The Charm of Christmas

"Avada Kedavra," Voldemort pronounced upon the one-year-old Harry.

Acidic green light filled Harry's world as a searing pain ripped through the toddler's soul — for a moment. As quickly as the sensation came, it reversed course. To strike at its source.

A pulse of panic emanated from Harry's would-be executioner as his glowing crystal-blue eyes flashed. An instant later, a blast of black energy bombarded the room, leaving everything broken, burnt and besmeared by crimson blood and pink-red-and-tan gore chunks. Everything except Harry, who surveyed the room with confusion.

"Mama?" he called out. Hoping to hear her voice, feel her brightness, see her shining eyes.

"Mama?" Harry questioned as his eyes fell upon something that radiated a familiar flicker — but barely. Its face was torn and blackened, its hair was ragged and frayed, its body bent at unnatural angles, its clothes shredded and its form motionless. But there was something about this figure that lay before him that he knew. That he cherished. That he…loved?

"Ma-ma," Harry sobbed. For he understood then and there he'd lost the light of his life forever.

Harry gasped as he jolted awake. He tried to move, but found something tightly wound around him. A pair of arms, just as his own arms were wrapped around Draco.

"Mmmm," Draco murmured as he came to himself. "Harry?"

Harry blushed at the intimate position he lay in. A second later, Draco's fair skin flushed pinkish-red as well.

"Off me, Pottah," Draco demanded with a wack to Harry's forehead. Harry snickered as he obliged.

Silently agreeing not to discuss how they spent the past few hours, they smoothed out their hair and robes to appear presentable upon exiting the bed curtains, with Draco casting "Scourgify's" to clean both their robes of Harry's dried tears and mucous.

"Thanks," Harry voiced his appreciation for the spell. He fixed his glasses back onto his face, but not before sneering at that ever-present reminder of the filthy Dursleys and the treatment he suffered from the muggles. Draco glanced at this, but said nothing.

Exiting from the bed, they saw Blaise doing some final packing. The golden-brown skinned boy opened his mouth, but held his tongue once Draco fixed a warning glare on him.

"The next carriage leaves at 6:30, yes?" Draco asked no one in particular, made obvious when he silenced Blaise from answering his own question.

"47 minutes," Harry provided when he checked his silver analog pocket watch. All these months later, he still marveled at how it looked good-as-new despite buying it second-hand from Cassius.

"Time enough to wash myself, thank goodness," Draco sighed with relief.

"Don't forget we still have to walk to the front of the school," Harry reminded, as he'd promised he'd see Draco off a week ago.

"Tt, your lack of faith wounds me," Draco postured.

As it turned out, Harry had to practically drag him out of the bathroom so that they could make it to the carriage — at a brisk pace.

"Not my fault you don't appreciate the finer aspects of cleansing oneself!" Draco griped as Harry blamed him for having to jog with a suitcase in tow.

"I'm clean, thank you!" Harry retorted, having showered, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, lotioned himself, changed into the clothes he'd wear to the Quidditch party, and even downed a full glass of wine by the time Draco stepped out of his shower stall.

The boys made it to the carriage just in the nick of time, at which point Harry was winded enough to easily acquiesce to Draco's request that he take the carriage ride to the lake with him — if only for the sake of saying a "proper" goodbye.

"Will you be able to carry your suitcase the rest of the way, Master Malfoy," Harry taunted as he handed one of Draco's two suitcases back to him.

"I handled both just fine until you said I was moving too slowly," Draco protested while taking it back.

"You could just thank me," Harry teased, although he knew full well Draco was grateful.

"Tt," Draco clucked in defiance.

Harry turned to survey the midnight-black steeds pulling their carriage again. Between their powerful yet skeletal builds, beak-like mouths, glinting horns and leathery wings, Harry couldn't understand why he didn't remember them from the first night. In fact, he remembered thinking the carriages were autonomous cars!

"Draco," Harry began hesitantly, fearing he would sound foolish. "Were those horses pulling the carriage the first night?"

"What?" Draco asked in a seemingly confused tone.

"The black horses pulling our carriage," Harry said while pointing at the two skeletal steeds.

"Horses?" Draco questioned incredulously. "Do you need your glasses fixed, Pottah? There are no horses."

"I—my vision's fine!" Harry exclaimed as his face grew hot. "You need glasses!"

"Malfoy vision is perfect," Draco pontificated. "It's you Potters that landed yourself with bad eyes, despite your supposed skill with human transfiguration."

"Tt," Harry clicked his tongue at Draco before taking a gulp from the 1 liter flask he'd filled with chilled Firewhiskey — before devolving into a fit of coughs and sputters. Several of the other carriage riders looked on, but thankfully made no comment.

Draco snickered at Harry's plight.

"Tastes nice," Harry defended his life choices. He truly appreciated the rich smoky-caramel flavor overlayed with a sharp cinnamon taste and a hint of cocoa. It just burned a bit — and caused him to shudder. But once it got past his throat, Harry felt an exhilarating pulse course through his chest. Even so, he dreaded taking another gulp.

"Small sips, Pottah. Small sips," Draco whispered.

Harry mustered the courage to take another shudder-inducing sip before the carriage ride ended, at which point he said his goodbyes to Draco and promised he would write over the break and keep their room in order.

"How's it going?" Harry tried asking the horses as they took him back to Hogwarts. They didn't respond, but it seemed as though they could hear him.

"Okay then," Harry shrugged as he sipped the whiskey again. It got a lot better this time, with the shudder lasting only a second or two. Maybe a few sips later, he wouldn't even shudder at all.

7:15 p.m.

"Hey, you started without me!" Cormac complained when Harry met him outside the Gryffindor house.

"You too," Harry giggled when he smelled his fellow seeker's breath. "Most full," he added as he shook the liter flask, which contained just under three-quarters of its original contents.

"That's the stuff!" Cormac praised as he took a swig.

Between that and the mead and ale in the second-year Gryffindor guy room, it didn't take long for the seekers to get plastered. Luckily, the only other Gryffindor second-year guy left was Angus Matlock, who was a loud and wild guy himself when he hit the liquor. Also in the room was Eddie, Cormac's wisecracking best friend, as well as his fellow second-year Ravenclaw Helen Dawlish, an auror's daughter who easily held her own with the guys.

Despite these four knowing each other quite well, Harry quickly found he had similar enough interests and tastes to fit well in their dynamic. Though perhaps the flowing beverages helped with that.

After an hour, they moved to the party in the third and fourth year guys' rooms, which had been set up to feel surprisingly spacious. Or maybe Harry was simply drunk enough not to mind constantly bumping into people, which proved to be a great conversation starter anyhow. And perhaps it was because he was Harry Potter, or perhaps he was a good-enough conversationalist, but being the sole Slytherin and one of two first years at the "pregame" didn't leave him out of place in the slightest. If anything, boisterous interactions with Gryffindors and the invited Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs left him feeling freer than he ever did in Slytherin. Not that he didn't show due pride for his ancestry, of course.

"They call me the son of You-Know-Poo," Harry hissed at Fred in the final round of "who's the best snake-speaker" competition. Fred gave as good a vocal impression as anyone, but most of the audience hooted for Harry to be champion.

His prize? Three free Weasley wizard wheezes of his choice. He selected the firepop — a bubblegum that caused him to pop fireworks when the bubble burst, the hoot-hoot — a pipe that caused him to blow smoke out of his nose and ears with a train-like noise, and the shock drop — which gave Harry and anyone who touched him electric pleasure. Naturally, the party-goers passed him around until he stopped vibrating.

"Even when my brothers lose, they win," Ron opined to Harry once Roger and Cedric released him on account of the buzz wearing off. "You gave one hell of an advertisement!"

"Huh," Harry nodded with glazed, bloodshot eyes.

"Drink," Ron demanded as he shoved a large water flask in Harry's face again. He'd been doing that ever since Harry stumbled out of the second-year guys' room, and Harry would later recognize it was the reason he did not pass out like Angus and Eddie.

"Where's whiskey?" Harry wondered as he took three gulps from the bottle.

"Percy's keeping it for you along with your wand," Ron reminded Harry for the fourth time. "Not like you had much left anyway," he added as an aside.

"So-ber," Harry giggled at Ron while poking his ribs.

"I had some sips! Before Fred and George took them away…." Ron defended himself. "You know what, just finish this!" he dictated as he shoved the water bottle into Harry's lips.

Harry would never remember the night as well as he'd liked, though Ron claimed complete credit for getting Harry to the main event at the Quidditch pitch and preventing him from making a complete fool of himself — unlike some others at the pregame.

7:36 a.m., December 21

"Wea-sel," the still-drunk Harry giggled as he rocked back and forth on his bed. Technically Neville's bed, but it didn't matter since Ron was the only first-year Gryffindor guy left.

The way Ron's face scrunched in annoyance only made Harry giggle more.

"Percy taught me how to make you throw up," Ron threatened. "And I know you got nothing in your stomach."

"Weasel," Harry repeated with a wide grin.

"Oi! I'm warning you, Harry!" Ron exclaimed as he aimed his wand at Harry's stomach.

"Wea-urrRL!" Harry began before an "Esca Expello" had him heaving yellow bile onto his chest and underpants.

"Potty," Ron smugly nicknamed him.

1:23 p.m.

"So, um, what exactly happened?" Ron suddenly questioned at a late lunch.

"What do you mean?" the now-sober Harry asked.

"Um….Percy was a bit worried by how much you drank," Ron started delicately. "I mean, he thought all of you in the second-year room had way too much, but you apparently had the most. He was surprised you weren't one of the ones passed out."

"We had a drink-off," Harry laughed while reddening a bit at the memory. "Angus dozed off, then went Eddie. Helen bowed out, so it was just Mac and me when your brother came in."

"Well…Percy said you said something about you hating Christmas more than Scrooge unless you got hammered," Ron revealed.

Harry flushed at apparently telling Percy something so personal.

"I…don't worry about it," Harry tried to evade the topic.

"Harry…what was Christmas like with the muggles you lived with?" Ron asked.

A sharp frown flashed across Harry's face in answer.

"I don't want to talk about it," Harry stated.

"Have…have you ever gotten presents?" Ron wondered.

"Just one," Harry responded bitterly. "From Nott."

Ron looked like he wanted to say more, but Harry gave a glare that ceased the conversation.

5:00 p.m.

"Thank you for meeting me," Harry said gratefully to Professor Quirrell as he entered the DADA office.

"Of course, Harry," the professor smiled at him. "Terrific job on your report, by the way. Top of the class along with Hermione's."

Harry beamed. He'd be sure to owl his best female friend the news. Knowing her, that just might be her favorite Christmas gift.

"Now, what was it you wanted to ask me?" Professor Quirrell invited.

Harry's face took a serious countenance as he produced a black Discernment Sphere. Professor Quirrell produced a similarly grim expression upon seeing it.

"A mark of a formidable mental assault," the professor stated. "And potent resistance."

"Resistance?" Harry asked as hope sparked within him.

"Indeed," the professor answered. "In order for the ball to emit this color, there must not only be continual effects from a foreign entity's intrusion, but protracted counteraction from the magic within you. Without that, your attacker would have asserted his will over your mind and rearranged it as he saw fit — which would ironically project a clear sphere."

"So my mind's in a battle?" Harry asked, to which the professor nodded. "Then why haven't I felt any of this."

"Both magical forces operate below your conscious detection," the professor explained. "And perhaps, at times, outside of your memory entirely."

Harry tensed at the reference to his faulty memories — omissions and implants that kept him under the muggles' thumbs. Allowed boarish filth to think they were better than him!

"Do you know…what side is winning?" Harry inquired.

"That is unclear," Professor Quirrell said. "For that, I would need a close examination of the magic attempting to commandeer your mind."

"'Command my mind?" Harry asked.

"Yes," the professor affirmed. "My supposition is that you live under a series of constant compulsions, but the magic within you instinctively shelters you from subservience to these. This magic in fact nullifies foreign impulses so long as you consciously reject them as well. Yet without direct guidance of the forces within your mind, you cannot truly reckon with unwanted influences. Nor even know what comes from you and what does not."

"Is…is there a way to change that?" Harry asked shakily. Or will I go my whole life not knowing what side of a mind argument is really me?

"There is…" Professor Quirrell started, which caused Harry's mood to skyrocket. "But it is an advanced art that will take years for you to master. And study of it typically takes a much older mind."

"Please professor," Harry begged. "I…I don't wanna live like this. I can't! My memories are lies, I was trapped…"

Harry cut himself off, but the earnest concern that shone from Professor Quirrell's face and eyes prodded him to continue.

"The muggles I told you about…I tried to leave them at least a dozen times," Harry divulged. "I hated them almost as much as they hated me. But every time, I'd be sat down and told how I had to see their house as a home — my home — and I'd be ripped apart if I left. And every time, there was some weird feeling in my gut — and I don't think it was just fear of being stabbed on the streets – that made me stay in that damned cupboard as their sodding slave. And Duddykins' punching bag anytime that pig got pissy. Sorry for my language."

Professor Quirrell looked at Harry with understanding and acceptance.

"I cannot claim to have an upbringing like yours, but my father showed to me how averse muggles are to sorcerers — especially of their own blood," the professor shared. "Muggles fear what they do not understand, and they seek to subjugate what they fear. Sadly, too many wizards without knowledge of their own powers fall prey to muggles' vicious ways."

"Do muggles kill wizards like in old times?" Harry gasped with horror.

"Your average muggle rarely will, as vulnerable wizards tend to be integrated in muggle society and thus receive basic protection from muggle laws," Professor Quirrell answered. "However, muggles use their superstitions and religions to cripple a wizard's confidence in his magical abilities. Additionally, if a muggle government discovers a wizard, it may forcibly conscript him into service or assassinate him, as those in power have leave to ignore their own laws. Yet worst of all is when muggles — typically the caretakers of an unknowing young wizard — coerce said wizard into despising his powers such that he subconsciously turns his magic against itself. And unintentionally, against himself."

Harry felt his stomach lurch. How many times had he prayed to "God" for his "demonic powers" to be taken away? How many times had he wished he could wish them away?

"Did any muggles try to do this to you and Mrs. Rivers?" Harry asked.

"Fortunately, our mother raised us with full knowledge of our abilities and how muggles would react upon witnessing them," the professor reflected with a wan smile. "I did not have to discover for myself that my nature elicits only jealous hatred and murderous intent from muggles."

Harry opened his mouth to say the muggles never intended to murder him, but thought again when he considered how many times the boar and his pig spawn threatened his life.

"Hunt Harry! Hunt Harry!"

"Foul bastard! If it weren't for 'Tunia, I'd drown you this second."

"One more yelp, and you will wish you had been in the car with your parents that night!"

"I swear on God's name that if you ever, ever, touch my son again, I'll blow you straight to hell!

Besides, they knew all about the wizarding world. They could have given me up at any time, unless maybe they wanted me to kill myself by wishing my magic away! Harry realized bitterly. As rage boiled within him, he swore retribution upon those filth one day.

"Did they…did they ever threaten your life?" Professor Quirrell asked softly, bringing Harry back to the present.

"Um, er…" Harry stammered as he realized how much he must have given away on his face.

Wait, am I thinking of lying? They can't flash their money and company here to shut me up.

"Yes," Harry answered determinedly. "And I think they tried it too, they just couldn't."

He met the professor's eyes, showing his full commitment to his statement.

"I believe you," the professor replied with equally resolute eyes. "And I promise, you will never endure indignities at their hands again. Where do they live?"

In that moment, the earnestness, passion and righteous fury radiated by Professor Quirrell — the professor that all the other Slytherins sneered at — made Harry place more faith in him than in anyone he had ever met.

"Number 4 Privet Drive in Little Whinging, Surrey," Harry answered.

8:09 p.m.

"Huh," Ron sounded as he stepped across Slytherin's threshold with a backpack of the supplies he'd use to camp out in Harry's room.

Harry smacked him in the shoulder.

"The first non-Slytherin to enter this house in over 700 years just says 'huh'?" Harry whined.

"Right. This is the house of kings. The lowly tower of Gryffindor can't hold a candle to the…majesty of Hogwarts' basement," Ron "praised" with a dramatic bow to finish.

"Weasel," Harry huffed.

"Potty," Ron returned.

Ron dropped his smug face two seconds later when he came face to face with a twenty-foot black king cobra.

"Oh, right, meet our mascot," Harry introduced the slightly-pale Ron to his serpent.

"You…you have a giant snake as a pet?" Ron stammered.

"The House of Slytherin does, yup," Harry answered.

Not a lie. I'm just not talking about the 'House of Slytherin' Ron thinks I am.

Halogi hissed at Ron, which caused the Gryffindor to take two small steps back.

"He…he won't hurt me, right?" Ron asked in a rare display of nervousness.

"Not unless I say so," Harry said before flashing a crooked grin. "Or hisss so."

"Oi!" Ron responded with a smack to Harry's head. "No slimy Slytherin talk when I'm here."

Harry laughed at the unintentional irony. Halogi probably would have attacked Ron if Harry hadn't explicitly told him not to.

9:34 p.m., December 24

"Not again!" Harry shouted in frustration as one of Ron's pawn chess pieces used its shield to decapitate Harry's king.

Ron grinned. "Wheezie time!" he exclaimed as he gestured at the Weasley wizard wheezes Harry bought and was ironically going to be the victim of — again.

"This isn't fair," Harry complained. "I bought these just to torture myself?"

"You wanted stakes," Ron reminded.

"And you've rigged our competition wheel to land on chess three times in four rounds!" Harry accused. "It hasn't landed on dueling in five turns!"

"Maybe it'll land on wrestling next spin," Ron offered. Harry huffed with frustration.

"On the bright side mate, you lasted seventeen minutes this time," Ron said. "That's longer than anyone in Gryffindor has."

We'll pretend most of that time wasn't me thinking between moves, Harry internally griped.

"I'll bet they've stopped playing you," Harry grumbled. "And Hermione was too smart to ever get roped into playing you."

"I really would like to, Ronald, but I must get working on Monday's essay for our House head…" Harry imitated the curly-haired brunette.

Ron grinned cheekily and nodded at the Weasley wizard wheezes.

"What do you wanna see this time?" Harry sighed. Ron answered by grabbing a dark-brown, fist-sized ball.

"Oh no," Harry groaned just before Ron hurled the dungbomb at his face.

"Bottles up," Harry said after returning from washing his face – and taking a detour into the seventh-year girl prefect's room to "borrow" Concordia's finest bottle of wine.

"Damn," Ron gasped. "Where'd you get it?"

"Around," Harry shrugged with a conspiratorial grin.

As far as the Rowle daughter knew, her single's door opened only for herself and the Head of House. No sane wizard would dare accuse Snape of thievery, and an intruder would have to get past the seventh-year girls' main door first — a feat supposedly impossible for the uninvited. The half-blood first year Concordia mocked days earlier would be her last suspect.

"Wicked," Ron praised as Harry levitated the cork off the bottleneck, filling the room with a satisfying POP.

With the two-century aged wine boasting an alcohol-by-volume content of 24% underneath its rich flavor, the two first-years got giggling drunk sooner than later. And so when Ron inevitably asked what Nott got him, as he had for the past few days, Harry gave a legitimate answer this time.

"Catch," Harry told Ron after taking the sphere out of his inner-robe pockets.

Ron surprisingly caught it, but he looked confused when he held the mist-filled crystal ball.

"Remembrall?" Ron asked.

"Toss it back," Harry said. When he caught the ball, the mist turned ink black.

"State of my mind, 'parently," Harry shared with Ron. "Someone tried to get inna my head, still is. Also tryin' to control me."

"Think it was Y—You-Know-Who?" Ron wondered. Harry looked at the ginger in surprise.

"I mean—" Ron started while pointing at the red lightning-bolt scar above Harry's right eyebrow. "He fired killing curse at your head. Did he…do more?"

"Huh," Harry considered the theory. But he shook his head after a few seconds.

"He blew up when the curse rebounded — and yah, I remember it as of a few days ago," Harry explained. "His powers would've gone wit' him. And even if he's stilla 'round like Hagrid claims, he's pretty much a ghost."

"Who d'ya think done it then?" Ron followed up.

I wonder what he'd say if I said it's Dumbledore trying his tricks on me, Harry mused. But he left the theory untested. It was likely too early to drop such a bombshell on Ron, and Ron meant too much to him to risk it.

"Dunno for sure," Harry answered honestly. "But I gotta lot of enemies, between destroying Voldie and my family history."

"Truth," Ron agreed while taking another swig from the wine bottle.

No flinch. Nice, Harry appreciated Ron's non-reaction to Voldemort's name. Or more accurately, Harry's nickname for the destroyed dark lord.

"Why's Slytherin still 'round," Ron complained. "Only good Slytherin I've met's you, and you should'a been in Gryff-hicc-dor."

Harry laughed at Ron's hiccups as he took the wine bottle for another swig or three himself.

"Some snakes alright," Harry defended the ones he liked. Specifically, the ones who hadn't laughed at Nott's stunt. "Most are a bunch of cunts though."

Ron snickered at the crude language.

"You know, Nott just gave me this so the house could laugh at me," Harry ranted. "Cause he and the lot are a bunch of cocksuckers who talk trash to folks they got beef wit'!"

"We settle things like m-hicc-en in Gryff-hicc-dor," Ron bragged while making fists.

"Perf," Harry praised as he took another gulp of fine wine. And another. And another.

7:49 a.m., December 25

"Wake up, wake up!" someone demanded as he shook Harry.

Harry responded by rolling from his back to his right side so he faced the back of the couch.

"You got presents!" the voice shouted.

"And it's a cold day in hell, Dudley," Harry mumbled as he clawed for just a little more sleep before he had to suffer through his least favorite day of the year.

"'M not Dudley," the voice insisted as he shook Harry again.

"Hands off—Ron?" Harry gasped when he finally recognized the voice.

"Who else?" Ron retorted. "Now c'mon!"

"Can we go to Gryffindor in thirty?" Harry asked. He knew Ron probably wanted to open his presents right then, and Harry knew he was being selfish to ask Ron to hold off, but he truly did not want to get up.

"We gotta open your presents first!" Ron insisted.

"There are no presents," Harry replied as he tried once more to go back to sleep.

"I'm serious!" Ron persisted while shaking Harry again.

"Fine, fine," Harry grumbled. "I'll come see my 'presents'."

He didn't know why he was even humoring Ron with this, but he figured he may still be in a good mood from the happy juice they guzzled the previous night.

"Huh," Harry remarked as he found the wine bottle to still contain some of its contents. He started gulping the remaining drink down as he stumbled after Ron.

"I love magic," Harry praised as the bottle proved to retain its cooling-features even after opening. He determined he'd have to pay another visit to Concordia's room. Likely to Aloysius' as well.

"Not as much as you're gonna love today!" Ron exclaimed as they came up in front of the Slytherin Yule tree — which, surprisingly, had presents under it. Seven.

"Who're these for?" Harry wondered as he looked at the seven wrapped gifts.

"You, who else!" Ron answered impatiently. "C'mon, open 'em!"

"Okay, okay," Harry placated, still not fully believing it. "Which one should I do first?"

Ron handed him a package wrapped in red paper that seemed to have some sort of cloth in it. He looked both excited and nervous as he watched Harry open it.

"Wow," Harry murmured when he looked upon the sky-blue zip-up jacket. The cloth actually held the brilliance of a clear sky while simulating subtle ripples. But his eyes immediately focused on the center of the jacket, which boasted a fire-styled H.

"Do you like it?" Ron asked with trepidation and…hope?

"I love it!" Harry declared as he hugged the jacket. "Did…did you buy this custom-made or something?"

"My mom made it, but I designed it!" Ron explained proudly.

"Thanks Ron," Harry said as it truly began to sink in that somehow, on the day those religious-fanatic muggles made him most despise, he had been included in the celebration.

Harry would have been content with just that gift, but the look Ron gave the pile made it clear the other six were Harry's as well. So, he gingerly set his new jacket on the nearest couch and unwrapped the next present — which revealed a small wooden box.

"Uh oh," Harry muttered. "Nott flashbacks," he added for Ron's benefit.

"Want me to open it?" Ron offered.

Harry shook his head, drew in a deep breath, and opened the box himself. To his and Ron's surprise, out flew a golden snitch.

"Nice, 'specially since you're the new seeker," Ron observed as Harry caught the winged ball.

"Hmmm," Harry pondered while he looked at his prize. It was beautiful, as they all were. But he noticed something distinct about the engravings.

"Check this out," Harry told Ron as he pointed out the dragon design, with wings acting as the snitch's finger grips and a carved fire blast that emitted a red-gold glow.

"Wicked," Ron murmured as he looked it over. "Never seen that brand before."

"Custom made?" Harry wondered. But he didn't know why someone would go through all the trouble of having a snitch custom done this way, as cool as the pattern was. In fact, he didn't even know who this gift came from, as the box held no note within.

"Well, I'm definitely using this for practice — and it'd be neat to carry around," Harry decided. "Thank you for giving me this, whoever you are."

He'd have to figure out who gave him the gift. Was it Cassius? Graham? Marcus? Or someone outside of Slytherin entirely?

Harry ruled out Marcus when the next present turned out to be from him. True to form, it was a Quidditch gift bound to increase his performance for Marcus' team. However, it turned out to be particularly unique.

This is Randolph Lestrange's guide to being the perfect seeker, passed down to all Slytherin seekers since. You'll find additional notes from some others — pay special attention to Regulus Black's. It'll be your job to pass it on when the time comes, so keep this in good shape.

Memorize this, and never, EVER, share it!

Good Yule,

Marcus Flint

"It's a seeker strategy book," Harry answered Ron's unasked question as he quickly hid it away.

"Aww, you don't trust me?" Ron whined.

"Your Quidditch team needs all the help it can get, and I'm not giving," Harry laughed. Ron pouted at this, but seemingly let it go.

Harry unwrapped the next present, another book, but this time from a surprising sender.

Greetings Harry,

I hope you are having a good Yule. I know we did not leave on the best terms, and that is my fault entirely. I was wrong to laugh at your experience with Dumbledore and his goons, and I was doubly wrong to laugh at your time with muggles when I know you hate that filth as much as any of us. I apologize, and I hope we can remain friends.

This here is the special edition of the martial analysis book that Goldwin Avery wrote after he broke the record for consecutive international-dueling championships. Once a best seller, for those who could part with a few galleons, before the Ministry banned it after the Death Eater crisis. I doubt any of our professors or most of our schoolmates would appreciate this book, but I have a feeling you will. Always free to discuss and practice his techniques if you want.

Sincerely,

Niall Flavus

P.S. Avery used an aspen wand like us.

"Hmmm," Harry considered the note. He had been quite angry at Niall the past few days, angry enough to walk into the second-years room and almost unleash his fury on Niall's belongings Vernon-style. But reading this, he was now glad he stopped himself at the last second. Or more accurately, questioned whether he could cast a Protego shield in time to shield himself from the Confringo he planned to loose.

"What did'ya get?" Ron asked while moving closer to see for himself.

Harry pocketed the note, but he figured it would be unfair to keep a second gift out of Ron's sight.

"A rare dueling book from a thirteen-time international champion," Harry answered as he handed the present over.

"Avery!" Ron exclaimed. "Why would someone give you a book from that scum?"

"Um…he had an aspen wand?" Harry offered weakly. Unfortunately, Ron looked like he wanted to burn the book, and Harry didn't want to risk it with someone he knew had talent with wandless magic.

"Look, best to know what the enemy does, right?" Harry suggested. This appeased Ron enough for him to hand the book back, even though distaste radiated from his face.

I'll have to take special care of that book, Harry decided. And thank Niall today.

The next gift proved far less controversial in and of itself, but Ron held no love for the sender.

"Malfoy," Ron spat the moment Harry picked up the gift, which bore said family's crest on the wrapping cloth.

To Mr. Potter,

After you imagined horses pulling the horseless carriage, it became apparent that you require new eyewear. Within this package lie a set of optic correctors that will adapt to your eye-shape once you put them on, and they needn't ever be taken off. I would have set you up with an eye-transfiguration specialist, but father tells me that if a wizard's eyes are not corrected as a newborn, it is best to wait till full physical development for such a procedure.

That aside, I hope you are enjoying your Yule. I expect you have already allowed Weasley into our house, though I do hope he is not defiling my bed. Father will have it replaced if that is the case, but better to have Weasley number six roll around in someone else's sheets. Someone such as Nott, who subjected me to more dreadful company than usual at father's Yule Ball.

You will have to come by Malfoy manor sometime, if only to rescue me from the likes of him. You would certainly be a better dueling partner, never mind an actual conversationalist. We could also practice Quidditch, especially now that I must train to be a chaser. You would also enjoy a tour of the Apothecary, I think. Father by the way sends his thanks for your compliments of his products, and both he and mother send their regards and good wishes.

All I will ask is for you not to set Slytherin ablaze in a drunken haze. Though it may allow Hagrid to earn his keep for once, considering his personal experience with such matters.

Yours Truly,

Heir Black-Malfoy

Harry chuckled at the ostentatious note before opening the eyewear package and slipping the contents underneath his eyelids.

"Ron!" Harry shouted after a minute. "I can see!"

"Gee, didn't know you were blind this whole time," Ron quipped.

"Seriously, I can see better than I ever did through those filthy glasses!" Harry exclaimed in jubilation. "Incendio!" he directed at the detestable contraption he had tossed to the floor.

A small flame quickly consumed the revolting reminder of his slavery under muggle filth. Half-a-minute later, not a trace of the glasses nor the flame stained the stone floor.

"Show off," Ron muttered at Harry's wandless display. Harry treated him to a cheeky grin.

"Two left," Harry noted. One in red-and-gold paper, the other in green-and-silver cloth.

"Let's start with the Gryffindor one," Ron suggested.

"Compendium of the Blazing Doe and the Half-Blood Prince," Harry read the title of the book aloud when he tore open the wrapping paper.

"What?" Ron asked.

"Your mother wished to pass her knowledge to you. Though she has departed, her memory lives on. In remembrance, The Half-Blood Prince," Harry read aloud the accompanying note.

"So your mom was 'the Blazing Doe'?" Ron asked.

"Apparently," Harry murmured.

A cursory flip through the sizable book revealed a trove of handwritten notes, essays, commentaries and records regarding Hogwarts course material. Harry knew immediately that the book would prove valuable, particularly since professors Snape and McGonagall were not the most approachable when it came to needing help understanding the lectures.

Setting the book atop his pile of unwrapped presents, Harry looked back toward the final gift.

"Lemme guess, another book?" Ron drawled as Harry picked up the final present — which indeed had a rectangular feel.

"Hey, it's not like I'm getting textbooks," Harry defended his presents with a laugh. "These books look like they're gonna be hella interesting — not to mention useful."

"I'll pretend you didn't say that about a Death Eater handbook," Ron chided half-teasingly.

"Well, I am the Heir of Slytherin, didn't you know?" Harry suddenly threw out.

Silence.

"Don't joke like that," a subdued Ron said half-a-minute later.

"Sorry," Harry apologized with a weak chuckle. Ron accepted it, making everything fine once more in the moment. A pang went through Harry's heart however at Ron's reaction.

Harry pushed it to the side as he unwrapped the silky green-and-silver cloth, which ironically enough bore the serpentine emblem of Salazar Slytherin.

"The Methodical Guide about Understanding Nigmatic Thaumaturgy, by Tom Marvolo Riddle," Harry read aloud.

"What?" Ron asked at the unwieldy title. Equally confused, Harry looked to the gift sender's note for explanation.

Dear Harry,

As I have often said, you possess a unique perspective regarding the mysteries of magic. Although it is ever my joy to teach and guide you, I often fear that I will not have the time to fully nurture one such as you in a classroom setting, even with our additional meetings.

You have extensively detailed the similarities between your magic and that of Tom Marvolo Riddle. Looking through the Hogwarts Defense Against the Dark Arts records, I made a most curious discovery. Tom Marvolo Riddle's last recorded interaction is not his final Daily Prophet interview at age twenty-five, but an interview with Headmaster Dumbledore for the DADA post at age forty — presumably after an extended sojourn.

Among the application materials he submitted are two copies of this self-written tome that he wished to use as the basis for a new DADA curriculum. A curriculum that would focus on conceptual understanding of magic and promote individualistic development among students rather than limit them to the standard protocols.

I have found the book to be quite marvelous in the time I have spent with it, and I think it will prove a comprehensive guide to your talents over the years. I do expect the material may prove challenging to digest at first, but always feel free to discuss it with me so long as I am available. In the short-term, I believe this book will prove useful in the study of shielding your mind. We can begin discussing that topic on Friday the 9th if you like, to give you time to introduce yourself to it (p. 124) and enjoy the rest of your Yule break.

Tell Ron I say hello,

Quirinus Quirrell

"Professor Quirrell says hi, by the way," Harry told Ron.

"What did he give you, an extra class?" Ron asked with trepidation.

"Something like that," Harry smiled, not at all phased by the book's voluminous size. In truth, Harry very much enjoyed reading — if the material was engaging. He found this to be the case with magic analysis, Defense Against the Dark Arts and the histories of great wizards, but not so much with the rote learning that seemed to come with Transfiguration, Herbology and Astronomy. He enjoyed the interactive nature of Charms and Potions, but he truly felt he was learning and growing when tackling material such as this.

Extra bonuses were that this book was written by Tom Marvolo Riddle and he could discuss it with Professor Quirrell. If only all his Hogwarts classes could have that combination.

"Hey, you're not gonna spend the rest of this break burying your nose in that, are ya?" Ron asked.

"Maybe," Harry teased.

"Swot," Ron accused.

"Dork," Harry returned.

"Race you to Gryffindor!" Ron suddenly challenged before taking off for the door and toward his presents.

After setting his prized book down, Harry instinctively reached his finger to the bridge of his nose — only to realize he no longer had to center his glasses when running.

"Take that, filthy muggles," Harry said to himself before racing after Ron. He decided the only thing that could make his Yule break even better is if he could somehow curse the Dursley pigs to have the worst day of their wretched lives.

Author's Note

Oliver Rivers, a Ravenclaw listed in J.K. Rowling's "Original Forty" document, was originally surnamed Quirrell. Oliver being Quirinus Quirrell's nephew is a reference to that.