Harry’s First Christmas

A MARAUDERS CHRISTMAS STORY BY

G. Norman Lippert
Dedicated to Tom Grey and supportstacie.net

“You have to admit,” the young man said, raising his chin approvingly and looking out over the busy street, “the city is nice at the
holidays.”
“You can admit it all you want,” the auburn-haired woman next to him sniffed, stepping over an oily puddle on the footpath. “It won’t
make it true. Give me a Christmas in the Berkshire hill country any day. I’ll never be able to feel festive about a Styrofoam snowman
impaled on a taxi antenna.”
“The lights are nice,” the man commented, unperturbed. “And the sense of hustle and bustle. It’s like we’re at the North Pole and all the
people around are Santa’s elves.”
“I’ve known too many elves to think that’s very festive either, James.” She pulled her wool hat down on her brow and shivered. “And
how can it be this cold without snowing?”
The man smiled and bumped her playfully with his hip. “Buck up, Lil. It’s the first time we’ve been out of the house alone in months. It
might not be an enchanted sleigh ride through a winter wonderland, but it’s still Christmas. And somebody I know is going to absolutely
adore what’s in this sack here.” The man held up a small white bag with the words Shugarwhim’s, Diagon Alley printed on it in dark red
letters. The woman smiled a little crookedly and snatched the sack from his hands.
“He’s too young to even know what footie pajamas are. All he’ll know is that they keep his little toes warm at night.”
“I wasn’t talking about him,” the man, James, replied quietly, putting his arm around the woman, Lily, and snugging her close as they
walked. She gave a small sigh and settled next to him.
“I adore him no matter what he wears. But the green will bring out his eyes, don’t you think?”
James rolled his eyes theatrically. “I thought so the last three times you asked, back in the shop. I haven’t changed my mind yet, but I
might if you ask once more.”
“It doesn’t hurt you to indulge me, at least while we only have one. Wait until we have a houseful.”
“Like that family back in the sale corner at Shugarwhim’s?” James replied archly. “Don’t even joke about such things. I’ve never seen so
much red hair in my life. And I’m pretty sure one of those ‘charming children’ tried to sneak a Zonko’s stink bomb into my coat pocket.
Little blighter couldn’t have been more than eight years old.”
“Oh, but did you see the twins? Now that really would be lovely, don’t you think?”
“Now you’re just teasing me. Let’s practice with one baby for a while, then we’ll talk about having a baker’s dozen. Fair enough?”
Lily didn’t answer. She allowed the small sack to dangle at her side as she walked, her eyes pensive. James glanced aside at her.
“You’re not still worried, are you?” he asked in a low voice.
Lily shook her head slightly, not exactly in negation, and shrugged. She sighed shallowly and said, “How can I not be?”
James drew a deep breath as they stopped at a busy intersection. A grime covered bus burred by, pulling a plume of exhaust behind it.
James turned to look at his wife. “You heard the headmaster, Lil. Even if this prophecy is real, we’re perfectly safe. Like he said, if it
ever becomes necessary, we can hide the house, choose a Secret Keeper and lay low until the danger passes. If you can’t trust old
Dumbledore to know what he’s talking about, well…”
Lily looked up into James’ eyes, searching them, her brow furrowed very slightly. After a moment, she looked away. “Come on,” she
said, pulling him by the hand and stepping off the curb.
They crossed the street and walked awhile in silence. The muggle crowd moved around them like a river around a rock, tense and
scowling, lugging packages and hailing taxis. Lily looked up at the windows of the apartments over the busy street. She knew this area
relatively well, despite her profession of distaste for the city. One of her best friends from school, Anastacia Troika, now lived in a third
floor walk-up on the opposite side of the street. Lily scanned the building and easily found the window of Stacia’s flat; colored light
flickered behind the lace curtains. Muggle passersby on the street would have assumed the lights were a telly, but Lily knew better.
Stacia liked to decorate her Christmas tree with live Russian flickerbirds, their tiny flashing wings lighting the tree as they built their
immaculate little nests in its branches. Lily had helped her erect just such a tree in the Gryffindor girls’ dorm during their third year, until
Dumbledore had suggested that the flickerbirds’ colorful flashing wings and tinkling birdsong were proving rather a nuisance to the girls
attempting to sleep nearby. Lily had always suspected it had been Christiana Corsica who’d complained to Dumbledore, and not
because the tiny birds were keeping her awake at night. Christiana was simply nasty and vain, and she tended to dislike anything that
might be considered more beautiful than herself. This, at least, was Lily’s strong conviction, if not an admitted fact. Strangely enough,
Christiana now lived in a penthouse on the next corner, along with her creepy twin brother, Chrystophan. Neither of them worked, as far
as the old school network of Lily’s friends knew, but the Corsica family was wealthy, and everyone assumed that the penthouse was
provided for the twins by their reclusive father.
 ** 2 **
As she walked alongside James, Lily wondered how many other windows above belonged to wizarding families, or how many of the
shops along the busy street were secretly run by witches and wizards. Diagon Alley and its secret surroundings were quite large, and
yet Lily knew that many of the shops technically outside of the hidden magical district also kept secret back rooms and upstairs offices,
catering to the thousands of magical folk who travelled through the area each day; the “Diagon Alley run-off”, her father had always
affectionately called them. Some of the secret wizarding shops merely sold cheap magical cookery and trinkets, like the dreadful cuckoo
clock James had gotten her last year, but some of them dealt in much darker services. For no reason, Lily thought again of the Corsicas
and their mysterious penthouse. Was it possible that they were, in fact, engaged in some sort of business, using their conveniently
located home as their meeting place? Lily shook her head, smiling a little crookedly. Just because you don’t like her, she thought to
herself, doesn’t give you an excuse to imagine her as the spearhead of some dark conspiracy.
She decided not even to mention her musings to James. He had outright hated Christiana’s Hufflepuff brother, Chrystophan, and would
probably have the poor twit mentally convicted and sentenced to Azkaban before they even got back to their front door in Godric’s
Hollow.
As the two of them approached the next corner, a rather thin, unhappy-looking Santa was ringing a bell and extolling anyone who’d
listen about the breathtaking deals to be had in the shop behind him. As James and Lily passed him, James hooked Lily’s elbow and
pulled her sharply around the corner, heading into a narrow side street.
“Where are we going?” Lily asked, frowning at her husband.
“I don’t mean to cause you alarm, love, so let’s just walk a bit faster and keep a sharp eye out.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“I can’t know for sure, but I’ve been a sneak long enough to recognize sneaking. I think someone is following us.”
Lily drew a sharp breath, but James spoke before she could voice her fear. “Don’t worry, Lil, whoever it is, they’re no older than we are,
and not anywhere as good at tailing people as me and Padfoot. I noticed him when we stopped at the corner a block back. He turned
and stared into the window of the shoe shop like he was trying to count the boots.”
“So we should just disapparate back home,” Lily breathed urgently. “Why are we leading him into a dark street?”
“Because,” James replied evenly, glancing aside to watch their reflections in a shop window. “I want to see who he is.”
“James, no!” Lily whispered, glancing up at him. “That’s daft!”
“Stay behind me,” James said, and Lily was annoyed to realize that her husband was rather enjoying himself. He turned again,
suddenly, pulling Lily into a very narrow, dead-end alley. Instantly, he pushed her to the side, up a series of steps and into a dark
doorway. He stood in front of her, his wand suddenly protruding from his hand. Deftly, he twirled it in his fingers – a trick he and Sirius
had practiced for nearly the entirety of their fifth school term, believing it made them appear dashing and roguish. Lily rolled her eyes.
Footsteps clattered along the footpath outside the alley and a shadow appeared. A moment later, a shape ran around the corner and
into the alley. The figure was thin, draped in a long black cloak. The hood had come down, revealing black hair and a long nose. Lily
immediately recognized the figure and drew a breath to call out, but James was faster. He leapt down the steps, blocking the mouth of
the alley and raising his wand.
“Levicorpus,” he commanded, but his voice was drowned out by the voice of the newcomer, who was a split second faster with his
disarming spell. There was a flash and James’ wand spun out of his hand, clattering into a stack of trash cans at the rear of the alley.
“Really, Potter,” the voice of the newcomer drawled, “You should try to learn some new spells.”
“Severus!” Lily cried, moving past James, getting between them. “What are you doing?”
“Not what you are probably thinking, Evans. That ship has sailed. Other than that, I have no need to explain myself.”
“You were following us,” James declared, stepping next to his wife. “Not exactly the sort of behavior one would expect from the next
Hogwarts Potions Master.”
“And walking unprotected along busy city streets is not exactly what one might expect of two people who’ve been warned of possible
attack.”
James narrowed his eyes. “How would you know about that?”
Snape sighed dramatically. “For a Gryffindor, you are a remarkably suspicious man, Potter. Indeed, as the next Potions Master, I have
been invited into certain confidences. Let us leave it at that.”
Lily studied Snape’s eyes. “But Severus, why were you following us?”
Snape met Lily’s gaze for a moment, and then looked away, lowering his wand. He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, and
then gestured at James, glaring at him. “Because, Evans, this man you have attached yourself to is too arrogant and foolish to believe
that anyone can touch him. He cannot protect you. And if he won’t fulfill that duty, then someone must.”
“That’s it,” James said quietly. “I’ve heard enough. Come on, Lil,” “Severus,” Lily said quietly, taking a step closer to the dark figure.
“What do you know about this? You know more than you are letting on, don’t you? I can tell.”
“Lil, you can’t trust him,” James said, tugging on her elbow. “For all we know, he’s in it waist deep with those who are against us.”
Snape looked away again. “Go,” he said hollowly. “The longer you stand here, the more dangerous it is.”
 ** 3 **
James turned to Lily, meeting her eyes. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” She nodded slightly, her brow furrowed. James looked up at
Snape, but the dark-haired man was still looking away, refusing to meet James’ eyes. James shook his head in disgust and stalked past
him, heading toward the trash cans at the back of the alley. As he looked for his wand, he could hear Lily and Snape talking in low
voices. Snape was certainly a greasy git, but in spite of everything, James was quite certain he was harmless. He swore as he bent,
searching between the rusty cans for his wand among the rubbish. He finally found it wedged into a corner atop a moldy newspaper. He
grabbed it and wiped it on his jeans as he walked back toward the mouth of the alley. He stopped suddenly and looked up, examining
the buildings on either side of him. Slowly, he turned and looked back toward the dead end. A smile came over his face.
“I knew this alley looked familiar,” he said to himself. He’d have to tell Sirius about it when he got back to the house. How long ago had
it been since that fateful night? Four, five years? Impossible. Sirius would likely laugh and ask if his motorbike tracks were still burnt
onto the pavement. Remus wouldn’t be amused, though. He was the superstitious sort; probably, it was part of what he called his
“curse”. Being cornered in the same alley by the Muggle police at one time and Snivellus at another was the sort of cosmic coincidence
that Remus would find “portentious”. James decided he’d tell him anyway.
“Let’s go, Lil,” he said, approaching her and keeping his back to Snape. “The others will be waiting. Last time we left the baby with
Remus and Pettigrew, they tried to feed him a bowl of mashed Every Flavour Beans.”
“James,” Lily said quietly, her eyes still on Snape. “Severus has nowhere to go for Christmas.”
James stopped and looked at her. “You can’t be serious,” he muttered. “You really can’t.”
“I am, you great brute. And I know you’ll do the right thing.”
James drew a huge sigh and looked over his shoulder. Snape had pocketed his wand and raised his hood again. As James watched,
Snape walked past him, heading out onto the street.
“Hey, Severus,” James called, struggling to keep his voice even. “Er, sorry about trying to jinx you. Maybe you really were just trying to
help. Maybe you’ll let me repay you by coming over to our place for dinner tonight, eh? Lil made a duck, and Sirius, Remus and Peter
will be there. It’ll be like old times.”
“Old times,” Snape scoffed, not quite turning back. He sighed. “You really don’t know who you are up against, do you? You’d invite me
back to your home, show me exactly where you live, despite everything the headmaster has told you. Is that right?”
“Well,” James replied, his face darkening a bit. “If you’re trying to tell me you aren’t trustworthy after all,” “I’m trying to tell you that no
one is trustworthy, Potter. Not now. You have Dumbledore, and you have your circle. Let us hope that you have chosen your friends
well, although I have my doubts. But you must understand that those who are seeking you will stop at nothing. They will not think twice
about killing or torturing. Until you grasp the very real peril you are in, you will continue to make it easy for those who seek to destroy
you. This may be your last warning.”
“How do you know so much,” James said, narrowing his eyes and stepping out onto the street to face Snape. “Dumbledore didn’t say
anything about killing. He just told us about a prophecy that could cause He Who Must Not Be Named and his worthless cronies to be
interested in our son, and warned us to watch out and be careful. He told us he’d warn us if the danger ever became grave. Why should
we believe you?”
“Where do you think the headmaster gets what little information he has, Potter?” Snape suddenly hissed, moving toward James so that
they were nearly nose to nose in the darkness. “These are awful times, times that require the sorts of risks and sacrifices that a person
like you couldn’t begin to comprehend. Some of us are willing to venture into the shadows on behalf of ingrates like you. Some of us are
willing to take upon ourselves the responsibilities others shirk. And why do we do it? Well…”
Snape faltered, glancing aside at Lily, who was watching, her eyes wide. He took a step backwards and turned away. “It hardly matters.
All that matters is that you heed the warnings you’ve received, Potter. All that matters is that you understand what you are facing. After
that, your fate is in your hands.”
James studied the other man, his eyes still narrowed. Finally, he stepped back and took Lily by the elbow. “Happy Christmas to you,
too, Severus,” he said.
A moment later, a loud crack echoed down the length of the deserted alley. Snape looked up and saw that Potter and Lily were gone,
disapparated back to their home. Sloppy and careless, but Snape was not surprised. He shook his head very slowly, angry and
confused at the contrasting emotions that warred in his heart. He had taken a monstrous risk in following them, watching out for them,
but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Perhaps it was time for another conversation with the headmaster. Not yet, but soon. He wouldn’t
tell Dumbledore everything; just enough to protect Lily. Let the Deatheaters have James, but not her. It was risky, but Snape was
getting rather used to risk. What was the worst that could happen? If he got found out, the Dark Lord would merely kill him. In some
ways, Snape thought, that might even be a relief.
Thinking that, he turned and began to walk back along the street, heading nowhere in particular.
There was no snow at Godric’s Hollow either.
Peter Pettigrew heard the alarm go off in the kitchen and jumped, nearly dropping the book he’d been flipping through.
“That’s yours, Wormtail,” Remus said, “I basted the thing last time. Better get in there before that bloody clock goes off again and wakes
up the baby.”
“I’m going,” Pettigrew groused, clambering to his feet and crossing the parlor. It was too hot in the house, especially in the kitchen, and
it made him grumpy. Ever since he’d perfected his animagus abilities, he’d found that normal household temperatures always felt stuffy.
In his rat form, he longed for the cool passages between the walls, the musty corners of basements, the scampering freedom of drafty
attics. Pettigrew had never admitted it to anyone else, but his rat persona seemed to have leaked over into his human form. Someday,
 ** 4 **
he thought, he’d turn into a rat and just stay that way. Life was easy as a rat. None of the competitions and jealousies of the human
world. Just sleeping and eating, scampering and squeaking.
In the kitchen, he opened the oven and looked in at the huge golden bird. It appeared done to him, but what did he know? He tried to
remember what Lily had said before she’d left, but she’d said so much that it had been easy to tune her out. Was he supposed to turn
the duck and change the baby, or was it the other way around? Over the stove, a large cuckoo clock suddenly struck, making the alarm
sound that had disturbed Pettigrew when he’d still been in the parlor. The cuckoo popped out of its doors, bobbing in the air in front of
Pettigrew’s face. The wooden wings unfolded and the head cocked up, opening its beak.
“Roast Duck with Orange Sauce!” the cuckoo sang out. “Twenty minutes left to cook. Time to baste! Time to baste! Nobody likes dry
poultry!”
“How do they feel about flash-fried cuckoo bird?” Pettigrew growled, producing his wand.
The cuckoo cocked its head at Pettigrew. “No need to get huffy about it,” it scolded, and then retracted back into its house, snapping its
doors shut before Pettigrew could respond.
Pettigrew basted the bird a little haphazardly, not exactly sure how he was meant to use the odd tubular device with the rubber bulb on
the end. Damned Muggle kitchen. James had vowed to update the place when he and Lily had moved in, but he was so busy now, what
with the baby and Lily and his nice little life out here in the middle of nowhere. Pettigrew hated the country. He had grown up in London,
and had loved every bit of it. He’d also grown up rather well-off. Not rich, of course, at least compared to Sirius, but they’d at least had a
properly magical kitchen. He closed the stove door a bit noisily.
Remus called from the parlor, “That duck putting up a fight in there?”
“Sorry,” Pettigrew called back quickly. “It slipped. Greasy fingers from this basting thing.”
“Well, keep it down. If you wake the baby, there’ll be diapers to change.”
“All right, Remus.”
Standing in the kitchen, Pettigrew fumed to himself. He was angry a lot these days, and he never really understood why. Remus, Sirius
and James were his best friends, and yet more often than not, he found himself wanting to snap at them rather than laugh with them.
He didn’t snap at them, of course, but that only made things worse. The ingratiating agreeability he heard in his own voice disgusted
him. Shut up, Remus, he wanted to call. Don’t order me around. What do you know? Sitting there all self-righteous and full of yourself.
Who’s the werewolf in this room? Is it me? No, I’m the one who spent years learning how to achieve my animagus form so as to run
along with you when you change, keeping you safe from the world, and the world safe from you. Is this how you show gratitude?
Ordering me around like some kind of mentally deficient house elf? Pettigrew moved to the kitchen window, looking through his own
reflection at the moon beyond the spindly trees. He sighed, calming himself. Of course that wasn’t what Remus thought. Remus had
shown gratitude many times. They all treated Pettigrew very well, most of the time, didn’t they? In the window, his reflection nodded
slowly. But Pettigrew knew the truth. None of them admitted it, but they all knew he was the odd man out. He was never as confident or
carefree as they were. He tried so hard to be like them, to move through life like they did, with their face to the wind, a glint in their eye,
and never a look back. Deep down, however, Pettigrew knew that what was bravery in them was affectation in him. That which was
nobility in James, Remus and Sirius was cowardice in him. And alongside this knowledge, Pettigrew’s greatest fear was that someday
the rest of them would see him for what he really was: a rat in human form, and not the other way around.
Last week, Sirius had taken Pettigrew aside. He’d been piloting that ridiculous motorbike of his, and had offered to take Pettigrew for a
ride on it, so that they could talk in private. Pettigrew was afraid of the bike, and his fear made him hate it. He’d stammered something
about needing to get back to his flat, and Sirius had waved it off with that carefree, effortless ease, as if the whole world could be put on
hold with a mere gesture of his hand. And perhaps, Pettigrew had thought jealously, for Sirius that was even true.
“James and Lily are eventually going to need a Secret Keeper,” Sirius had said quietly, straddling his bike and looking out over the
length of the avenue out front. “I was thinking about who might be best for that job, Wormtail. I was thinking of suggesting it be you.
What do you say?”
Pettigrew knew most people would be flattered by that suggestion. It was a great honour, wasn’t it? But Pettigrew did not feel honour.
He felt anger and shame. Sirius was not asking him because he was the most trustworthy or honourable. That was a laugh. Sirius was
suggesting him, Wormtail, because everyone knew he was harmless. Others might have the strength or the audacity or the sheer nerve
to commit betrayal, but not Pettigrew. He was a rat, which is really, when you get right down to it, just a great fat mouse. Pettigrew
would make a good Secret Keeper, not because he was the best man, but because he was the weakest and most timid. He’d never
betray the Potters because, quite simply, he just didn’t have the nerve.
Last week had been a full moon. As usual, the four of them had transformed together, bolting off through the back garden and out into
the nearby wood: Remus, the Wolf; James, the Stag; Sirius, the Dog; and trailing behind, scampering to keep up, as always, Pettigrew,
the rat. By the time they had entered the arms of the wood, Wormtail had found himself further behind than usual. Perhaps the others
were running faster, caring less about waiting for the rat to keep up, or perhaps Wormtail himself had simply abandoned the chase.
Perhaps-although if this was true, Wormtail himself was barely aware of it-he had lagged behind simply to see if the others would notice
his absence. If that had been his motivation, then he had been sorely disappointed; within seconds, the noise of his friends’ trotting
footsteps had been utterly lost in the dense chorus of the night.
But Wormtail had not gone completely ignored. Someone had indeed found him.
In the kitchen, staring through his own reflection, Pettigrew could barely remember it. Often, his memories of the times he spent as a rat
were fuzzy, but this memory had the distinct feeling of something purposely clouded, perhaps even partially obliviated. It circled his
head like a cloud of gnats, never settling. There had been men, all in black, moving secretly through the forest, searching for something.
 ** 5 **
One of them had discovered Wormtail, had recognized him for what he was, and they had fallen eagerly upon him. Wormtail had been
terrified; he was about to be killed, and in his rat form. But then, one of the figures had spoken to him, softly, soothingly, silkily. As a rat,
Wormtail had to concentrate to grasp the meanings of the words, but he understood them well enough to know one thing: this man was
evil, perhaps the worst kind of evil imaginable. And yet, tantalizingly, this man saw something valuable in Wormtail.
“You are unappreciated, are you not?” the silky voice breathed to the rat. “I see it, I sense it. Your ‘friends’, they do not grasp your true
potential. Oh, but I do. Yes, I see you for who you really are, my friend. I can use a wizard like you. You will seek me out, and I will help
you achieve greatness. You, my rat-like friend, may prove to be far more important than any of your ‘friends’ have ever imagined. You
desire this, don’t you. Yes… yes, you do… more than anything… more than anything…”
“Torture him,” one of the other shapes had suggested. “Make him show us now, this night. We know they live in the area.”
“So hasty,” the silky voice chided, smiling. “So eager, Lucius, and yet so clumsy. You lack finesse. This one may be worth more than
you know. For his part, we shall watch… and wait.”
The words maddened Wormtail, like an itch in the center of his brain. They terrified him, and he feared he would be killed even still. But
then, suddenly, the figures had gone, vanished in swirls of black smoke, their search abandoned, called off.
Pettigrew thought he knew who that figure in the wood had been. He thought he knew what they’d been searching for. He’d never seek
that horrible voice out, of course. Never. Despite everything, Pettigrew would never – could never – betray his friends.
But Wormtail, on the other hand…
Just then the front door opened, pushing a breath of cold air through the small cottage. Lily’s voice came in with it.
“He’s just misunderstood, James,” she was saying. “And perhaps he is right about you. You are being remarkably suspicious.”
“Who’s misunderstood?” Remus said, closing his book and looking up.
“We ran into Snivellus back outside Diagon Alley. I’ll tell you all about it when Padfoot gets back. I want to see both of your faces at the
same time when I tell you what he said. Where is he, by the way?”
“Went for a run around the street’s back gardens,” Remus replied, rolling his eyes. “He’s not much of a reader, you know. He got fidgety
about an hour after you left, although he’ll probably be back any moment now.”
“How’s my duck?” Lily asked, striding toward the kitchen and passing Pettigrew as he came out.
“Ask the cuckoo bird if you want to know for sure,” he replied. “But I’d say we can eat anytime.”
“Uh oh,” Remus said, standing. “Someone knows you’re home.”
“He must have heard the door,” James said, glancing up the narrow stairs toward the sound of a baby’s lusty wail.
“I’ll get him,” Lily announced, reappearing through the kitchen doorway.
“Oh, no you won’t,” James said, turning quickly up the steps. “He’ll need changed first, and that means Papa time. You get that bird out
of the oven, then he’s all yours.”
Remus smiled, “What a good father,” “Oh, if we were Muggles he’d no sooner change a diaper than sit through an opera,” Lily said,
rolling her eyes and producing her wand. “Hagrid gave us one of those novelty diaper cleaning pots in the shape of an Octogator, and
the two of them laugh like loons every time the diaper pops back out of its mouth all clean and warm.”
“Sounds like fun,” Pettigrew commented, plopping onto the sofa.
“Need any help in there?” Remus called, approaching the kitchen doorway.
“I think I can manage levitating a duck out of the-no, wait!”
There was the sound of a slamming door and a clatter of paws on tile. Remus stepped skillfully out of the way as a black shape
rocketed past, streaking through the parlor and up the stairs, trailing a pall of cold outside air.
“Sirius!” Lily called angrily. “You almost made me drop the-and look at the muddy mess you’ve made of my kitchen floor!”
“I’ll handle it,” Remus said, stifling a smile. He produced his wand and stepped into the kitchen.
Pettigrew sat on the sofa and listened to the sounds of the house; Remus and Lily chatting in the kitchen, Sirius and James laughing
upstairs. After a minute, the two men clumped down the steps, Sirius in the lead, dressed in black pants and a snug black tee shirt with
the word STYX inexplicably printed across the front in white letters, and James following with the baby cradled in his arms.
“Speaking of gifts,” Sirius said, “I left a little present in your neighbor lady’s back garden.”
“Sirius!” Lily scolded again from the kitchen.
“What? It was a garden gnome! Not a real one, of course. Just one of those little statues. I thought she liked that kind of thing?”
“You keep pulling stunts like that, I won’t let you keep a change of clothes here in my house,” Lily called, only slightly mollified.
“Nice garden gnome, too,” Sirius muttered, leaning towards James. “Got it from that obnoxious old bloke at the end of the street.”
“All changed and happy,” James said, placing the baby in Pettigrew’s arms and throwing himself onto a nearby chair. Pettigrew held the
baby awkwardly and tried to smile down at him. In his clumsy embrace, the baby squirmed and stared up at him. Ponderously, the small
figure sucked at his lips and clutched Pettigrew’s pinky in his tiny fist.
 ** 6 **
“There he is,” Lily cooed, appearing through the kitchen door and wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “There’s my little Harry. Were your
uncles good to you?”
“As good as such a handsome sleeping baby needs,” Remus said, joining Lily and looking down at the bundle in Pettigrew’s arms.
Pettigrew looked up at them and smiled sheepishly.
“Everyone says he has Lil’s eyes,” James commented, smiling at his son, “but the rest of his rugged good looks are pure Potter.”
“I don’t know,” Sirius said, seating himself on the sofa next to Pettigrew and leaning over the baby. “He’s a little plain. Needs a little
something. A birthmark, or a tattoo, like his Godfather Sirius. Something distinctive.”
“Just be quiet, you,” Lily said, scooping the baby up and cradling him affectionately. “He’s perfect, from head to toe. Aren’t you? Yes,
you are. My perfect little Harry. Are you hungry? Hmm?”
Harry squealed a happy baby sound and stretched in his mother’s arms. He was too young to know it, but he was content. All was well
with the world. All around were comforting faces and loving sounds. It was warm and wonderful in the cottage that was his world, and
his belly was soon to be full. Time didn’t mean anything to such a tiny baby, and that was good. All that mattered was the moment, and
the moment, while it lasted, before the world changed once again, was absolutely perfect. As far as baby Harry was concerned, the
moment could last forever.
As Lily fed her son, while the duck sat cooling atop the kitchen stove, waiting, as was tradition, for Remus to carve it, she thought back
over the evening. It was, indeed, hard not to worry. As unthinkable as it was, there were people out there, led by the awful Dark Lord,
who apparently wished to bring harm to her perfect little baby. With the help of the Order, they had cast disillusionment charms over the
cottage, but they were far from perfect. Before long, they’d have to take more drastic measures, or Lily would find it hard to sleep at
night. Thus, despite James’ disdain for the poor, misunderstood Severus, she was secretly glad that he was apparently watching over
them. He was a confused and unhappy man, and Lily felt bad about everything that had (and had not) transpired between them, but she
trusted him. No matter what or who he was involved with – and Lily truly did not want to know the details of any such involvements-she
knew he would never allow anything terrible to happen to her or her son.
“If you really do care about me,” she’d whispered to him in the alley, as James had gone to search for his wand, “then you’ll remember
this.”
And she’d opened the white sack, pulled out the tiny pajamas. She’d held them out to Severus, as if she’d wanted him to touch them.
He had not.
“You’ll remember that this is what I care for most in all the world,” she’d whispered, studying his face, his black eyes. “You can hate the
choices I’ve made, but don’t hate what I love. Use what you know to protect him. You don’t owe me anything, but if you ever really
cared for me, turn that care over to him. He may need it more than I ever did. Please, Severus.”
Severus hadn’t answered, but he hadn’t needed to. Lily had put the small pajamas back into their sack as James had returned, and
Severus had watched, his eyes inscrutable. He wasn’t perfect, but he cared, even if he hated himself for doing so.
Severus would do what he could. It might be small comfort, but for now, that was enough.
Baby Harry beamed up at his mother, happy and content. It was his first Christmas, and it was good.
Outside, silently and perfectly, snow began to fall.

Merlin’s Gift
A FOUNDERS CHRISTMAS STORY
by G. Norman Lippert
Dedicated to all my friends at the Grotto Keep Forum
Four figures, two men and two women, strode into the Great Hall, moving through the throng of milling students who were gathering
around the long tables.
“It does seem that this season comes quicker every year, does it not?” the larger man with the distinctive goatee proclaimed. “One
would almost believe that a certain witch’s experiments with time had had rather disastrous results.”
“You don’t ever plan to let that rest, do you, Godric?” the dark haired woman in flowing blue robes said, smiling crookedly. “I do plan to
perfect that device someday. And you will surely be the first in line to thank me when I do.”
The statuesque woman with braided reddish hair asked, “What were you planning to call it again, Rowena? It slips my mind.”
“I believe the term ‘Time Turner’ was suggested,” the severe, bald wizard interjected, sneering slightly. “To which I strongly objected as
a matter of literal absurdity. Nothing ‘turns’ time.”
The dark-haired woman, Rowena Ravenclaw, bristled “It’s not a question of how the device effects time, Salazar. It is a description of
the means by which the device is operated. Simple turns of the effectively enchanted element-”
“If I am not mistaken,” Godric Gryffindor commented mildly, placing his hand on Ravenclaw’s shoulder as they climbed the dais to the
grandly beset table. “There is a tradition to be seen to, is there not?”
 ** 7 **
“There is indeed,” Hufflepuff, the tall woman in braids, agreed, seating herself. “Artifex?”
A thin young man with rather protuberant lips and bulging eyes leapt to his feet at the end of the table, where he had been awaiting the
four. His thighs bumped the table and he lunged for his water glass as it began to topple. “Yes! Madam Hufflepuff, I am here.”
“Kindly regale us with our most recent feats of holiday service, if you would.”
Artifex produced a scroll from his robes and, still standing, unrolled it over the table. He leaned close to it and squinted. “Beginning with
the tenth year previous,” he said, and began to quote, “Whilst we were yet begotten of feastly goods, the founders traveled to a nearby
peasant hovel for presentation of much bounty, resulting in great songs of rejoicing by the peasant, along with his family and neighbors.
Slytherin duly objected. Upon the next year’s holiday feast, the founders vowed a year’s tribute to the support of the construction of a
Muggle trades workshop. Slytherin duly objected…”
“Yes, yes,” Gryffindor sighed, waving his hand. “But what shall we do this year? I admit I am in the mind for something a bit different.
We’ve grown accustomed to giving out of our plenty, rather than serving out of our abilities. Is this not the very trait we teach against?”
“It is indeed a trait you teach against,” Slytherin replied smoothly.
Ravenclaw nodded firmly, putting down her wine goblet. “Godric is quite right. It has been long since we have rallied our skills for the
cause. Have we not always said that those who can, do, and those who cannot-”
“Please, don’t say it,” Hufflepuff moaned. “But what shall we do, then?”
At that moment, with a reverberating crash and a gust of cold air, the rear doors of the Great Hall burst open. A figure strode through,
emerging from a cloud of swirling snowflakes.
On the dais, Slytherin rolled his eyes in disdain, “Some of us simply cannot help making the dramatic entrance, can we?” He looked up
as the large figure, a man in furs and a heavy hood, his golden beard covering his chest, climbed the dais.
“Merlinus,” Gryffindor announced, standing stiffly to greet the newcomer. “We were unaware that you were abroad in the realm.
Welcome.”
The large man inclined his head, unsmiling. “Thank you, founders, but I do not appear this night to partake of your holiday feast. I come
with news of great importance from the King himself.”
“King Trufflebaum?” Ravenclaw said, her lip curling slightly. “Why should we pay any mind to the words of a mere figurehead? He is no
true king of the wizarding world, and even he knows that Hogwarts College exists as its own state.”
“My source is not Trufflebaum,” Merlin said in his low, rumbling voice. “My source is the King.”
There was a pause as every eye at the table fixed upon him. Finally, Hufflepuff said quietly, “Kreagle?”
“Ridiculous,” Slytherin stated flatly, hoisting his wine. “Children’s fairy stories. King Kreagle, first King of the wizarding world, is long
dead, as we all know.”
“Not everyone knows it,” Hufflepuff corrected softly. “And more believe in his tale than just children, as you are well aware.”
Gryffindor peered closely at the newcomer. “Are you quite certain, Merlinus? It will not shock you to know that your loyalty and
trustworthiness are rather a subject of speculation here. This does seem a rather tall tale.”
Merlin didn’t blink. “I do not see him often, but I know him when I do. He is rather difficult to miss. He knows of your tradition, and he
presents you with a mission, one that is worthy of your powers and grace, for the most part.” He slid his gaze toward Slytherin, who
narrowed his eyes.
At the end of the table, Artifex cleared his throat carefully. “Er, I am simply trying to keep up, masters, but I am a bit confused. What is
this legend about First King Kreagle? I admit my parents were not particularly imaginative storytellers.”
Gryffindor didn’t take his eyes from Merlin as he spoke. “King Kreagle negotiated a treaty that stopped a decades-long war between
Elvenkind and Goblinkind. As a reward, legend says he was promised immortality on behalf of the Elves.”
“House elves?” Artifex clarified, glancing up from his scroll. “But they aren’t exactly immortal themselves, are they?”
“Not house elves,” Ravenclaw answered. “House elves are the remaining offspring of mixed Goblin and Elf lineage. Their forefathers
chose to stay.”
Artifex furrowed his brow. “To stay… where?”
“There will be time for stories later,” Slytherin interjected, turning to Merlinus. “You are either a trickster or a fool. Kreagle’s grave may
be unplottable and lost to history, but it is as real as the table before us. You may tell us of this mysterious mission of yours, my sorcerer
friend, but do leave the ‘festive’ embellishments out of it, if you would be so kind.”
Merlin studied Slytherin for a moment, and then smiled cryptically and nodded. “There is a young witch by the name of Gabriella whom
this night will fall prey to a very clever werewolf. This must be prevented at all costs, for this witch’s line will prove very important in the
ages to come. Her cottage is here, in the nearby wood, although I know not its exact location. We will know it by a broken vane next to
the chimney.”
“This is your mission?” Slytherin grinned. “A wild goose chase through the wintry night in search of a peasant cottage?” He laughed, as
if the idea were deliciously ridiculous.
“It is rather out of our methods,” Hufflepuff acknowledged. “But if Merlinus’ information is accurate…”
 ** 8 **
Slytherin waved a hand dismissively. “What is one more peasant girl? Even werewolves deserve their Christmas feast, do they not?”
“You may doubt Merlinus, Salazar,” Ravenclaw said coldly. “But you may not joke about the lives of others, especially at Christmas.
Your heart is as cold as the night you refuse to explore.”
“Tell me this, Merlinus,” Gryffindor said, leaning forward to face the large man across the table. “If this mission is so imperative, why are
you not sent to perform it yourself?”
Merlin didn’t respond for several seconds. Finally, he looked away. “I am sworn not to interfere with this affair. The King required my
oath.”
“And why might that be?” Gryffindor asked conversationally, raising his eyebrows a bit.
“Perhaps you’d like to ask the King himself, Godric,” Merlin answered, raising one of his own eyebrows.
Gryffindor nodded, as if satisfied. “I accept your mission, Merlinus, provided you yourself will join us, even if you cannot act. Perhaps, as
Salazar suspects, this will prove a mere a romp through the snow on a Christmas night, but what is the harm in that? Were we not just
debating how best to use our unique skills for tonight’s feat? Who shall join me?”
Ravenclaw smiled and produced her wand from her robes. “I shall. It has been too long since we rode together in force.”
“You shall have my support as well,” Hufflepuff agreed, standing.
At the end of the table, Artifex’s pen scratched on the parchment of the scroll. “Slytherin… duly… objects…” he said to himself as he
wrote. On the last word, his quill whipped out of his fingers and floated above the table.
“Rescind that,” Slytherin said mildly, his wand pointing at the floating quill. With a flick, he sent the quill back down to the parchment,
where it scribbled out the last line. “I think I shall accompany this mission as well. I desire to see how this transpires, for Merlinus’ sake.”
“Ah,” Artifex replied, grabbing unsuccessfully at his dancing quill. “Very good, then. I shall record your exploits upon your return,
founders.”
Slytherin climbed to his feet, still training his wand on the bobbing quill. “As a matter of fact, dear bard, I think you will accompany us.
You may as well record it as you see it, yes?”
The group began to descend the dais, Artifex in the rear, still snatching at his quill as it swooped out of his grasp. “Very good, yes,” he
said with little enthusiasm.
At the doorway, Ravenclaw stopped and turned back. She approached the end of one of the students’ long tables and scanned it
perfunctorily. Seeing what she was looking for, she reached with both hands and hefted it.
“What in the world might you be needing that for?” Gryffindor asked, looking down at the rather large pumpkin in Ravenclaw’s hands.
“I’ve been meaning to try something,” she replied breezily, raising her chin as she passed him.
Together, the group strode through the rotunda, heading for the great doors and the wintry night beyond.

“Please note, Artifex,” Slytherin said from his seat. “I duly object to this method of transportation.”
Hufflepuff raised her voice in the wind. “Quiet, Salazar. It makes perfect sense, as Rowena has pointed out.”
“Indeed, since we do not know the exact location of the girl’s cottage, we cannot disaparate to it,” Gryffindor said. “And brooms would
be too conspicuous within the Muggle territories. We are trying to create a rather lower profile these days, after all. This method allows
us to explore the wood while remaining incognito, as it were.”
“It is a pumpkin,” Slytherin declared carefully.
“It is a sledge,” Ravenclaw corrected stridently. “It may still look a bit like a pumpkin-”
“Not to mention the smell,” Slytherin interjected.
“But it will work beautifully for our purposes. And the reindeer do add a rather quaint touch, if I do say so myself.”
“I continue to think of them as mice,” Slytherin sniffed. “I’d like to instruct our bard to record them as such, since both they and this
sledge will return to their original forms at… er, what time?”
Ravenclaw sighed. “Midnight. Look, I cannot help it. This sort of magic has built-in limitations. It isn’t as if this is a typical transfiguration.
I’d never have been able to maintain such a thing for the entire night. This is fairy magic. I learned it from my godmother. I’ve always
wanted to attempt it.”
“We appreciate you allowing us to participate,” Slytherin proclaimed loftily.
“How long do we have, Merlinus?” Gryffindor asked from the front seat of the sledge, snapping the reins.
“The werewolf attacks the young lady Gabriella upon her return to her cottage at precisely five minutes after the eleventh hour,” Merlin
replied. “The wolf intends to ambush her, thus you must dispatch it before her return, and the girl must never know of our involvement.
That would… complicate matters.”
Hufflepuff turned curiously, remembering something. “Earlier, you called the werewolf clever. What did you mean by that?”
 ** 9 **
“My dear madam, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Allow me to simply declare that this werewolf, whilst in his human form, is a
small Muggle lord and a writer of stories. Not particularly good stories, by all accounts.”
“This may be more interesting than heretofore expected,” Slytherin acknowledged, smiling.
The sledge moved smoothly through the forest, cresting hills and weaving between trees. All around, the snow-covered landscape
glittered blue in the full moon. Ice sparkled on the bare branches, crackling as the reindeer charged through them.
“It’s getting late,” Ravenclaw called after a while. “We’ll never find the cottage in time at this rate. We need more eyes in the search.
Should we split up?”
“Not unless you brought more pumpkins,” Gryffindor replied.
“I may be able to help,” Hufflepuff said, sitting up in her seat. “Artifex, do you still have any of those gingerbread biscuits?”
“I, er, don’t have any gingerbread biscuits,” the young man stammered. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, madam.”
“Oh, good grief, Artifex, we’re witches and wizards,” Gryffindor called. “It takes a lot more than quick fingers to hide biscuits from us.
They’re in your right breast pocket. You don’t mind sharing, do you?”
Artifex patted his pocket theatrically. “Oh, these! Heh! No, of course not. I’d forgotten all about them. Here you are, madam Hufflepuff.”
Hufflepuff took the large gingerbread biscuit from Artifex and held it up. She smiled askance at the others. “I’ve always wanted to try
this,” she proclaimed. Carefully, she raised her wand in the rocking sledge, and then touched it to her forehead. After a moment, she
drew the wand away again, producing a long silvery strand which flowed silently in the cold air.
“Just like with the Pensieve,” Ravenclaw commented, watching. “But what will you do with it?”
Without answering, Hufflepuff held the gingerbread biscuit up, draping the silvery thread over and around it. Suddenly, she snapped the
wand away from the biscuit, breaking the strand off and leaving it twined around the biscuit, where it slowly vanished.
“And what, precisely-” Slytherin began, but his words froze as the biscuit jumped in Hufflepuff’s hand. Quite suddenly, the biscuit
changed shape, sprouting two rudimentary legs, stubby arms, and a large, flat head. The candies that had adorned the biscuit became
the tiny figure’s eyes, while a dimple in the face formed a simple, smiling mouth.
“Very nice,” Merlin commented appreciatively. “A Gingerbread Man to help us search. He has the only requirement necessary. He has
eyes.”
Hufflepuff nodded proudly. “And he shall be fast, lest any hungry peasants encounter him on his way.” To the Gingerbread Man, she
said, “We are looking for a cottage with a broken vane next to the chimney. If you should find it, return to us as fast as you can and lead
us there.”
“I shall run as fast as fast can be,” the Gingerbread Man proclaimed in its shrill little voice, jumping up and down on Hufflepuff’s hand.
“They’ll never catch me!”
A moment later, the tiny man bounded off the front of the sledge and raced off into the moonlit wood, kicking up a plume of snow and
weaving a trail through the trees.
“This is patently ridiculous,” Slytherin announced, “for the record.”
“Er, speaking of which,” Artifex replied, looking up from his parchment, “is this a good time to ask about King Kreagle again? As the
bard and recorder, I feel strongly that I should be aware of such things.”
“Now is as good a time as any, I suppose,” Gryffindor answered, scanning the trees as the sledge swooped over the hills. “Helga, you
understand the legend as well as anyone.”
Hufflepuff nodded. “It is quite simple, really. When King Kreagle ascended to the throne as first King of the wizarding world, a war had
been waging between two factions of the magical world for centuries. On one side was Goblinkind, whom you know. On the other was
Elfenkind, whom you do not, since they are long gone from our world. The source of their enmity was long forgotten, but the essential
seed of their conflict was always before them: they were too similar to accept each others’ differences, but too different to appreciate
each others’ similarities. The Elves were a very wise race, tiny and cunning, but most importantly, they were timeweavers. They knew
how to manipulate time, both in small ways, individually, and in large ways, when they worked together. It was this very skill that led
King Kreagle to design a plan. With the assistance of the council of the Elven leaders, they chose the most remote place on earth as the
location of the most ambitious unplottability enchantment ever. There, they created a new nation for the Elves, hidden not only in space,
but time, existing in a bubble of history created by, and only accessible to, the Elves themselves. Every Elf on earth migrated to their
new nation, except for those that we now know of as house elves, who chose of their own volition to stay.”
Artifex had been scribbling furiously, but he suddenly looked up. “Why would they do that?”
Merlin answered, “The Elves were a proud, arrogant race. Those who had intermingled with Goblinkind became self-loathing and
subservient. Lowering themselves to the status of servants and slaves, they believed they might eventually pay penance for their mixed
heritage and one day earn entrance into the hidden Elven nation.”
Slytherin commented, “So they get their final reward, and we get cheap manual labor. I’d say it is a winning arrangement for all
involved.”
“Coming to the point,” Hufflepuff went on. “The Goblins were glad to see the Elves gone from the world they knew, but they lived in
perpetual suspicion of the wizarding king who’d worked with the Elves to arrange their exodus. For the Elves’ part, however, legend
says that the Elven leaders promised to repay King Kreagle for his wisdom and effort. They vowed to spirit him away to their realm upon
 ** 10 **
his death. True to their word, the stories declare that, decades later, the Elven leaders returned to our world mere moments before the
King’s death, taking him away with them, never to be seen again. There, in their timeless realm, he supposedly lives still, restored and
vibrant, perhaps even watching over us who are left in our own world.”
“I admit,” Artifex said as he stopped writing. “It sounds like quite a fairy tale. Not a bad story, but a story nonetheless.”
“The boy shows promise,” Slytherin declared heartily.
“Look,” Gryffindor interrupted, pointing. “Our little friend returns.”
Sure enough, as the occupants of the sledge leaned forward, peering into the darkness, a tiny figure sped through the wood, looping
through the trees and kicking up a rooster-tail of snow in its wake. As it approached the sledge, it leapt into the air, landing easily on
Hufflepuff’s outstretched hand.
“You have a report for us?” she asked as Gryffindor brought the sledge to a halt.
“I do,” the tiny Gingerbread Man trilled. “I was chased by three Muggles, two wizards, a fox, fifteen pigs, and one very persistent raven.”
“I mean,” Hufflepuff said, looking aside at the others. “Did you find the cottage?”
The Gingerbread Man bowed low on her hand. “Indeed I have! You must follow the Northern star down yonder hill. It lies just beyond
the wood, not five minutes hence!”
Gryffindor snapped the reins, turning the sledge in the direction the Gingerbread Man had reported. “We haven’t much time,” he called
as the sledge picked up speed, swooshing down the hill and weaving through the trees. “It is nearly eleven of the clock now. The wolf
will attack soon, lest we arrive in mere minutes.”
The occupants of the sledge held on grimly as the reindeer loped through the snow, pulling the sledge faster and faster. The trees
began to thin, and the sledge suddenly humped over a stand of frozen bushes, slamming down into a thick drift. Snow exploded all
around, blinding the riders for a long, tense moment. When it cleared, Gryffindor suddenly pulled the reins, halting the reindeer in the
snow and forcing the sledge to slew crookedly to a stop.
“Why do we stop?” Ravenclaw cried, leaning forward. “The cottage is there, within sight just over this snowy plain! We could walk it in
five minutes!”
“This is no snowy plain,” Gryffindor stated flatly, pointing.
The others looked.
“Ah, yes,” Slytherin said, settling back into his seat. “It is a frozen lake. How perfectly disappointing. It shall never support our weight.”
“It supported me with nary a problem,” the Gingerbread Man said from where it stood on Hufflepuff’s hand.
Ravenclaw stirred anxiously in her seat. “Do we have time to go around?”
“I think not,” Gryffindor said gravely. “Turn your gaze to the east. Do you see?”
“The young witch returns even now,” Merlin said, peering in the moonlight. Sure enough, a small pinpoint of light marked the progress of
a small figure in a red cloak picking its way through the trees that surrounded the lake. A lantern bobbed at the figure’s side as she
neared the cottage.
“What shall we do, friends?” Hufflepuff asked quickly. “I refuse to believe that we came this far, finding the truth of Merlin’s mission, only
to fail at the last.”
Gryffindor turned slowly in the front seat of the sledge, a smile spreading above his narrow goatee. “There is something,” he said slowly,
“That I have always wanted to try.”
“Enjoyable as this might be,” Hufflepuff called into the roaring wind, “I think it is rather spooking the reindeer!”
“What is to be spooked about?” Gryffindor replied, grinning as he held grimly onto the reins.
“Well, for starters,” Ravenclaw suggested helpfully, “I think they are rather used to having their hooves on the ground!”
Gryffindor shrugged. “Nonsense! They’re mice, after all, as Salazar has pointed out, and as such they haven’t the brains for self doubt.
They’re fine, and we’ll be there in no time at all!”
“Far be it for me to mention it,” Slytherin declared, peering over the side of the sledge, “But I do believe we have just passed well over
the roof of the cottage in question.”
“Oh,” Gryffindor replied, tugging the reins again. “Ah. Never you fear. We’ll land in the back of the cottage, thus hiding our presence
from the young lady Gabriella. The perfect plan, I daresay.”
Wind howled around the sledge as Gryffindor piloted it through the air. The reindeer galloped gamely along, their hooves whistling
through the frigid night sky. As they lowered, they wove through tall pines, approaching the moonlit roof of the cottage. A thin trail of
smoke streamed from the crooked chimney. Next to it, just as indicated, a broken wrought-iron vane leaned.
With a thump and a jounce, the sledge landed in the tiny garden and slid to a sudden halt.
“Quickly, now,” Ravenclaw said, breathing hard. “Let us dispatch the wolf. Surely we will be doing the foul creature a favor.”
 ** 11 **
“Wait, Rowena,” Hufflepuff said, touching her sister witch on the shoulder. “We cannot all go barreling into the cottage. Remember the
details of our mission. We must not be seen. Stealth and cunning must be our watchword. Surely a mere Muggle werewolf does not
require the attention of all four of us?”
There was a moment’s thought, and then all eyes turned to Salazar Slytherin.
“Stealth and cunning,” Gryffindor said his eyes sparkling in the moonlight, “do seem to be your specialty, Salazar.”
Slytherin rolled his eyes. “All right, I’ll do it,” he proclaimed lazily. “But I refuse to enjoy it. Let the record show it.”
Slowly, regally, Slytherin rose to his feet, standing in the rear of the sledge. He smoothed his thick robes, adjusted his collar and hood.
And then, with a sudden rush of air, he transformed. Artifex had heard about such things but had never actually seen it happen. He
gasped and clutched his scrolls to his chest.
Slytherin squeaked in the night air and swooped up from the sledge, his leathery wings beating steadily.
“It certainly isn’t very pretty,” Ravenclaw commented, her mouth turned down in mild disgust. “But I suppose being a bat does come in
handy sometimes.”
The bat bobbed through the air, barely visible in the moonlight. When it reached the house, it clambered up the stone wall, disappearing
under the eaves. Several long moments of tense silence ticked past. In the sledge, Hufflepuff turned and looked back at Merlin, one
eyebrow raised.
“How did you really know about this mission tonight, Merlinus?” she asked.
“Just as I told you,” he replied evenly. “The King sent me.”
Hufflepuff sighed.
A moment later, there was an explosion of noise inside the house. There was a muffled howl, a wild scuffling, and then a horrible,
guttural retching sound. Five seconds later, the rear door of the house burst open, shattering into bits, and a large, vaguely humanoid
wolf tumbled out onto the snow, as if propelled by some unusual force. It scrambled to get its feet beneath it, and then bolted off through
the garden, mewling to itself and never looking back.
In the sledge, all eyes stared at the wood into which the wolf had vanished.
“Am I mistaken,” Ravenclaw said mildly, “or was that werewolf wearing women’s underclothes?”
“I believe it was actually a nightdress,” Gryffindor corrected. “And a bonnet. I am fairly certain it was wearing a bonnet.”
Hufflepuff turned back to Merlin once more, her eyebrow raised sardonically. “We are to understand,” she said wryly, “that the werewolf
was dressed as the young girl’s grandmother?”
Merlin shrugged very slowly, his shoulders moving like tectonic plates. “I told you. It was a very clever werewolf.”
Across the yard, a shadow moved. Slytherin stepped out of the house and strode casually through the snow, his wand at his side. After
a dozen paces, he stopped, as if remembering something. Raising his wand, he half turned back to the broken door. “Reparo,” he said
idly. The pieces of the door sprang back together and socked into the gaping frame.
“Nicely done, Salazar,” Hufflepuff commented as the bald wizard resumed his seat. “I hesitate to ask, but what has become of the
young girl’s grandmother?”
“Ah, that,” Slytherin replied, straightening his collar again. “She shall be fine. Rather amazingly, the werewolf had swallowed her whole.
I simply induced it to, er, produce her again. A slight memory modification has convinced her she has been asleep the entire night.”
“Pardon me for saying so, Salazar,” Merlin said as Gryffindor snapped the reins once more. “But I do believe it looks like you enjoyed
yourself after all.”
“Will Christmas wonders never cease,” Slytherin muttered, not meeting Merlin’s gaze.
Silently, the sledge streaked through the woods, retracing its path back to the castle.
An hour later, Merlin left the castle on foot. He rather enjoyed the snow as he walked through it, leaving virtually no mark on the
sparkling hillside. As he left the glow of the castle and entered the arms of the forest, he sensed someone nearby, watching.
“Greetings, again, oh King,” he said, stopping, not turning.
“I’ve told you not to call me that,” a voice said, laughing a little hollowly. “It’s been a long time since I wore a crown. Now all I wear is a
winter cap, and to be honest, I think I prefer it. It’s certainly a lot warmer, especially where I come from. I assume all went well.”
“You know it did,” Merlin replied, turning to face the figure that had appeared in the snow. Kreagle was fat and bearded, sitting
resplendent in the seat of a rather grand sleigh, much more ornate than the sledge Ravenclaw had transformed out of the pumpkin.
Large reindeer, much more regal and better trained than the transformed mice, stood in two lines along the sleigh’s harness. “Time is
like a toy to you, Oh King,” Merlin went on. “If you had not known we’d succeed, you’d never have sent me.”
“Oh, don’t be grumpy,” Kreagle said. “You knew I couldn’t just let you manage the mission on your own. It wasn’t just about the task
being completed, you know. It was about letting others do the giving.”
“Is my giving not worthy enough?”
“The hardest gift for you to give, Merlinus, is to allow others to help. So, yes, your gift is very worthy. And appreciated.”
 ** 12 **
“You know, legends about you are starting to spread, King,” Merlin commented, looking up at the nearby trees. “People are beginning to
create their own stories about the kindly old man who goes about giving gifts and helping people in need. I understand that some even
leave out biscuits in hopes of your arrival. If you plan to remain a secret, you’d best cover your tracks a bit better.”
“You sound just like my elves, Merlinus,” the fat man laughed. It was a rather jolly sound. “Always telling me I should stop venturing out
into the world of time. It’s only one night a year. How much harm can it do?”
“Some suspect that the mysterious gift-giver really is you, oh King,” Merlin stated, looking into the man’s sparkling black eyes. “The
peasants, at least. They call you a saint. Even the Muggles have begun to spread the legend of the happy fat man who lives up at the
pole, where it is winter forever, where the elves secretly built their cities. They get the name rather wrong, however. They call you
‘Kringle’.”
“Kringle,” the fat man said, as if tasting the word. “I rather like that. I might use it. Much better than Kreagle. That’s not who I am
anymore, really, anyway. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“My friend, there isn’t much about you that I agree with, but I will say this: you amuse me. You amuse me endlessly.”
The fat man laughed again and struck Merlin amiably on the shoulder. “Then let that be your Christmas gift, Merlinus. You are far too
grave, my friend, far too grave indeed.”
Merlin stepped away, knowing that Kreagle-Kringle, he amended in his thoughts-was about to leave. He never stayed in one place for
very long. “Tell me, oh King,” Merlin asked, raising his voice. “Why was the girl so important?”
“She is important because all people are important, Merlinus,” the fat man laughed. “You know that.”
Merlin simply smiled tightly, and raised one eyebrow.
“And,” Kringle said, lifting his reins. “She has a rather important descendent, many, many moons from now. A descendent who will save
rather a lot of people. A Potter.”
“Since when do pot-makers save people?” Merlin asked.
“Since when did you start caring why people were worth saving?” Kringle replied, smiling, his cheeks red, his beard bristling white in the
moonlight. “By the way, I’m liking what your associate, Gryffindor, did with the sledge. Flying reindeer, indeed. I could do amazing things
with that. I shall have to talk to my elves when I get back to the pole.”
Merlin merely shook his head as the fat man snapped the reins. As one, the reindeer leapt into motion, pulling the sleigh so suddenly
that Kringle had to jam his hand to his head to hold his cap there.
“Whoa, ho, ho! Merry Christmas, Merlin! Merry Christmas everyone!”
The sleigh streaked off into the wood, disappearing long before it had any excuse to. Merlin stood in the snow, watching after the sleigh,
smiling to himself and shaking his head.
The man might be a bit of a nutter, Merlin thought, but he did know how to give good gifts.

Petra’s Getaway
A PETRA MORGANSTERN CHRISTMAS STORY
By G. Norman Lippert
Dedicated to Tom Grey and supportstacie.net
Dear Reader,
This story is a little unusual. It is a side story that takes place during the Christmas holidays of the book called “James Potter and the
Curse of the Gatekeeper”, which is sequel to “James Potter and the Hall of Elders’ Crossing”. If you have not yet read those books, this
tale will contain a rather large and important “spoiler”, and furthermore, may not make as much sense as you’d hope. Therefore, may I
be so bold as to suggest you take a look at the aforementioned stories before reading any further? If you enjoyed Ms. Rowling’s Harry
Potter stories (and why would you be here if you had not?) then there is a fair chance you will like these stories as well. Then, do come
back and view “Petra’s Getaway”. It will make a lot more sense, and you’ll feel quite proud of yourself for heeding this advice.
If, on the other hand, you have already read the aforementioned stories and know Petra’s tale thus far, then I do hope you enjoy this
extra glimpse into her life.
Onward…
“It’s not supposed to be a contact sport, Albus,” James said, pushing his brother off of him and onto the floor next to the chair. “You
nearly broke my wand, you big oaf.”
“Maybe if you’d made the Quidditch team you’d be a little more comfortable with a rough game,” Albus said sweetly, climbing to his feet.
“Besides, if you weren’t so easy to push over, we’d still be playing and I’d have scored a point by now.”
 ** 13 **
James clambered off the chair and brushed himself off. “You’re just mad because I’m winning. Lily’s right; you are a sore loser. She told
me she’ll never play Bannisters and Bedknobs with you again because last time she won you threw the game pieces out the window.”
“She’s lying,” Albus grumped. “She’s never beat me at that stupid game. Besides, Mum just used an Accio spell to gather all the pieces
back out of the garden.”
James turned in the mostly empty common room, raising his wand. “What’s the score, Rose?”
Rose sighed from her seat by the fire. “Seven to zero,” she said without lowering her book.
“And who’s losing?” James prodded, glancing sideways at Albus.
“I am,” Rose replied. “Be quiet and leave me read. This is important, if you don’t mind.”
“Just raise the Winkle, already,” Albus said, training his wand on the rather bruised apple on a nearby chair. “I’m going to auger this
thing so hard that you’ll be scrubbing applesauce off the walls for weeks.”
James grinned and the two boys levitated the apple between them.
From a corner, Petra Morganstern watched silently. The two boys struggled to overcome the others’ spellwork, forcing the apple to roll
and bob in the air. Albus sidled between the furniture, biting his lip in concentration and knocking over a small table. The apple jigged
over a sofa and very nearly dropped into Petra’s lap. James darted forward, his wand bobbing wildly in his fist. He stood directly in front
of Petra, never breaking his gaze from the wildly bobbing apple. Petra didn’t move. After a moment, the apple spun back over the room,
swooping toward the fireplace. James leapt to keep under it, preventing Albus from dropping it onto his target.
After a few moments, Petra stood. Without really knowing where she was going, she walked across the room, passing directly between
James and Albus. Neither of the boys looked at her as she passed, even though she moved close enough to James to brush his knee
with the tail of her cloak. Petra wasn’t surprised. The cloak had come with her father’s package, and it was a remarkably powerful cloak
indeed. She wasn’t hiding, exactly. She’d just gotten used to wearing the garment, partly because it kept her warm, but mostly because
it gave her the freedom she needed to… explore.
Invisibility was a great asset to someone with so very many secrets.
Petra strode quietly along the empty corridors, trailing her right hand along the cold stone walls. Most of the lanterns had been put out,
but the many windows shined with hard winter light, diffusing the shadows, making the paintings and suits of armor appear flat and
dead. In her left hand, obliviously, she carried a small object. She never looked down at that hand, and would have been surprised if
she had, shocked to see the item clutched there, almost as if her left hand had a life of its own. Instead, Petra merely walked, using only
her right hand to open doors and hold onto banisters, leaving her left hand at her side, always at her side, keeping its own dark secrets.
Headmaster Merlin was here, somewhere. Petra didn’t know where in the castle he was, but she sensed him, even though he hadn’t
been seen in several days. He was still looking for something, preoccupied by it. That was good. She had a strong suspicion that, as
powerful as her mysterious cloak was, it would likely not hide her from the headmaster if he appeared in the corridor. For now, Petra
was happy not to be seen, especially by Merlinus. She walked on quietly, apparently in no hurry.
At the top of a staircase, Petra turned right. She moved silently into a darker hall, heading away from the large window over the landing.
It was much colder in this part of the castle, and it would be colder still where she was going, but she didn’t mind. She barely felt it.
She knew there was something wrong with what she was doing, and yet, somehow, matters of right and wrong were less important to
her now than they had been a few months earlier. So many things were confusing now. So many things were so hard to think about, like
her mother and father, and the box from the Ministry, and even the cloak she was currently wearing. There was something
fundamentally wrong with her understandings of these things, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to face it. It hurt too much. Petra’s curse
was that she was smart, thus she couldn’t continue to fool herself forever. The voice in the chamber told her that, soon enough, it would
all change. Her hopes would soon be fulfilled, balance would be achieved, and then it would all be over. None of this would matter
anymore. The confusions would burn away in the blinding light of an entirely new reality. Until then, Petra just had to manage the
struggle in her own heart and mind. She thought she could do it. She hoped she could do it.
She stood in front of the door to the girl’s bathroom. Inside was the secret stairway that led down to the chamber, and then to the
strangely flickering pool. She was vaguely aware that she had become obsessed with the pool and its tantalizing, teasing secrets. But at
the same time, she knew that there was nothing new for here there. Not yet, at least. She so longed to go down into the darkness and
see the faces of those she loved, but she knew it would mostly just upset and frustrate her. The time was not yet come. Until it did, all
she could do was look and hope. And fear.
Unseen, her left hand squeezed the object it was holding. It was a small, bedraggled doll with button eyes and unruly black yarn hair. Its
forehead had been decorated with a jagged lightning bolt, scribbled on with dark green ink.
(In the Gryffindor common room, James suddenly held a hand to his forehead as a small jolt of pain burned through it. The pain passed
almost immediately, but it distracted him long enough for Albus to score his first auger. Albus crowed in delight while James shook his
head, mystified and worried. Rose looked up, her brow knitted, meeting James’ eyes. The book in her hands was burgundy clothbound,
ancient and frayed. On the spine, embossed in faded gold, were the words The Book of Parallel Histories, Volume III.)
In the hall before the girls' bathroom, Petra stood perfectly motionless, her right hand held out, not quite touching the heavy wooden
door. Finally, she blinked. She turned away from the door. Perhaps she’d been down to the chamber enough lately. Perhaps it was time
for a break. Slowly, fighting some imperative in her own heart, Petra turned back and retraced her steps. It didn’t make her feel any
better, but it made her feel a bit more in control.
Lately, that was a rare feeling.
 ** 14 **
The snow-covered hillside was nearly blinding in the cold afternoon light. Petra squinted as she walked away from the castle, listening
to the crunch of her boots on the icy path. She didn’t really have a plan or a destination, but soon enough the roofs of Hogsmeade
appeared over the hills. Tendrils of white chimney smoke drew lines into the sky, implying happy hearths and warm bakeries. Distantly,
Petra could hear the echo of singing carols. She smiled a bit to herself and angled towards the sound.
As she entered the village, Petra was enamoured by the gaily dressed and bundled crowd that moved about the streets, chattering and
laughing. She smiled as she walked, and having stopped in her dorm long enough to put away her father’s cloak (and the mysterious
doll), many of the faces in the crowd smiled back at her. A tiny, wizened wizard bowed to her, doffing his huge woolen cap to reveal a
spotlessly bald cranium.
“Happy Christmas, young beauty,” he proclaimed happily. “And may the New Year bring you great joy.”
Petra smiled at the man a bit cryptically and walked on.
A large, unruly crowd stood outside Weazley’s Wizard Wheezes, clamoring to get in for what the signs outside proclaimed to be a
“Once in a Lifetime Five Hour Moonlight Madness George’s Gone Completely Nutters Holiday Sale-To-End-All-Sales Sale!” Petra
looked but couldn’t see anyone she knew in the amiably shoving throng. She passed by on the other side of the street, skirting around
the two-story news-stand and heading down a side street toward the Three Broomsticks.
It was very warm inside, packed with jostling witches and wizards. They crammed around the small tables, drinking hot butterbeers and
peppermint-spiked firewhiskeys, their mingled voices clanging off the walls like a chorus of birdsong. Petra elbowed up to the bar and
slid onto the one empty seat between two huge shoulders.
“What can I get for you, dearie?” Madam Rosemerta bawled over the cacophony of voices, stepping in front of Petra, obviously happy
with the booming holiday business.
“Perhaps just a room for a night or two?” Petra answered, placing a Galleon onto the polished bartop.
Rosemerta glanced down at the Galleon quickly, expertly. She was getting rather old, but she still had the gorgeous doe eyes and
bawdy curves that had made her a fixture in Hogsmeade for decades. “Having a bit of a girl’s getaway?” she said, leaning toward Petra.
“Are we sure that’s a good idea, my dear? It may be a jolly old time out there right now, but when the sun goes down things can get a
wee bit interesting.”
“I can take care of myself,” Petra said, smiling, and something in her smile made Rosemerta’s eyes widen slightly. She studied Petra for
a moment, and then made the Galleon disappear.
“Heaven knows, the world favors a woman who knows what she wants,” she replied, frowning approvingly. “Thrimple here will help you
with your bags, if you have any. We don’t serve breakfast, but our lunches more than make up for it. Take your pick of the last two
rooms, dearie, and you’ll let us know if you need anything, right?”
Petra nodded, smiling at the older woman.
“And just so I know I’ve said it,” Rosemerta said, leaning over the bar again and speaking directly into Petra’s ear, “Keep your wand
handy once the sun goes down. Wolves have been seen around here of late, if you know what I mean. Can’t hurt to be too careful.”
Petra nodded again. This time, she didn’t smile.
Among Petra’s father’s earthly goods had been a meager change of clothes, a hat, a pair of boots made of leather so worn that they
barely stood up, a very cheap wand, a straight razor, and seven Galleons, two Sickles, and a small jar of Knuts that Petra had not
bothered to count. It wasn’t much, but it apparently represented his entire bank at the time of his arrest. Petra hadn’t known what to do
with the money, but as she stood in her rented room above the Three Broomsticks, looking out the window over the length of
Guddymutter Avenue as evening gathered it into purple shadow, she decided that a “girl’s getaway”, as Madam Rosemerta had called
it, was the perfect choice. Her father would probably have approved.
There had been one more thing in the bottom of the box from the Ministry. Wrapped in a handkerchief, Petra had found a small opal
brooch in a setting of delicate golden scrollwork. There was no way she could have known it, but as she’d held the brooch in her hand,
looking down at it with two solitary tears drawing lines on her cheeks, she’d known it was to have been a Christmas gift for her mother,
bought by her father mere days before his arrest. He’d never had the opportunity to give it to her. Even Petra could tell that the brooch
was not particularly expensive, but it had an understated grace and beauty that surprised her. Modest as it might have been, it had still
probably cost her father more than a few months’ salary. Looking into the pale, pearlescent face of the stone, Petra could all too clearly
imagine her father standing in the gem shop (somehow, she knew it had been Ichabod’s Heirlooms and Rarities, at the corner of Diagon
and Knockturn Alleys), wearing his best shirt and tie, tugging at his collar, trying to look like he knew what he was doing while the
proprietor, Mr. Ichabod himself, sighed and smiled icily. She saw her father’s eye light upon the opal brooch in a display case, saw him
move close to it, entranced by its mundane beauty, his face lighting up. The price inked onto the little card next to the brooch was rather
more than he’d been prepared to pay, but he’d decided then and there that it was going to be his, nonetheless. It had taken Petra’s
father another month to work and save the money, during which time Mr. Ichabod had refused to hold the brooch, refused to dicker over
the price, since he (as Petra could clearly see in her mind’s eye) simply did not believe the simple man in the ill-fitting coat and worker’s
derby was ever going to be able to pay for the brooch. In the end, however, he had produced the money, and Mr. Ichabod had happily
boxed the brooch and printed a receipt in his fussy jeweler’s handwriting. And her father had left, carrying the box in his pocket, smiling
the smile of someone who knew he’d just done something wonderful for someone he dearly loved.
Petra stared out of the window at the snow covered street, unseeing, holding the brooch in her hand. Perhaps it was an entirely made-
up story, about Mr. Ichabod and her father and the brooch in the display case, but she didn’t think so. The memory was encased in the
opal, stored there like a tiny treasure. And now that Petra knew what her father looked like, having seen his face in the mysterious
green reflection of the Chamber pool, the memory was even clearer. It was a tragic vision, because her father had never gotten to give
 ** 15 **
the brooch to the woman he’d bought it for, but it was also a sweet vision, because in it her father was happy. He didn’t know what was
about to happen to him. His future was rather simple and plain, but as far as he was concerned, it was bright.
Without thinking, Petra pinned the brooch to her cape. Having done so, she peered at her reflection in the window. The brooch glowed
in the dimming evening light, capturing it and turning it magical. Petra sighed.
A moment later, she left the room, closing the door gently behind her. She was going for a walk.
The High Street was emptying as the sun went down in a blaze of shocking orange and purple. Cold pushed in from the east, blowing
skirls of snow down the street like sand. Petra stopped at the shop windows along the street, peering idly in at the goods on display:
decorative Goblin swords and chalices at Wravenbrick Metalworks, fancy leather portfolios and quills at Scrivenshafts, colorful dress
robes and gowns at Gladrags. Eventually, Petra wandered off the High Street and passed in front of the old Shrieking Shack, its fences
abandoned and fallen into disrepair ever since the Shack had stopped its shrieking. She pulled her cape around her as the chill seeped
in. By the time she decided to go back to the Three Broomsticks and possibly get a little something to eat from Madam Rosemerta, she
wasn’t entirely sure where in Hogsmeade she was. Clusters of cottages, most in various stages of disrepair, crowded the narrow street.
Over the low roofs, however, Petra could still see the comforting yellow glow of the lamps along the High Street. Not liking some of the
characters she was seeing skulking along the footpath, she turned into an alley, meaning to cut across to a more populated street.
The alley was very narrow and choked with snow. Petra pushed through the drifts, holding onto nearby railings and posts for support. It
was a crooked alley, snaggling through a rather seedy district of the village. Petra had not known such places existed in Hogsmeade.
Threadbare clothing hung nearly frozen on lines stretched between the buildings. Trash cans and leaning porches crowded into the
alley, nearly blocking it. Shadows gathered thickly in the corners as darkness settled, as if the night never fully abandoned the alley, but
simply retreated a bit during the brightest part of the day.
There was a flickering glow around the next angle of the alley. Petra turned the corner, stumbling out of a particularly heavy drift, and
found herself in the midst of a group of skinny, bedraggled figures. They were so covered in layers of ratty clothing that it took her a
moment to recognize them as Goblins. The small creatures sat clustered around a magical Goblin fire that burned brightly in the bowl of
a broken cauldron. The flames of the fire leapt and danced wildly, fed, apparently, by nothing. The Goblins looked up at Petra, their
beady black eyes unreadable.
“Sorry,” Petra said, her breath puffing in the frigid air. “I’m just trying to make my way back to the High Street. Could you, perhaps, point
me in the right direction?”
The Goblins merely stared at her, their faces hard, their large, knuckly hands curled over their knees. Petra wondered for a moment if
they were homeless, and then decided against it. Goblins were singularly resourceful and self reliant. A quick glance around the alley
showed her the truth: nearby was the service entrance to Wravenbrick Metalworks, thus these were probably the Goblin metalworkers,
resting after the day’s toil. It would have seemed quaint but for the unsettling hard looks in their little eyes as they stared at her.
“Nevermind then,” she said, beginning to skirt around the gathering. “I see that I’m quite near the street. I’ll find my own way.”
It was a moment before Petra realized one of the Goblins was speaking. Its voice was deep and quiet, menacing but strangely polite. “Is
it possible, partners, that the fair young witch does not know she is trespassing on Goblin property?”
Petra stopped at the sound, her blood chilling.
Another Goblin spoke, not taking its eyes from her. “It would appear to be so, aye. And she does so brazenly, with no regard for custom
or duty. Shall we enlighten her?”
“I’m sorry,” Petra said, keeping her voice even. “I thought this was a public alley. I didn’t mean to trespass.”
“Disregarded the sign,” the third Goblin said mildly, still not speaking directly to Petra despite its icy stare. “Ignorant of the law.
Expecting leniency, no doubt. Isn’t that just like a witch?”
Petra was hemmed in by the three, her back to the cold brick wall. She thought quickly, remembering her wand in the pocket of her
robes. She decided not to pull it out, fearing it might only escalate the encounter. The Goblins began to get to their feet, moving to
surround her.
“What is, er, the law?” she asked, her teeth beginning to chatter in the cold. “I don’t expect leniency. I just didn’t know. I’ll be happy to,
er…”
“She must pay a tribute,” the first Goblin said, its black eyes sparkling meanly in the magical firelight.
Petra patted her pockets. “I don’t have much. Half a dozen Galleons, I think.”
“Not wizard money, my fair daughter,” the second Goblin purred in its low voice. “This is not Gringotts. Your currency is worthless to us.”
One of the Goblins raised its bushy eyebrows, moving close. “She wears Goblin property upon her robes, partners,” it said, becoming
animated for the first time. “Moon’s tear and fine gold scroll. There, below her shoulder.”
The first Goblin looked and nodded slowly. “That will do, aye. If the fair witch will be so kind…” The Goblin held out its callused hand
toward Petra.
“No,” Petra said, as evenly as she could. “This isn’t mine to give away. It belonged to my father. I can’t—”
“It is not yours at all, my fair daughter,” the Goblin said calmly, moving closer. “It belongs to Goblinkind. You daresn’t suggest that it is
not our handiwork.”
“No,” Petra stammered. “I’m not saying that. It’s just…”
 ** 16 **
“She insults us, partners,” the third Goblin said, its eyes brightening horribly. “She intends to disrespect us and withhold our tribute, and
with our own property, to boot.”
Petra pressed back against the wall. “No. It’s just… there must be something else!”
“We are not making a request, fair daughter,” the first Goblin replied, raising its voice. “Hand over the tribute, lest we take it by force.
Witch magic is no match for Goblin law. Or would you prefer to learn that truth the hard way?”
The Goblin reached, its horny hands casting their shadow over the brooch on Petra’s cape. She cringed, pressing herself against the
cold bricks behind her, but there was nowhere to go. Quickly, almost delicately, the Goblin plucked the brooch from her cape.
Immediately, it turned away, dismissing her and studying the brooch by the light of the fire. Petra slumped against the wall.
“What will you do with it?” she asked hollowly.
“She is still here,” one of the Goblins said.
“She will leave soon enough, partners,” another replied, returning to the magical fire.
Petra gathered herself, standing up straight and raising her voice a bit. “I said, what will you do with the brooch?”
“It is not your business, witch,” the first Goblin stated without turning. “This is Goblin property. Your clumsy hands have held it long
enough. It was never yours to begin with.”
“My father worked very hard to pay for that brooch,” Petra said, growing bolder. “He bought it honestly. Don’t you dare suggest he stole
it.”
The first Goblin looked back at her over its humped shoulder, clearly annoyed. “You humans and your cheat of ‘payment’. If indeed your
worthless father possessed this object, then he is a thief and a liar. It never belonged to him, and it will likely take a year’s purging to
cleanse it of his filthy touch. Now be gone before you make us angry, witch, and rejoice that your miss-steps this night have returned
this object to its rightful owners.”
“That brooch belonged to my father,” Petra stated, producing her wand.
The Goblin turned once more, slowly, studying Petra with one beady black eye. “May I take it from that statement that your father, fair
witch, is dead?”
A lump swelled in Petra’s throat. She swallowed past it, her eyes suddenly glistening with tears. She couldn’t speak. Instead, haltingly,
she nodded.
The goblin studied her a moment longer, its gaze unreadable. Finally, it turned away again. “This is good news, partners,” it said,
dismissing Petra. “The filthy thief is dead. His breath is cold. It will only take half as long to purge the piece of his dirty touch.”
Petra raised her wand, looking down its length through a blur of tears. With a thought, the magical Goblin fire snuffed out. Darkness fell
into the alley like a shroud.
“That was a mistake, fair daughter,” the first Goblin growled from the sudden shadow.
“I’m not your daughter,” Petra stated, her voice dead and cold.
There was noise. In the impenetrable darkness there were shrieks, cut off by horrible, crunching thumps. The sounds mingled with the
roar of a sudden, icy wind that rushed through the alley, lifting the snow and howling in the drainpipes. It lasted less than fifteen
seconds.
Near the mouth of the alley, where it emptied out onto the High Street, a young man stopped. He listened, hearing the echoing cries
and bone-rattling thumps, his eyes widening. He gripped his wand and darted into the alley, his heart leaping up into his throat.
“Petra!” he called, stopping in the darkness. “Petra is that you? I’ve been trying to find you! Are you all right?”
A shape appeared in the dark recesses of the alley, walking slowly through the drifting snow. The man watched, raising his wand slowly
as the figure approached. Something seemed to glow out of the darkness, a sort of shifting, pearlescent glint shining on the figure’s
cape.
“Petra?” the man said, puzzled and worried.
“Ted,” the figure said, finally stepping into the yellow light of the nearest streetlamp. “Your timing, as always, is impeccable.”
“Petra,” Ted breathed, relieved, moving to put his arm around the girl. “Are you all right? I saw you pass by the shop a little while ago. I
came out to find you as soon as I could. What were you doing in the alley?”
Petra shook her head slightly, and her eyes were strangely blank. “Just walking.”
“That’s hardly a good place to walk, Petra,” Ted replied, leading her out of the alley. “Especially after dark. Did you meet anyone in
there?”
“Let’s go back, Ted. I’m cold,” Petra said, ignoring his question. She walked next to him, letting him hold his arm around her, but barely
feeling it. “So cold, Ted. So cold I’m nearly frozen.”

“I can’t tell you all of it right now,” Petra said, staring disconsolately into the fire. “Perhaps soon I will, but right now, it’s just too big. For
now, it’s enough to tell you about the box from the Ministry. My Father’s things.”
 ** 17 **
She and Ted sat in matching high-back chairs by the fireplace in the back corner of the Three Broomsticks. Nearby, a skinny Christmas
tree flickered with live candles, their flames glowing gaily in every conceivable color. It was late, and the bar was nearly deserted. The
elf, Thrimple, moved between the tables magically operating a large broom and dustpan with deft flicks of his fingers.
“You’ve told Noah about it, have you?” Ted said, looking at the fire through his mostly-empty butterbeer glass.
“Please don’t be jealous right now, Ted,” Petra sighed, smiling a little. “Noah and I are just friends, at least for the moment. Besides, you
have Victoire. From what everyone says, you two are quite the couple.”
Ted nodded enigmatically, pressing his lips together. “So you haven’t told Noah about the rest of it yet, right?”
“I haven’t told anyone. It isn’t that kind of a secret.”
“But it’s got you worried,” Ted prodded. “Frightened, even.”
Petra shook her head slightly. “I never knew either of my parents, Ted. They’ve been gone all of my life. Why now? Why should I care
so much? How can you miss someone you’ve never even known?”
Ted didn’t answer. For a minute, the two of them simply sat and stared into the crackling fire as it burned low into the hearth. Finally,
Ted said, “I don’t think you need to have lived with your parents to know them. I think you know them just as well by the hole their
absence leaves inside you. You know them by the shape of the emptiness where they should have been. At least, that’s how it is for
me.”
Petra nodded. “All I know is that I need them. I need them to tell me what to do. I’m so confused.”
“Do you think they would have known what to do?” Ted asked.
Petra thought for a moment, and then shrugged.
“The older I get,” Ted went on, “the more I begin to realize how little anyone really knows. I grew up thinking my grandmother knew
absolutely everything. And then, a few years ago, I realized that she gets almost all of her information and worldviews from The
Quibbler. I mean, I’ve got nothing against The Quibbler, mind you, as far as it goes, but a wellspring of solid thinking and factual
reporting it is not. I love my grandmother, but that was when I realized that, shocking as it is, she’s just muddling along through life,
making it up more or less as she goes, just like the rest of us. Figuring that out was a bit frightening, but on the other hand, it was also a
bit reassuring. It means that I’m just as capable of making my way in life as she is.”
Petra looked aside at Ted. “So what does your grandmother mean to you now?”
Ted grinned. “She means the same thing she’s always meant to me. She means there’s always someone there to tell me that she loves
me and that everything is going to be just fine. That’s what the people who love us are really there for, I think. They may not know what
they’re talking about, and they may be dead wrong, but it doesn’t mean we don’t need to hear it more often than not.”
“That’s not very reassuring,” Petra stated flatly, turning back to the fire.
“That’s just because you’re looking at it all crooked,” Ted said confidently. “You’re thinking about it too much. Your problem is that
you’re too smart, Petra. You over-think.”
“Better that than the other way around.”
“Au contraire,” Ted smiled. “Sometimes we’re so sure of what we expect that we fool ourselves into seeing it, even if it isn’t true, even if
it’s pure rubbish. You don’t miss your parents because you need a map through life, Petra. You miss your parents because you need
someone to sit next to you and tell you that no matter where the map takes you, it’ll all be a grand adventure because they’ll be there
with you, and they’ll love you every step of the way.”
Petra looked sideways at Ted, unsmiling. “What makes you such an expert, anyway?”
Ted shrugged. “Age, experience, and four butterbeers. Add a firewhiskey and I graduate all the way to bloody genius.”
Petra couldn’t help smiling a little.
“See?” Ted said, nudging her shoulder. “I made you laugh. That’s what the people who love you are good for. We can make you laugh
no matter how bleak things look.”
Petra nodded and sighed. “I like your hair long, by the way.”
“Yeah, I’ve been trying out different styles lately,” Ted replied breezily. “I tried buzz-cut short,” as he spoke, his hair suddenly shrank
away to a military crew cut, looking remarkably like that sported by Petra’s Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Kendrick Debellows.
“And I tried rock star long,” Ted went on, and now his hair sprang back out of his head and draped over his shoulders in lank black
sheets. “And I even tried the George Weasley special,” he finished, and his hair suddenly coiffed into a wild strew and turned blazing
red. Petra clapped her hands to her mouth and shrieked with laughter.
“Your face changed a little bit, too,” she gasped. “You looked like George for a second there.”
“It’s a bit hard to control,” Ted admitted, climbing to his feet. “It’s been years since I used my metamorphmagus abilities. I’m still
remembering how to do it properly.”
Petra settled back in her chair, watching Ted take his coat from the hook by the fire. “You’re leaving.”
“I’m leaving,” he nodded. “George has me scheduled to open the shop in the morning. That man has absolutely no regard for the fact
that I’m not a morning person.”
 ** 18 **
Petra was still smiling a bit as Ted shrugged into his coat. “Thanks, Ted. It was good to talk.”
“Talking’s what I’m best at,” Ted replied. “Sorry I didn’t get you anything for Christmas.”
“I won’t hold it against you this time.”
Ted turned toward the door, and then stopped. Half smiling, he turned back to Petra and leaned toward her. “It’s going to be all right,”
he whispered conspiratorially. “It’s all a grand adventure. And the people who love you—people like me—will be along for the ride,
every step of the way.”
Petra smiled, and it was a genuine smile. Ted beamed down at her. There was a long, nearly awkward moment as they shared that
gaze, and then, finally, Ted glanced down.
“Goodnight, Petra,” he said. “Happy Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas, Ted,” she answered.
He crossed to the door, threading between the tables and stepping over Thrimple’s floating dustpan. There was a gust of cold air and
the whistle of wintry wind, and then he was gone.
Petra looked into the fire.
After a minute, she leaned over, took her cape onto her lap, and found the opal brooch pinned there. She slipped it carefully from the
cape and held it in her hands.
“Oh, Papa,” she whispered. “Tell me it’ll be all right. Tell me you love me and that you’ll be with me along the way.”
As before, holding the opal in her hand conjured the image of her father in her mind. She saw him buying the brooch from the
somewhat odious Mr. Ichabod, watched him carry it from the shop and out into the street, where a light snow was falling. He was happy.
He had done something wonderful for someone he loved.
Petra suddenly stopped, her breath catching in her chest. Her fingers curled slowly around the opal brooch, enclosing it. Had she been
mistaken? Was it possible? Sometimes we’re so sure of what we expect, Ted had said only moments ago, that we fool ourselves into
seeing it, even if it isn’t true…
In the vision of her mind, her father walked happily along the snow-dusted cobbles, moving through the throng of shoppers, humming
happily. And then, softly, slightly off-key, he began to sing:
“Oh, I’ve got a girl, a beautiful girl, the sweetest girl ever could be
And for that sweet girl, with raven-dark curls, I’ll buy her a diamond and tea,
Then we’ll dance, we two, in a big curlicue, by the light of the strawberry moon,
And happy we’ll be, my Princess and me, like the dish that run off with the spoon,
Like the dish that run off with the spoon…”
Petra blinked, listening with the ears of her mind. Her father had not, in fact, bought the brooch for his wife. He’d bought it for the baby
daughter that was only then growing in his wife’s belly. Of course, he couldn’t have known that their baby was going to be a girl, but
he’d known it nonetheless, or hoped for it so strongly that, for him, it was as good as knowing. He’d wanted to buy his daughter an
heirloom, an inheritance. He’d loved her even then, before she was even born, before he’d ever known her. He’d known her just by the
shape of the hope that was in his heart.
Happy Christmas, Petra darling, my Princess… Happy Christmas…
Petra sat in the empty bar and cried for her lost father. But she smiled as well, even through her tears. And she held the brooch, her
Christmas present. She held it tightly, rocking in the light of the fire, as if she were a baby being held in strong, soothing arms, rocking…
rocking…