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When Malfoy lazily strolled over to the Christmas tree after dinner, Crabbe and Goyle were already there waiting.
A small pile of empty boxes lay scattered at their feet, as though a hurricane had passed through, but the trinkets clutched in their hands looked rather useless and hard to describe…
Goyle grumbled in a muffled voice, tossing a rubber troll that made strange squeaking noises back onto the ground.
Malfoy ignored them, casually plucking a shimmering silver box from a low-hanging branch and opening it without much thought.
Inside was a small vial filled with a clear, pale blue liquid—a Calming Potion, a magical draught said to temporarily ease anxiety and bring a brief moment of peace.
A flicker of complex emotion crossed his eyes, almost imperceptibly. He pressed his lips together but finally slipped the vial into his robe pocket.
Just then, a mocking voice rang out, dragging its words and deliberately mimicking his tone:
"I think those who are forced to stay at school for Christmas are all homeless…" Tʜe sourcᴇ of thɪs content ɪs 𝕟𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕝⟡𝕗𝗂𝗋𝖾⟡𝕟𝕖𝕥
Ron Weasley stood with his arms crossed, echoing the very similar words Malfoy had once used to sneer at Harry.
His hatred for Malfoy had long been etched deep—the boy had repeatedly stirred up trouble, insulted his family, and mocked their poverty. Ron had always wanted a chance to hit him.
Malfoy spun around abruptly, the muscles in his pale face tightening, his gray eyes snapping sharply onto Ron.
Malfoy's lips moved as if he were about to spew his usual venom, but in the end they only pressed into a cold, thin line.
He said nothing, leaving only a chilling, warning glance before turning sharply and striding out of the Great Hall.
"Abnormal. Too abnormal!" Ron immediately leaned close to Harry and Hermione, lowering his voice, his face grim as if he were facing a formidable enemy. "He didn't even retort? Malfoy's definitely plotting something. That rogue Bludger during the last match was probably just his appetizer."
"Uh, Ron, that Bludger was hexed by Dobby. It had nothing to do with Malfoy."
"Not him? Really?" Ron and Hermione exclaimed together, their faces full of surprise. "And who's Dobby?"
"He's that… house-elf I told you about."
Harry recounted the whole story—how Dobby had broken into the Dursleys' home to give him a warning, how he had sealed the platform entrance, and finally how he had bewitched the Bludger in an attempt to "save" him from Hogwarts—leaving Ron and Hermione dumbfounded.
"So… Dobby stopped you from getting on the train and even broke your arm, all because he wanted to save you from Hogwarts?" Hermione asked, her voice uncertain.
Ron shook his head, summing it up in a tone that was both absurd and worried. "Harry, you need to realize, if he keeps 'rescuing' you , you might not survive it!"
Harry understood what Ron meant, but he could only feel helpless.
When Sagres returned to his office, his desk had turned into a small mountain of gifts.
Two dusty owls still stood patiently on the windowsill, waiting.
He first gave the long-distance owls some food and water, and only when they purred contentedly did he turn his attention to the pile of letters and presents.
Noctis had also been unbelievably busy these past two days—his wings seemed never to rest, flying back and forth almost nonstop to deliver gifts.
Although Sagres felt these holiday exchanges were somewhat superficial, since he was here, he had no choice but to follow tradition and adapt to the customs.
Fortunately, during his travels over the past two years, he had visited many ancient magical ruins and collected numerous artifacts, both practical and peculiar.
Along with the many dangerous magical creatures he had personally faced, the rare materials harvested from their bodies had been carefully preserved as well.
Frugality was a virtue, and making the best use of things even more so—thus, his private storeroom held quite a collection of valuable items, which now came in handy.
He picked up the letters and calmly opened them one by one.
Most people's gifts were fairly practical.
Of course, the Kestrel was an exception.
The young girl's travels were clearly not yet over, and she seemed to have recently arrived in Britain. Her gift to Sagres was a thick volume titled Complete Guide to Traditional British Cuisine.
Sagres flipped through a few pages casually and found it far more amusing than the Collection of English Jokes she had given him the previous year.
Next came the Nightingale's letter and gift.
This time, she had captured a female barrel goblin and sent it in a specially made magical glass bottle.
Her letter solemnly declared that this was the "prettiest" one she could find.
Sagres examined the round, pudgy little creature in the bottle, unable to find any beauty in its bloated belly and fleshy face.
Still, he was not so foolish as to write back and question the Nightingale's sense of aesthetics.
Last year, the perfume she had sent had included a "bonus" barrel goblin that refused to leave.
He rummaged briefly through his desk drawer and found the bottle of perfume potion labeled Deep Blue Song.
Inside, the chubby figure floated comfortably on the liquid's surface, fast asleep, while the level of perfume had clearly dropped by nearly a third.
"You're living quite comfortably," Sagres remarked, tapping the bottle lightly with his finger.
The vibration startled the sleeping barrel goblin awake.
It blinked open its tiny, bead-like eyes, saw the magnified human face outside the glass, and was so shocked it nearly sank beneath the surface.
"Hmph, I found you a companion," Sagres said flatly, deftly dropping the newly arrived female barrel goblin into the same perfume bottle.
Ignoring the frantic tapping against the glass that followed, he turned instead to open the North American specialty—Dragon Blood Wine—sent by the Thunderbird.
He pulled out the cork and sniffed the contents, the strong, distinctive aroma making him frown slightly—he could only admit that he had yet to develop a taste for it.
Other friends' gifts were also spread out across the table:
Ms. Snowy Owl: an ancient, weighty goblin-made gold coin, its reverse side finely embossed with a roaring chimera.
Swift: a heavy stone slab, inscribed with ancient, incomplete spells of unknown meaning.
Robin: a multi-functional sketching quill, tiny magical runes inlaid along its shaft.
Hummingbird: a portable, fully equipped magical medical first-aid kit.
Stork: a thick, yellowed volume titled Atlas of Rare and Dangerous Magical Creature Habitats, depicting not only terrifying creatures but also carefully marking their distribution and habits.
There was also a box of Syrup Monster candies from his cousin Astoria, a spell analysis chart titled Magic Missile—personally created by Professor Flitwick—and a generous bundle of shiny, smooth, top-grade unicorn tail hairs, brimming with pure magic, carefully selected by Hagrid…
The task of replying to letters and preparing return gifts carried on late into the night.
When the last letter, sealed with a magical imprint, disappeared into the dark sky with Noctis, the office finally grew quiet once more.
Sagres, uncharacteristically, did not immediately immerse himself in research but leaned back in his armchair.
The embers in the fireplace cast a faint glow, illuminating his pensive face.
The upcoming teaching duties at Hogwarts played through his mind: the Duelling Club twice a week, where he needed to truly teach the young wizards how to defend themselves; and the courses he was already responsible for, which allowed no slack and demanded ever more refined lesson plans.
In addition, the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had once again fallen vacant.
Although this was not his direct concern, Sagres considered whether he should recommend a suitable candidate to Dumbledore.
And finally, there was one more matter: his "old friend" Lucius seemed to be rather active lately. He would have to make time to visit Malfoy Manor, invite him for tea, and ask directly what it was he intended to do.