, he was being clever. And if he was being clever… and the braille printed vouchers were, now that she thought about it, made out of extra thick paper…

"There will be seventy nine vouchers," she declared, as she understood the trick Harry had pulled. 'Seventy nine pages of extra thick paper… and one surprise'.

"That's right," her mum confirmed as she finished the count. "Looks like a mixture between Tomes and Scrolls; and Flourish and Botts. Thought the last one is redeemable at Scrivenshaft's, for a book of parchment sheets."

"Am I getting this right?" dad interrupted. "Did this lad just buy you eighty books?"

"Yes."

"And you're sure he's not an admirer?"

"I'm sure."

"So, why did he…?"

"Because he's a selfless git."

"How much does a book cost in the wizarding world?" mum asked.

"About three galleons, typically."

"So he spent two hundred and forty galleons on you!?" she gasped, grasping the sheer depths of Harry's wonderful insolence. Except she hadn't grasped the whole of it yet.

"No, mum. The expensive books are ten galleons, easily. And those vouchers don't have a price limit, do they?"

"No… How much is a galleon worth again?"

"About ten pounds."

"So he spent…"

"He spent eight thousand pounds buying me books. Give or take." - The stunned silence following that statement struck Hermione as the perfect response - "Have I ever mentioned my best friend is filthy rich? And a twit? A filthy rich twit?"

"You're going to give these back, aren't you?" dad said, half asking and half ordering, no doubt unsure whether his daughter's morals would outweigh her insatiable love of books.

Not that she blamed him for his uncertainty; she wasn't a hundred percent sure herself.

"If I know Harry as well as I think I know Harry…" - she let that hang for a moment, thinking how she'd guessed the existence and number of vouchers on that basis already - "then he'll have made it so I can't return them."

"Can he do that?"

"He's Harry Bleeding Potter, dad; apparently, he can do whatever he likes."