A Strange Christmas Gift
It was a slow day at the office, one of those rare, uneventful mornings when the bustling Ministry of Magic seemed to move at a sluggish pace. Harry Potter leaned back in his chair, glancing around the Auror office with a mix of boredom and restlessness. Papers shuffled, quills scratched, but nothing of significance seemed to happen. A peaceful day, most would say. Harry almost groaned at the thought.
Maybe he’d ask Hermione to lunch later, he mused. It would be a nice break from the monotony. She’d probably be buried under a mountain of paperwork in the Office of the Minister, working harder than ever to build a reputation. It had been nearly a year since she told him and Ron that she wanted to become the Minister of Magic someday. It was a shock at first, but then, it made perfect sense—Hermione always had a vision for the future. That was when she decided to leave the Aurors and start working in the Minister’s office to carve her own path. Now, the only one left in the Auror department from their trio was him.
Harry sighed, glancing at his desk. Staring back at him was the latest “gift” from Ron and George’s ever-expanding joke shop empire: a set of enchanted quills that automatically sorted, categorized, and highlighted reports. They were supposed to save time, but so far, the quills seemed more interested in doodling little dancing Hippogriffs in the margins of every document. The entire Auror department had been outfitted with them, courtesy of Ron’s insistence that it would “revolutionize paperwork management.” Harry stifled a grin, imagining the chaos if Kingsley found out how much time they were actually wasting.
“Fascinating, aren’t they?” came a familiar voice from beside him.
Harry looked up to see his partner, Owen Bramble, peering over at the quill’s latest masterpiece—a rather garish drawing of a bowtruckle riding a broomstick. Owen was a quiet, serious sort of bloke, with an unnerving habit of jotting down every word Harry said as though it were gospel. He was competent, Harry supposed, but about as interesting as watching grass grow.
“Yes, really life-changing,” Harry replied dryly.
Owen nodded eagerly, missing the sarcasm entirely. “I’m sure they’ll become standard issue across all departments soon. I mean, if you use them, then it’s got to be a good idea, right?”
Harry forced a smile, suppressing a sigh. This was the problem with being The Chosen One—even the most mundane office supplies turned into revolutionary artifacts in the eyes of some. He rubbed the back of his neck, casting a longing glance toward the clock. Perhaps a visit to Hermione would be a good idea after all.
Harry stood up and grabbed his coat, deciding that a visit to Hermione’s office would be a welcome distraction from the sluggish pace of the day. Maybe he’d convince her to take a break and have lunch—if she wasn’t buried in work, that is.
He stepped into the bustling hallways of the Ministry, weaving through the sea of robes and hurried conversations. The Office of the Minister was a few floors up, so Harry took the stairs, wanting to clear his head. As he turned the corner onto a less crowded corridor, he nearly collided with a tall figure coming from the opposite direction.
“Malfoy?” Harry blurted out, stepping back.
“Potter!” Draco greeted with a polite nod, a small smile on his face. “In a hurry, I see. Off to save the world again?”
Harry blinked, caught off guard by the casual tone. “Just heading to see Hermione,” he said slowly.
Draco nodded, still smiling. “Good for you. I’m running late, so—catch you later?”
And just like that, he was gone, disappearing down the corridor with a quick stride and a friendly wave.
Harry stood there, staring after him, confusion prickling at the back of his mind. That was… odd.
Harry shook off the strange feeling left by his brief encounter with Malfoy and made his way up to the Office of the Minister. The halls were bustling, filled with Ministry employees carrying stacks of parchment and holding hurried conversations as they rushed from one meeting to the next. When he finally reached Hermione’s office, he found her standing outside, talking to a familiar figure.
Octavius Flint, the Undersecretary to the Minister, was leaning slightly toward Hermione, gesturing animatedly with his hands. Harry could hear his voice, overly enthusiastic as always, echoing down the corridor.
“Ah, Auror Potter!” Flint called out the moment he spotted him, his expression brightening. “Come to visit our star, have you?” He gestured toward Hermione with a broad smile. “I keep telling her, she’s too dedicated. Works harder than anyone else in this building.”
Harry glanced at Hermione, who gave him a polite smile before turning back to Flint. “Don’t let anyone hear you say that, Octavius, they’ll think you’re playing favorites.”
He laughed, almost bouncing on his heels. “I don’t have favorites, we’re just lucky to have you. But”—he turned back to Harry—“I think it’s time someone drags her out of here for a break, don’t you agree, Auror Potter?”
Harry blinked at the sudden shift. “Er, well… I was planning on taking her to lunch, actually.”
“Excellent, excellent. You two go ahead—I’ll finish up the draft you were working on.” Flint gave her a quick, approving nod and then winked at Harry.
Harry watched him go, eyebrows raised. “He’s… enthusiastic, isn’t he?”
“That’s one word for it,” Hermione murmured, shaking her head with a small smile. “But he means well. Just a bit too… eager, sometimes.”
“Well, good thing he convinced you. I was just thinking about dragging you out myself,” Harry said, smiling as he offered her his arm.
Hermione accepted with a smile. “Let’s go before he changes his mind and comes back with more drafts.”
The two of them made their way out of the Ministry and headed toward a small café tucked away in a quiet corner of Diagon Alley. Once they were settled, Harry leaned back and gave her a teasing look. “So, Hermione, are you going to postulate as a candidate for Minister this year?”
Hermione laughed, shaking her head. “Hardly! That won’t happen for a few more years at least. I’m still learning everything about the job.”
Harry grinned. “You say that now, but I’m sure you’re already making plans.”
“Of course I’m making plans,” Hermione said lightly. “But there’s a difference between planning and running for Minister.”
“Fair point,” Harry conceded. He glanced around the café, noticing how quiet it was. “It’s oddly dull for being so close to Christmas, don’t you think?”
Hermione tilted her head thoughtfully. “How so?”
“Usually this time of year, people are causing all kinds of trouble trying to get everything done before the holidays,” Harry explained. “Instead, it’s like everyone’s too calm. I expected to be breaking up at least a few fights by now.”
“Maybe you should enjoy it while it lasts,” Hermione suggested, smiling softly. “It’ll probably get chaotic soon enough.”
“Yeah, probably,” Harry agreed, though his tone was doubtful. He paused, then glanced at her curiously. “What about you? Everything crazy in the Minister’s office?”
Hermione shrugged. “Nothing too hectic yet. Octavius has a mountain of things lined up for January, though. Just planning for next year’s projects.” She leaned forward, her expression turning serious. “What about the Rookwood case? Any developments?”
Harry shook his head, his gaze darkening slightly. “No new leads. It’s completely gone cold.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed. “That’s… frustrating. How long has it been now?”
“Almost two years,” Harry said quietly. “You remember when it started—the Rookwoods, then the Vellums. We thought it was a pattern targeting pureblood families, but then the Cottons disappeared too. All Muggles, except for the eldest daughter—she’s a witch. That threw the whole theory out the window.”
Hermione nodded slowly, her thoughtful expression deepening. “So there’s been nothing since then?”
“Nothing. It’s like the case just… died. Every trail leads nowhere.” Harry shrugged, but the frustration was clear in his voice. “Robards still has us keeping an eye out, though. Just in case.”
“It’s strange,” Hermione murmured, staring down at her teacup. “Three families disappearing without a trace… and not a single clue in all this time.”
“Yeah,” Harry agreed quietly. “Strange.”
They lingered a little longer, enjoying the quiet comfort of each other’s company, but eventually, lunch came to an end. Harry stood up and offered Hermione his arm again as they made their way back to the Ministry.
“Thanks for pulling me out of there,” Hermione said with a warm smile.
“Anytime,” Harry replied sincerely. “We should do it more often.”
With a quick hug, they parted ways, Hermione heading back to her office and Harry returning to the Auror department. As he stepped inside, he immediately noticed a change in the atmosphere. The office, which had been quiet and sluggish before lunch, was now buzzing with activity. Aurors hurried from desk to desk, talking over each other, and the enchanted intercom crackled with voices relaying status updates.
Harry made his way in, his curiosity piqued as he caught snippets of conversations—something about spells going off in public, and people getting rowdy in Diagon Alley.
“What’s going on?” Harry asked as he approached his partner, Owen, who was in the middle of a rapid-fire discussion with two other Aurors.
Owen looked up, surprised to see Harry back so soon. “Oh, hey, Potter. Just some chaos over in Diagon Alley—a couple of parents losing it in one of the shops. I think someone threw a hex or two.”
Harry raised his eyebrows. “That serious, huh?”
“Yeah, you know how people get this time of year,” Owen replied with a wry smile. “It’s the holiday shopping frenzy. Something about a new toy being out of stock. We’ve got it under control, but they need backup until the Obliviators can clear out the Muggles who saw it.”
Harry glanced around at the sudden flurry of movement and the Aurors gearing up. He wouldn’t usually handle such a minor incident, but it was a stark contrast to the slow morning he’d had. And if everyone else was caught up in it…
“I’ll lend a hand,” Harry said, grabbing his coat once more.
Owen blinked. “Really? I mean, you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Harry interrupted lightly. “Send me the details, and I’ll head over.”
Owen gave him a quick nod. “Alright, I’ll let the team know you’re coming.”
Harry strode out of the office, feeling a small flicker of anticipation stir. It wasn’t much, but it was something. After so many years of dealing with the worst of dark wizards, a little chaos like this felt almost refreshing.
By the time he returned to the office an hour later, his mood was noticeably lighter. The excitement—no matter how ridiculous—had cleared the sluggishness from his mind. He settled back at his desk and looked down at the stack of reports waiting for him.
Smiling faintly, Harry picked up his quill and got to work.
-
The days drifted by in a blur of mundane tasks. Harry spent most of his time at his desk, finishing up his remaining reports and sifting through the cold cases that had been collecting dust for months. The Rookwood case was still as frustratingly vague as ever. Each file he picked up seemed to lead to another dead end, and by the end of each day, the lack of progress left him with a gnawing sense of dissatisfaction.
If that weren’t enough, the Ministry had become a pressure cooker of holiday stress. With Christmas shopping reaching its peak, the Auror department was frequently called to help contain small outbreaks of chaos in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade—mostly disputes over the season’s most sought-after toys. Though it wasn’t the sort of work he’d trained for, Harry found himself volunteering to help whenever he could. At least it kept him occupied.
But between the chaos and the routine, something else began to nag at Harry’s mind. Over the past few days, he’d started noticing Malfoy more often than usual. Before, their encounters had been limited to formal Ministry events—balls, galas, the occasional press conference—where they would exchange light banter, just enough to maintain the polite façade they’d established over the years.
Yet now, for the third time this week, Harry spotted him roaming the Ministry halls. It was unusual. Malfoy almost never left his department unless he had a specific reason, and even then, he usually made a point of avoiding public areas. This time, Harry caught sight of him near the Department of International Magical Cooperation, speaking quietly with a tall wizard Harry didn’t recognize.
“...only a few more weeks,” Harry heard Malfoy saying, his tone measured. “After New Year’s, I’ll be off to America to continue my research.”
The other wizard nodded curtly. “Make sure everything’s wrapped up before you go, then. We can’t afford loose ends.”
Harry ducked back around the corner, heart pounding slightly as he pressed himself against the wall. Why was Malfoy suddenly so visible? And why on earth was he heading to America? Research? He knew Malfoy’s work involved some complex magical theory—something about enchantment stability, if he remembered correctly—but a research trip overseas seemed… extreme.
He shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts. It wasn’t his business, really. They might have formed a tenuous civility over the past few years, but it didn’t extend to prying into Malfoy’s affairs.
Still, the strange feeling lingered.
By the time Christmas Eve arrived, the Ministry had settled into a more relaxed atmosphere. Most departments exchanged small gifts that morning, a tradition to celebrate the holiday since the next day would be a public holiday. Harry received a few presents from colleagues—a box of Honeydukes’ finest chocolates, a wool scarf from Owen (“Can’t have our best Auror catching cold, can we?”), and a small bag of enchanted coffee beans from a cheerful clerk in Magical Law Enforcement who claimed it would keep him awake through the most tedious of stakeouts.
He also found a neatly wrapped parcel on his desk with a note attached: “Hope they fit, Potter. Keep safe.” It was from Ernie, one of his former Auror partners who had transferred to a different department last month. Inside, there was a pair of enchanted gloves that adjusted to the perfect size as soon as Harry slipped them on.
He smiled at the thoughtful gifts, but as he glanced around the office, his eyes landed on one that stood out. Harry’s gaze narrowed as he unwrapped the small, sleek parcel to reveal a black box tied with a silver ribbon. A neatly folded note was attached to the top:
To Potter. Merry Christmas.
DLM.
Harry paused, staring down at the elegant script. Malfoy’s handwriting was neat, precise—just like everything else about him. He’d been sending gifts every Christmas since he’d started working at the Ministry. The thing was, while every other present Malfoy gave was thoughtful and slightly expensive, Harry’s gifts had always been… weird.
Harry set the note aside, his mind drifting back to that first Christmas after Draco joined the Ministry. Hermione was still an Auror back then, sitting at the desk beside his, but Ron had already left to run the store with George. Still, Ron was well-connected as a valuable provider of products to various Ministry departments, and to Harry’s surprise, he’d received a gift as well.
*****
“Burn them,” Ron had declared with a scowl, eyeing the wrapped parcels that had appeared on Harry and Hermione’s desks one December morning.
“Ron!” Hermione shot him a disapproving look, clutching her own parcel with a frown. “We can’t just burn them.”
“He’s still trying to buy everyone’s favor with money, just like always,” Ron insisted, crossing his arms stubbornly. “Probably some scheme to worm his way into better standing.”
“Then why would he send you a gift?” Hermione asked pointedly, arching an eyebrow. “You don’t even work here anymore.”
Ron opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly at a loss for an answer. After a moment, he shifted in his seat, grumbling. “I still say we burn them.”
“Well, I’m opening mine,” Hermione said resolutely, tearing through the paper.
Ron and Harry both watched as she pulled out a beautiful, old copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, the leather cover embossed with golden filigree. Hermione’s mouth fell open slightly, her eyes wide with shock. “This… this is a rare edition. They don’t even print this anymore.”
Ron shifted again, glancing uncertainly between his own parcel and Hermione’s astonished face. With a reluctant sigh, he finally tore through the wrapping paper. He gasped as he lifted the contents—a limited-edition collectible from his favorite Quidditch team.
“I… er… wow.” Ron turned the item over in his hands, as though half-expecting it to disappear. “I guess… maybe he’s changed or something?”
Harry had frowned then, still skeptical. Whatever game Malfoy was playing, he wanted no part of it. But he opened his gift anyway, curiosity winning out. Inside the box was a bottle labeled Gnome Repellent Spray.
Ron stared at it for a full three seconds before bursting into laughter. He laughed so hard he fell off his chair, clutching his sides as he howled. “Oh—oh, Merlin—gnome repellent—!”
Harry just stared, feeling thoroughly bewildered. Even Hermione couldn’t suppress a giggle.
“I think… it’s supposed to be a joke?” she offered tentatively.
“Yeah, hilarious,” Harry muttered, rolling his eyes.
*****
Since then, Harry’s Christmas gifts from Malfoy had followed the same baffling pattern. While everyone else received thoughtful, personal items—a custom magical planner for Hermione, a selection of high-quality wizarding snacks for Ron—Harry’s gifts continued to be strange. The next year, he’d unwrapped a set of mismatched socks enchanted to change colors every hour. The year after that, he received a small potted plant that sang Christmas carols in a grating, off-key voice that sounded suspiciously like Kreacher.
And last year… Harry’s lips twitched at the memory. Last year’s gift had been the most absurd of them all: An In-Depth Study of the History of Muggle Paperclips. A book so mind-numbingly dull that Harry had nearly thrown it out before realizing it was from Malfoy. He’d ended up keeping it on a shelf, if only to remind himself of Malfoy’s infuriating humor.
But this…
Harry turned the sleek fountain pen over in his hands, examining the delicate engraving of his initials—HJP—along the polished surface. It was a beautiful gift, undeniably expensive and, for the first time, completely normal. No hidden jinxes, no singing charms, no bizarre magical quirks.
It was… thoughtful.
Harry frowned, half-expecting the pen to transform into something ridiculous the moment he touched it to parchment. But it didn’t. It wrote perfectly, smoothly—just like any well-made pen would.
It remained a perfectly normal, expensive, and personal gift.
And that made it the strangest one of all.