Snow blanketed the hills around the Potter home in thick white silence, glittering under a pale morning sun. Inside, the house glowed with quiet warmth — golden lights flickered in enchanted garlands, and stockings twitched expectantly above the fireplace. Somewhere, bells chimed gently, as though Christmas itself had taken a breath.

May stirred beneath her quilt, blinking sleep from her eyes. Cinnamon and cloves danced through the air, along with the unmistakable scent of her father's cocoa. Her first term at Hogwarts felt like a dream now — distant and magical — but this, waking up at home on Christmas morning, was something even dreams couldn't quite touch.

She padded softly into the living room, where the tree shimmered with softly humming baubles. Joanne was already crouched by the base, half-buried in ribbon and gift wrap, while Thomas levitated a tray of steaming mugs from the kitchen.

"Morning, sleepy elf," Joanne said with a grin. "Look who's finally up!"

Before May could respond, James stormed into the room like a blizzard in motion, his Gryffindor scarf still trailing from his neck. "PRESENTS!" he bellowed, leaping onto the couch and nearly knocking over the tray. "Is that cocoa? Merlin bless us, yes!"

Thomas rolled his eyes with a smile. "Still subtle as ever, son."

The room quickly filled with laughter and the sound of paper tearing. May giggled as James opened a box from Sirius and yelped — it exploded in a puff of glitter, revealing a pair of socks that sang God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs.

Between magical joke gifts and heartfelt handmade ones, the morning passed in a swirl of sparkle and joy.

Later, May and James snuck away with mugs of cocoa and a tin of biscuits, climbing to the old windowsill in the upstairs corridor. Snow still fell in slow flakes outside, and they sat in comfortable quiet for a while.

James stretched his legs, looking out toward the horizon. "Weird, having you at school now."

"Tell me about it," May murmured. "I keep thinking you're going to tell me what to do. Like when I was five."

"I tried," he said, smirking. "Didn't work, did it?"

"Nope," May said, popping a biscuit in her mouth.

He nudged her gently. "You're doing really well, you know. I heard Flitwick raving about you in the staff corridor."

"Charms is good," she admitted. "But I still can't get Potions right. I think Professor Galloway's disappointed."

"He's always disappointed. That's his resting face," James replied. "Honestly, Remus nearly blew his cauldron to bits our first year."

May laughed. "Really?"

"Oh yeah. I saved him. Heroically." He puffed out his chest, and she rolled her eyes.

Then, quieter, he said, "It's nice having you there. I know I act like I don't notice, but I do."

Touched, May reached behind her and handed him a wrapped package. "Here."

James opened it and smiled — a hand-painted bookmark, carefully detailed with his Quidditch number, tiny golden snitches and stars flitting between crimson stripes.

"This is brilliant," he said, genuinely moved. "Thanks, May."

He reached into his own pocket and pulled out a slightly lumpy wool hat in red and gold. "Knitting spell went rogue," he said sheepishly. "It was supposed to have a lion."

May put it on — it sat crooked and charmingly awful. "I love it."

Back in her room that evening, the day's in joy settling around her like snowfall, May sat cross-legged on her bed. She reached beneath her pillow and pulled out the Avalon pendant.

It pulsed faintly against her palm, warm despite the chill.

May tilted her head, listening. There was something — a hum, a breath, almost a heartbeat. Then light flickered, like sparks from a fire. Just for a second, she saw something: a man's face in shadow. A spell cast in silence. A memory not her own.

It faded. She exhaled shakily.

Dinner was full of roasted vegetables, clinking glasses, and a great deal of Sirius's socks singing from the living room. But at one point, Thomas looked at May a little too long. Said nothing. Just lingered at her door that night as he wished her goodnight.

May picked up the enchanted journal Joanne had given her and opened it to a blank page. The ink shimmered faintly, waiting.

She didn't write about the pendant. Not yet.

She wrote about snow and cocoa and wool hats and singing socks.

And then she paused, looking out the window at the deepening dark.

Beside her pillow, the pendant glowed once more — soft and quiet.

And outside, the snow continued to fall.