After hearing Professor McGonagall's words, Phineas shrugged and said,
"I'm the only one not going back, and all the Slytherin students will go home during the Christmas holidays. It's actually more comfortable for me to stay in school."
Professor McGonagall was momentarily stunned. The situation of the Black family was no secret in the wizarding world. Anyone with even the slightest knowledge of current events—or who had read a newspaper in the past few decades—would know that the older generation had passed. Among the younger generation, Sirius had been imprisoned in Azkaban, and Regulus had been missing for years, presumed dead. What was once one of the most powerful pure-blood families had fallen into decline. Only Phineas and a few distant branches remained.
Seeing the pained expression flash across Professor McGonagall's face, Phineas gave a small, wry smile.
"It's all right, Professor. I've been on my own like this for years."
McGonagall sighed and said nothing more.
When the holidays began, Phineas became the sole occupant of the Slytherin common room. He was free to move about as he pleased, no longer confined to the dormitory or the Room of Requirement.
He spent much of his time near the fireplace, staring out into the depths of the Black Lake. Schools of fish, the occasional mermaid, and even the giant squid glided past. In those moments, he could almost appreciate the ancient elegance of the Slytherin common room. As the house most tied to Hogwarts' founding, and with its historical connection to the school's governors, Slytherin's facilities were the most refined—superior to those of the other houses.
But this moment of peace brought little comfort.
The magical world was not a place that granted rest to those like him. Ever since Phineas began exposing Death Eaters, those old pure-blood families had begun to recover, to reassert their influence. It was only a matter of time before they turned their attention toward the remnants of the Black family.
Phineas knew he was a target.
He was not naïve. His very existence was a threat to the ambitions of others. As long as he and Sirius lived, others could not claim the Black family's vast estate and holdings. That alone made him dangerous.
The Malfoys. The Lestranges. They were the closest by blood and stood to gain the most if the last of the Blacks were removed.
It wasn't just the resentment of the younger students that troubled Phineas, though that too had grown unbearable at times. The real concern was that isolation meant vulnerability. Surrounded by apathy and hostility, he had no allies, no protection. His enemies could strike, and those nearby might do nothing at all.
That was why he needed to change things—and quickly.
That night, he sat before the fire and, lulled by the crackling embers and deep silence, slipped into sleep. It was the first time in weeks he'd felt safe enough to rest.
The next morning, he awoke sore and stiff from the sofa. But despite the ache in his muscles, his spirit was lighter. A night without worry was a rare gift.
Beneath the Christmas tree in the common room were several packages. Yes, even Phineas received gifts—at least publicly. In the wizarding world, appearances still mattered.
As the sole heir of the Black family and its immense fortune, many made a show of civility. Whatever schemes they plotted behind closed doors, they would still offer gifts or pleasantries. It was the nature of pure-blood politics: smiles on the surface, daggers underneath.
The largest package was from Cornelius Fudge, the newly appointed Minister of Magic. Clearly hoping to win favor with one of the most powerful names in the wizarding world, Fudge had sent an elaborate set of wizard chess. No doubt, in the Minister's eyes, Phineas was still a child, and a set like this would seem thoughtful and appropriate.
There were also gifts from Hogwarts professors, and even one from Narcissa Malfoy.
Narcissa, his cousin, was the only remaining member of the Black family living freely. She sent him a gift every year—never just a letter, but an actual gift. This year it was a thick, plush sweater. It was clearly store-bought, not hand-knitted like those of the Weasleys, but it was warm and well made.
Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick had both given him handwritten notes containing advanced techniques in Transfiguration and Charms—personal insights gleaned from decades of study.
Snape had sent a small bottle of intelligence-enhancing potion. Though not rare, the quality was exceptional. Phineas could tell that Snape had brewed it himself.
Professor Sprout's gift was perhaps the most unusual: a pot of white fresh herbs. Nearly extinct in the wild and incredibly difficult to cultivate, the plant was both rare and valuable.
But the most surprising gift came from Dumbledore.
Tucked within a small wooden box was a single phoenix feather. Along with it, a handwritten note:
"This is Fawkes' feather. As long as you inject magic into it, Fawkes can feel its presence. Please make good use of it."
Phineas narrowed his eyes at the message.
He didn't believe, not for a moment, that the feather merely served to summon Fawkes. More likely, Dumbledore could use it to track his location—or perhaps monitor his magical signature. Still, the feather could just as easily be used to call for help, should Phineas find himself in danger.
The truth lay somewhere between both possibilities.
The Dark Lord was still alive. Dumbledore knew it. Phineas knew it. When he handed over the Horcrux locket, there had been no doubt left between them.
Phineas had made his stance clear: he would never follow Voldemort. He had reported the Death Eaters. He had brought Dumbledore a piece of the Dark Lord's soul.
This gift—this feather—was more than a token of trust.
It was a quiet invitation. Dumbledore was recruiting.