Chapter 38

PRESENTS

Santa must have come a dozen times at least, Harry thought when he opened his eyes on the mountain of gaudily wrapped presents heaped on the foot of his bed the next morning. "Sirius, you shouldn't have."

Looking pleased but embarrassed, Sirius turned his back to hook the teakettle over the fire.

Remus chuckled. "They're not all from Padfoot. That small red sack is from me, that big silver box is from the Weasley twins, that pretty maroon one is from Mrs. Weasley, that glittery bag is from Mrs. Granger, that stack of square ones is from the rest of the Weasleys and Grangers, that huge, rumpled package is from Hagrid, and that star-shaped box at the bottom is from Dobby and Winky. Your roommates left presents for you, too. Oh, yes. The Dursleys sent an envelope."

But the rest, Harry thought, must be from my godfather. Sitting up, he fumbled for his glasses. A moment later, he was frowning at the shabby plaid shawl Sirius had wrapped around himself against the castle's pre-dawn chill. From across the room, he could see how frayed it was. Well, if his godfather wouldn't spend money on himself, thank goodness, his godson already had.

A glance at the mantelpiece clock told Harry they had some time before breakfast. "Let's open our presents now."

Twenty minutes later, Harry sat on his bed, at a loss for which treasure to explore first. Thirty-nine presents, counting the cheap, plastic, promotional pen sent by the Dursleys. He'd beaten Cousin Dudley's birthday record. Laughing, he picked up the cracked, Gittie's Lube Shop pen and clicked it. If only his aunt and uncle knew how prized their offhand gift could be in the wizarding world. He tossed it aside.

Snuggling into the enormous, red-and-gold afghan Hagrid had given him—the same one he'd seen him knitting all autumn—Harry cast his eyes over the talking Wizard's Quizzer from Remus ("A school teacherish gift, I know—but you do have your O.W.L.'s coming up"), the really nice pen and pencil set from Hermione's mother, another over-sized maroon pullover from Ron's mother, a long cashmere scarf from Dobby and Winky in a gray hound's-tooth surprisingly subdued for elfin tastes, the Chortling Chocolate from Dean, the Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans from Seamus, and the note from Neville promising to remember to buy him some lemon drops next time they went to Hogsmeade.

Sirius had just plain spoiled him: his first wizard camera ("I can't believe you didn't already have one"), the latest Quidditch broom ("The Hermes Elite—twenty percent faster than the Firebolt and twice as maneuverable, so they say"), a padded broom saddle ("Someone should have thought of that ages ago"), a magic flute, an Enchanted Entities card deck featuring full-color animations ("Your Dad and I used to play for hours"), a Sweet Dreams pillow ("Guaranteed, no nightmares"), a handheld electronic game of a dirt-track bicycle race ("I saw some Muggle boys playing it"), Wally Wizard's Joke Book, Wanda Witch's Joke Book, new dress robes, a Lock-it Pocket ("Once it's attached, nobody but you can see it or feel it"), wide-legged jeans (stylish enough to make the baggy Weasley pullover look good), dress shoes, athletic shoes, black leather boots, a black leather belt, a black leather jacket, and three pairs of dark glasses ("Sometimes a young man has to show some attitude").

And he hadn't even unwrapped the big silver box from the Weasley twins. Wait! a disembodied voice had blurted out when he'd touched the ribbon. We'll be peeking in to watch you open it at eight sharp Christmas morning. A word to the wise: Be dressed.

Sirius stood before the full-length mirror on the dormitory door, admiring the blue serge suit Harry had bought him. True to Madame Malkin's claims, the entire suit had adjusted perfectly to its wearer—as had all the other shirts, trousers, waistcoats, cardigans, pullovers, and jackets (ranging from dressy to casual) he'd bought for his godfather.

Harry grinned. What good is all my gold in Gringott's if I don't put it to good use now and then?

Remus lounged on the room's sagging couch, reading the cover copy of one of the novels Harry had given him—a Muggle mystery to pass the time while he was confined during the coming full moon. ("See, Sirius. Harry believes Snape's concoction is going to work.") His old teacher patted the book, then laid it atop the other two. When he shot back his cuff to consult his new gold watch, Harry caught him smiling fondly. Clearly, the London flatmate who'd sent it meant something more than shared rent.

"Harry's friends will be showing up any minute," Remus told Sirius. "Maybe you should get out of sight—in case someone looks in who doesn't understand about you."

Sirius groaned. "Let me grab another cup of tea first." As he reached for the kettle, the fire whooshed up in Christmas red and green. He barely had time to scoot into the bathroom before a confusion of voices filled the room.

"Quit shoving!" "Me first." "Hey, George and I bought the really big present." "But he's my best friend." "You mean our best friend."

Harry jumped off his bed—already dressed, thank goodness—to come closer.

When at last the flickering flames formed into a mob of Weasleys and Grangers, it was Arthur who stood in front, his eyes dancing. "You'll never believe where we are! At the Grangers! I had to pull a few strings at the Ministry, but they approved a temporary connection to the floo network. Too bad Hogwarts blocks us from actually stepping in, but you can see us, can't you?"

"Every last one of you." Smiling, Harry gave each of them a warm and individual greeting. Even Bill and Charlie had made it to the Muggles for Christmas.

"Enough mawkishness," Fred—or was it George?—grumbled. "Open our gift."

Harry approached the box, experiencing an odd mixture of bashfulness and pleasure. Knowing two families cared about him felt really good. He fumbled with the ribbon a moment, then ripped off the shiny paper. When he saw the carton, he whooped. "A battery-operated CD player!" Their joke shop had to be doing well.

"Dad did something to the batteries," George—or possibly Fred—put in. "Supposed to give you at least two thousand hours of listening pleasure."

"Arthur!" Mrs. Weasley scolded. "Tampering with Muggle artifacts again?"

Mr. Weasley swallowed hard. "Extending their standard purpose, dear. A wholly different matter from adding new uses, which of course, would be a woeful violation. The regulations are quite complex. I wouldn't want to bother your pretty head with—"

"But Dad," Percy piped up. "Under Section XY249, subsection D, part—hey! Who kicked me?"

Suppressing a grin, Harry wrestled out one of the heavy-duty staples holding down the carton's lid.

Ron waved over the heads of his siblings. "Forget that and open the rest of the presents. Dad can only keep the connection open another minute or two."

Harry turned to the stack of square packages, undid the bow that held them together, and tore the sparkly wrapping off the first small box. "A CD!" Of course. Quickly, he opened the rest and found quite a collection: Monty Python's Final Rip-Off Album; Elvis's Christmas Album; another Elvis—Costello not Presley—with Punch the Clock; Green Day's Insomniac; a recording of Nutcracker Suite; the Rolling Stones' Let It Bleed; Stravinsky's Rite of Spring; the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band; Oasis's Definitely Maybe; and Celine Dion's French Album.

"We each picked one," Ginny said shyly.

"Except Molly and me," Hermione's mother said. "We'd already taken care of our gifts before we all went to the music store."

"So you have to guess who gave what," Hermione added.

Well, Harry was pretty sure he knew whose taste fit the last one. But the others? "Let me see. Did you pick the—"

The image of his friends wavered, then blanked out a moment.

"Oops! Can't keep this spell up much longer." Mr. Weasley's face came back into focus, contorted by his effort to concentrate. "Christmas, you know. A lot of competition to use the network."

Ron pushed forward. "I wish you were here. Hermione has the neatest house! It stands up all by itself! I played chess with her computer until after midnight. Amazing! No hands! And the Internet! Unbelievable! Did you know that if we'd looked up Nicholas Flamel on the World Wide Web, one search engine alone could have given us 1,170 references in one-tenth of a second? Muggles! I had no idea."

Harry grimaced. And to think they'd spent weeks thumbing through dusty old volumes in the Hogwarts Library before he'd remembered seeing the name on a Chocolate Frogs trading card. He caught Hermione's mother sending her husband a wink.

The fire sputtered, and the Weasleys and Grangers began to fade. Everyone rushed in a good-bye. Harry was just adding, "Professor Lupin would like to wish you all—" when his friends vanished. Once again, the dormitory fire was just a fire.

At nine o'clock, Harry and Remus left Sirius setting up the CD player, rubbing his hands in anticipation of some very loud rock—using the earphones that came with the system, of course, in case any Gryffindors were hanging around the other dorm rooms. Dobby had promised to bring him an ample sampling of what the elves had cooked up for Christmas breakfast.

Entering the Great Hall with Remus, Harry saw that the feast had been laid out on a sideboard. When he caught sight of Snape, moving through line with Malfoy at his heels, the thought struck Harry that they too were a godfather-godson pair. As he piled his plate with kippers, orange slices, panetonne, eggs benedict, and vanocka, he kept his eye on his uncle and his almost cousin. He watched Snape sit down beside Ariel Daine who looked festive in red and gold. She smiled warmly as Malfoy settled down next to him. Farther down the table, Avery glared. When Snape glanced sidelong at the heavy, silver-and-emerald medallion hanging on a plaited silver chain from his godson's neck, he pursed his lips with satisfaction. Harry surmised the knick-knack must have come from him.

Remus nudged Harry. "Don't hold up the queue." Leaning close, he whispered, "That hunk of expensive jewelry? It's a sophisticated sneakoscope. It doesn't change color, which wouldn't be very sneaky. It vibrates so that only its wearer can feel it."

Harry recalled Ron's flashing, whizzing, buzzing sneakoscope that had gone off repeatedly their third year—alarming them to the dangerous presence of Peter Pettigrew without clueing them in that the villain who had betrayed Harry's parents was posing as Ron's pet rat. He wondered what kind of enemy would set off Draco's sneakoscope.

Ahead of him, Filch hunched over the fruitcake platter, fingering the slices one-by-one. Probably picking out the best one to feed his cockroaches. When the caretaker shuffled on, Harry decided he'd lost his appetite for that particular Christmas treat and trailed after Filch to the High Table. As he neared Malfoy, his perpetual rival gave a violent start. Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing. Quite a well-tuned sneakoscope, he thought. Evidently, his presence had caused the medallion to give Malfoy a good jolt.

Filch took the seat on Professor Daine's other side. At her cheery greeting, his sour mouth twitched in a brief smile. When Remus paused to chat, Harry had the horrible thought that his friend might make them sit across from the caretaker—despite the murderous look on Snape's face. Scanning the table, Harry spied two empty spaces at the end. As he hurried to claim them, he felt grateful not to have to spend Christmas breakfast staring at Filch. He had a suspicion the old man chewed with his mouth open.

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