Grimmauld Place was quiet in the pale winter light, the kind of stillness that came before laughter, before the noise of wrapping paper and tea mugs and conversations drifting through halls once used for darker things.
Harry padded down the stairs in a plain shirt and joggers, barefoot on cold stone. The drawing room looked different—warm, alive. A crooked pine tree stood in the corner, strung with levitating candles and flickering ribbons. Someone—Sirius, almost certainly—had thrown himself into the decorations with wild abandon. There were even mismatched ornaments shaped like miniature Hippogriffs and a lopsided Gryffindor lion wearing a Santa hat.
Beneath the tree, the presents waited.
There were bundles and parcels wrapped in neat handwritings and chaotic scrawl—Hermione's sharp corners, Ron's lumpy folds, a tiny box tied in silver thread from Susan, and one that looked suspiciously like Professor McGonagall had used official Hogwarts wax to seal it. A small red box bore Dumbledore's name in crisp lettering.
But the largest gift leaned against the hearth: broom-shaped, sleek under black wrapping paper, and topped with a silver ribbon that shimmered like moonlight on steel.
Harry didn't even glance twice.
He turned and headed for the courtyard.
The air outside was knife-sharp, slicing through fabric and breath alike. Frost crusted the flagstones, and the wind bit at his arms, but Harry didn't flinch.
He ran.
Not just laps this time. Sprint circuits. Fast bursts to the wall and back, then straight into push-ups until his arms shook, then squats, then jumping lunges. He didn't count. He didn't need to. His body knew the rhythm now—and this morning, it demanded more.
The cold barely touched him anymore.
After twenty minutes, his chest heaved, and steam rose off his skin like mist over a cauldron. His muscles ached.
He dropped to the ground and held a plank until his arms trembled. Then longer. Then longer still.
When he finally stood, legs shaking from a final wall-sprint, the morning frost was gone from the courtyard. Melted by sheer presence.
He stepped back inside, sweat clinging to his neck, shirt sticking to his back.
The drawing room was warm, and Sirius was there, waiting by the fire. He looked up from a tray of breakfast and raised an eyebrow.
"You've upgraded from madman to full-on masochist, I see."
Harry wiped his face with a towel, smirking. "Thought you liked reckless Gryffindors."
"Not when they sweat all over my antique rugs," Sirius muttered, then handed him a glass of water. "Go wash up. We eat first. Then presents. And then—" his eyes flicked to the black-wrapped broom-shaped package, "—well, you'll see."
Harry's lips twitched.
"I'll try to act surprised."
Sirius gave him a look that was somewhere between fond exasperation and suppressed excitement. "Just hurry up. Before I decide to open your gifts for you."
Harry took the water and headed for the stairs, the faint scent of pine and cinnamon trailing behind him. His muscles throbbed, and his magic felt steady—grounded.
By the time Harry returned from his shower, the scent of eggs, toast, and strong tea filled the drawing room. Sirius had set everything out on a floating tray—because of course he had—and was already tearing into his own pile of gifts like a particularly festive Niffler.
Harry flopped onto the couch, hair still damp, a towel slung around his shoulders. "Start without me, did you?"
Sirius grinned, a ribbon tangled in his hair. "I exercised my right as the adult in the house. Also, you took ages. I thought you'd drowned in shampoo."
Harry huffed a laugh and reached for Hermione's package first—books, naturally. Spell theory and something about magical legislation reform, both annotated in her precise handwriting with color-coded tabs. Ron's was a pack of Chocolate Frogs and a Quidditch magazine that had clearly been read before being wrapped, with a folded betting chart tucked inside predicting the Cannons' "inevitable comeback."
Susan's tiny box held a brass pocket mirror charmed to whisper calming affirmations when opened—gentle, thoughtful, unmistakably her.
Neville had sent a small potted plant that shimmered faintly when touched, labeled Frostbloom, for clarity of mind and winter resilience. A neat card was tied to it: "Don't forget to water it with moonlight once a week."
Even Professor Lupin had sent something: a slim volume of obscure dueling tactics annotated with notes in the margins, and a short note that read, "Something to keep you sharp. And out of trouble. Preferably both."
More gifts followed, each a thread pulling tighter the strange, warm feeling in Harry's chest.
Then his hand brushed black wrapping paper, cool and smooth, with a silver ribbon tied at the top.
He stared at it.
"Go on, then," Sirius said, eyes bright.
Harry pulled the paper free. It fell away like mist, revealing polished ebony wood and sleek silver inlay.
The Firebolt gleamed in the morning light.
Harry's breath caught.
He stared, barely blinking. "You didn't."
"I absolutely did."
"This is a Firebolt."
"Yes," Sirius said, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Top speed, zero to one-fifty in ten seconds, hand-tuned braking charms, gyroscopic stabilization, and a turning radius tighter than a racing snitch."
Harry's hands curled around the handle. It felt alive under his fingers, perfectly balanced.
"Bloody hell."
Sirius laughed. "Language."
Harry grinned, then faltered, something unreadable flickering across his face. "You really got me a Firebolt."
"You deserve one." Sirius said simply.
"I don't even know what to say."
"Say you'll fly it today."
"I'll fly it today."
"Good lad."
They sat in silence for a moment, the Firebolt resting across Harry's lap like something sacred.
Blue and silver parchment, tied with no ribbon. The tag was simple.
To Harry — A.D.
He opened it gently.
Inside lay an old book with darkened edges and a faint, almost imperceptible hum to the cover. Its title gleamed faintly:
"Artifice and Awakening: Conjurations, Animation, and the Nature of Magical Constructs."
Tucked into the cover was a small note, barely more than a line.
For the quiet questions you've not yet asked. —A.D.
Harry frowned, just slightly, before closing the book again.
He thought of the socks he'd sent, carefully wrapped, to Dumbledore's office through Hedwig. He'd even charmed them to stay warm. Somehow, it felt like a fair trade.
Ron would be unwrapping the bright orange Chudley Cannons jumper from him right about now—Harry had asked Madam Malkin to embroider "League Champions 1990" on the back as a joke. And Hermione would be deep into the runes translation compendium he'd ordered from Flourish and Blotts, complete with color-coded bookmarks already placed for her.
Neville would have found a dragonhide-bound notebook with reinforced waterproof pages, perfect for greenhouse sketches and potion notes, along with a vial of self-replenishing ink and a scribbled note: "For brilliant discoveries and maybe less exploding Shrivelfigs."
Susan's package had held a delicate charmed quill that changed color with the mood of the writer—soft greens for calm, deep purples for stress—along with a tin of peppermint parchment and a note that simply read, "In case exams tries to eat your soul."
He smiled faintly.
Then he nudged the last box—still unopened—across the floor with his foot.
"That one's for you."
Sirius raised an eyebrow. "You got me something?"
"Don't act so surprised."
"Well, I just assumed you were going to claim I was the gift."
Harry snorted. "Just open it."
Sirius pulled off the wrappings, revealing a sleek black box. Inside, nestled on velvet lining, was a pair of enchanted sunglasses. The frames were slim and elegant, magically reinforced. Runes traced the inner arms.
"They adjust tint and glare automatically," Harry said. "Charm-enhanced for wand flashes, potion fumes, and even dragonfire if you're being dramatic."
Sirius picked them up reverently. "Stylish and magically overengineered. You do know me."
Sirius was silent for a long beat, then slid them on and grinned.
"How do I look?"
"Like someone about to ride a motorbike into a Ministry gala."
Sirius leaned back on the couch, still grinning. "You spoil me, you know."
"You got me a Firebolt," Harry said dryly.
Sirius tilted the sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and raised an eyebrow. "Touché."
Sirius leaned back, legs kicked over the arm of the chair, sunglasses still perched on his face like he was considering a career in magical espionage.
He tossed a roasted almond in the air and caught it without looking.
"Oh—almost forgot," he said, sitting up slightly. "We're going out tonight."
Harry, still half-curled at the base of the tree with bits of wrapping paper clinging to his socks, blinked. "Out?"
"Christmas dinner," Sirius said casually. "At my cousin's place. She insisted."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "And you agreed?"
"Well, I couldn't very well have us brooding around this place like a couple of haunted portraits, could I?" Sirius's voice was light, but Harry could hear the edge of honesty underneath it. "You've done enough for Grimmauld Place. You deserve one normal Christmas night."
"Who's the cousin?"
"Andromeda," Sirius said, brushing invisible lint off his sleeve. "Married a Muggle-born, brilliant woman, got booted from the family tree for it—best decision she ever made. Her daughter Tonks'll be there too, most likely in something fluorescent and horrible."
Harry gave a short laugh. "And they invited you?"
"They're the only family worth having," Sirius said simply, then grinned. "Besides you, obviously."
Harry rolled his eyes, but there was a warmth in his chest that hadn't been there yesterday. The idea of Christmas dinner somewhere that didn't echo with ghosts or scream with portraits… it sounded nice.
"What time?" he asked.
"Six," Sirius said. "Dress decent. And maybe comb your hair—for my dignity if not yours."
"Alright, but no promises for the hair. It's part of my charm along with my devilishly good looks."
Sirius snorted. "Devilishly good looks? Please. If the hair's part of the charm, it's working overtime to distract from that humble personality of yours."
He leaned back, hands behind his head. "Don't worry, though—you get it from me. Tragic, really. Two generations of heartthrobs and not a single modest bone between us."
Harry rolled his eyes. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should. They're rare from me before my second cup of tea."
Sirius leaned forward and gave the Firebolt a long, admiring look. "Think you've got time for a test flight before you become all respectable for dinner?"
Harry's answering grin was all the answer he needed.