Chapter 50: Christmas Morning
In the blink of an eye, Christmas had arrived.
In the early morning, the owls outside the window were a bit noisy.
Melvin was woken by them and slowly opened his eyes.
The firewood and charcoal in the fireplace grate had burned out, leaving only a handful of black ash embers. The room still held some residual warmth, the air warm and dry, slightly stuffy. He cast a spell to open the window halfway, and cold air rushed in instantly. The howling of the north wind sweeping over the grounds and towers came from outside.
A pile of packages lay on the carpet by the bed.
He changed out of his pajamas and leisurely completed his ablutions.
Hogwarts had 24-hour hot water—who would believe it?
One could only say that house-elves were the cornerstone of the school’s foundation.
When he walked out of the bathroom, the stale air that had accumulated in the room overnight had been completely cleared out. Only then did Melvin come to the bedside and open the Christmas packages he had received.
Friends he knew from before were separated by oceans, so he wouldn’t receive gifts from them this year. Having been at Hogwarts for just three or four months, he hadn’t made many wizard acquaintances, so the gifts weren’t numerous. He quickly inventoried them.
Madam Marchbanks had sent some biscuits that didn’t look very appealing; they appeared to be handmade by her.
Several elective professors had sent exquisite men’s ornaments as gifts, perhaps thinking they suited his style.
Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick had sent books, Professor Sprout had sent some dried flower buds with a lingering fragrance…
Dumbledore had sent a storybook, 《Fungus Story Collection: Origins》, by Amelia Black. The frontispiece had a recommendation from the publisher’s editor: These stories morbidly focus on the most terrible themes, such as death, disease, bleeding, evil magic, unhealthy personalities, and the most disgusting bodily eruptions and explosions.
Melvin was too lazy to guess the headmaster’s intentions and planned to find an opportunity to sell it to students for reading comprehension.
Snape had sent a small bottle of antidote for silencing potions, rather pointed.
Melvin sensed the full malice in the potion and silently put away the potions, planning to resell it to Mr. Borgin when he had time.
The last letter was the most special; it wasn’t parchment, and the ink on it had no fragrance. It was a pure Muggle letter, but the envelope had a stamp from the Owl Post Office, and moreover, stamps from both the American Ministry of Magic and the British Ministry of Magic.
Opening it, it turned out to be from the assistant:
「Melvin—
Hey, it’s me, your forgotten subordinate, Claire. I know you’ll be very surprised to receive this letter—I was equally surprised when I started writing it. After coming to Disney, I tried contacting you by phone, text, email, all no reply. The theater didn’t have your contact info either; I even suspected you’d been arrested and imprisoned.
Later, staff from the Woolworth Building contacted me. To be honest, I don’t know how they found me, knew my address, knew I was looking for you, and asked me about your situation at the theater back then, the specific methods for those special effects… I suspect they were official agencies, like Pentagon offices or something; their questioning style was very distinctive—you know what I mean? It perfectly fit my impression of stupid bureaucrats.
A fairly friendly Mr. Graves told me that you were doing volunteer teaching at some remote, backward school on the British border, cut off from water and electricity, no internet, hard to reach through normal channels, so they could only contact you by letter. This is already my seventh letter sent; the previous six were all returned, saying international letters need scrutiny. Damn it, I’m more inclined to believe you were arrested for leaking state secrets or something.
……
Getting back to the point, I don’t know how you arranged it, but I originally thought you’d gone to some Hollywood company for study and training. I didn’t expect you’d directly joined Walt Disney with the exact same treatment as formal employees, and your promotions were inexplicably smooth—everyone thinks I have some special background.
Because the promotions were too smooth, after the Christmas holiday, I’ll be transferred to Paris to participate in the operation and management of Disneyland opening next year…
Boss, are you still my boss!? Reply to me as soon as possible.
Merry Christmas, I hope you receive this letter before Christmas.
Your not-so-loyal subordinate, Claire.」
Melvin set down the letter, involuntarily revealing a faint smile. He opened the ink bottle and, while waiting for the quill to dip the ink, began thinking about how to reply.
……
Headmaster’s Office.
On the shelf above, Phoenix Fawkes nestled in an old cloth hat, its two feet curled and bent, its head pecking up and down. Though sleepy and unwilling to open its eyes, once awake it couldn’t sleep. Its dark eyes stared at the old wizard’s disheveled silver hair, revealing a human-like resentful gaze, its short beak opening to emit a “cluck cluck cluck” complaint.
Chattering incessantly, like a broody hen.
The portraits of past headmasters had also woken up.
Some frames were empty, the portraits no longer inside; they’d even left last night and probably wouldn’t return during this holiday. The vacant frames made the other headmaster portraits envious.
Portraits of the same wizard are interconnected, for example, Lady Derwent was not only a Hogwarts headmaster during her lifetime but also dean of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, so she could travel back and forth between the hospital and the school. Some other headmasters also had portraits in their families and could go out for holidays.
For them, this was a manifestation of the family still carrying on. Some headmasters came from once-renowned pure-blood families, but now they were untraceable. For instance, Headmaster Phineas Black—his family hadn’t had descendants enroll in many years; perhaps the Black Family had died out.
The portraits huddled together whispering, their gazes glancing downward. On the round table with slender legs sat a dozen exquisite silverware pieces, rotating and emitting puffs of smoke.
The early-rising headmaster was opening his Christmas packages.
One by one, finely bound books were unpacked from the packages, with thick pages, each a hefty tome, profound in content. Just seeing the titles could kill one’s interest in reading: 《Handbook of Dangerous Magical Creatures Taming: Venomous Spines and Scales》《The Seven Gates of Alchemy》《Fluids and Frameworks: Philosophical Paradoxes of Non-Living Transfiguration》《How to Elegantly Escape When Spells Backfire》《Magical Me》…
Almost all the gifts were books; the school professors had also sent books. Only Melvin had sent a bag of Muggle whistle sweets—hollow ring candies that, when placed in the mouth, could produce a faint whistling sound.
Dumbledore tasted one, and his mood finally brightened a bit.
He set aside those hefty tomes that he didn’t even want to open just from their titles. The old headmaster reached out and opened 《Magical Me》.
Opening the title page, a brilliant smile met his eyes: a wizard in sky-blue formal wear baring white teeth.
Below was a long string of author bio: Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, four-time winner of 《Witch Weekly》 Most Charming-Smile Award…
“Hmm…”
The headmaster portraits behind him all showed disgusted expressions, but Dumbledore read with great interest, flipping through a few pages casually before placing the book closest to himself, planning to savor it slowly when he had time.
Next was replying to letters from old friends.
“Madam Marchbanks of the Department of Magical Examinations, Mr. Tofudi…
“Amelia Bones of the Ministry of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Alastor Moody…
“And the earnest Minister Cornelius Fudge…”
“…”
Dumbledore read every letter carefully and replied earnestly, even if some were just ordinary holiday greetings. After all, many old friends were getting on in years; every communication now might be the last.
A century-old wizard had experienced this many times.
Newt Scamander, secluded in Dorset, sent greetings, mentioning in the letter that his grandson Rolf would enroll next year and hoping for some looking after. Nicolas Flamel, temporarily residing in Paris, wrote casually, inquiring if progress on the Philosopher’s Stone matter was going smoothly and to communicate if help was needed.
Molly, traveling abroad, enclosed a box of milk toffee with her letter, mentioning that she and her husband had visited their second son Charlie in Romania this year; the other children were staying at school over the holiday, hoping the headmaster would keep a strict watch.
Soon only the last letter remained.
Dumbledore held the envelope in his hand, his expression complex, quietly examining the marks on the parchment, delaying opening it.
The envelope was somewhat dirty and crumpled, even with folds, stained with mud spots and dust. The sealing wax was dark red and blackened, seemingly dried and congealed rat blood.
The envelope was worn, with a strange smell.
Dumbledore stared at the envelope for a long time but ultimately didn’t open it. He pulled open a drawer and placed the letter into a wooden box.
Due to perspective and distance limitations, the portraits of past headmasters on the wall behind couldn’t see the information on the envelope’s surface, only faintly making out the seal on the wax—
「Nurmengard—To」
