The snow fell thick and fast over Diagon Alley, clinging to signs, windowpanes, and the slanted rooftops like icing sugar. Lamps glowed golden in the early evening haze, casting warm halos in the swirling white. Music floated from somewhere—a string quartet playing softly enchanted carols—and the scent of roasted chestnuts lingered in the air.
Hadrian stood beside Dora outside a window display of self-decorating Christmas trees, watching as one particularly enthusiastic pine tried to hang ornaments on a small, terrified owl.
"That one's got serious control issues," Dora said with a snort.
"Or maybe it's just ambitious," Hadrian offered, hiding a grin.
"Poor owl. It's always the innocent that suffer."
They moved on, their arms brushing now and then—not on purpose, not exactly. Dora was wearing a ridiculous knitted scarf patterned with tiny dancing reindeer. She'd claimed it was enchanted to bite anyone who insulted it. So far, it had snapped at two passing wizards and a disapproving mirror.
They were supposed to be shopping for decorations. That was the official purpose of their trip.
Unofficially?
It had turned into a competition.
"Alright," Dora said, dragging Hadrian into the nearest stall, where a display of enchanted snowglobes blinked cheerfully. "Challenge time."
He raised an eyebrow. "Is this about who finds the weirdest Christmas ornament?"
"Nope. New challenge. Most creative metamorphmagus transformation using a holiday theme."
Hadrian hesitated, but only for a second. "You're on."
She went first.
Her skin turned snow-white, her hair transformed into silver tinsel, and her ears reshaped into delicate points—like an ice-fae from a fairy tale. A halo of shimmering frost circled above her head. Shoppers nearby stopped to stare. She gave an exaggerated curtsy.
"Your turn, Potter."
Hadrian smirked.
He closed his eyes, concentrating—not just on the magic, but the image. Slowly, his features shifted. His hair turned into gently burning candle flames, flickering harmlessly. His eyes glowed green like Christmas lights. His jumper reformed into a knitted pattern of dancing hippogriffs in Santa hats.
Then, for good measure, he added antlers.
With tiny jingle bells.
Dora laughed so hard she had to clutch the side of the cart.
"Oh Merlin, stop. You look like a cursed fireplace with seasonal depression."
"I look festive," he corrected.
"You look like Christmas exploded and left you for dead."
Still giggling, she tugged him toward the next stall—enchanted snowballs that didn't melt and could be thrown indoors.
They spent nearly an hour sampling sweets from Sugarplum's, arguing over the superior Christmas biscuit (ginger versus shortbread), and daring each other to try enchanted mistletoe (they both chickened out at the last second and claimed it was "unsanitary").
Eventually, they ended up on a bench near Florean Fortescue's, sharing a steaming mug of hot cocoa. A gentle hush had settled over the Alley as the crowds thinned and the snowfall softened.
Dora was leaning back, pink-cheeked, her scarf tangled around her neck like a smug, woolly snake.
"That was fun," she said, nudging his boot with hers.
"Yeah," Hadrian replied quietly. "It was."
He looked at her sideways—at the easy grin, the speck of chocolate on her upper lip, the way her eyes still shimmered with mischief. She was loud and bright and ridiculous.
And for the first time in either of his lives, someone like that had chosen to spend time with him.
Just because.
Later that evening, as they returned through the Floo with their arms full of boxes, Dora bumped him with her shoulder.
"You've got potential, Doyle."
He blinked. "Potential for what?"
She winked. "Being a decent metamorphmagus. And maybe," she added, "someone who can actually make this holiday not completely suck."
"High praise," he muttered, hiding a smile.
"You're welcome."