Christmas at Hogwarts was a quieter affair this year, though the Great Hall still glowed with golden light, wreaths of holly and enchanted icicles dancing merrily above long-abandoned student tables. Dumbledore, swathed in a robe of star-sprinkled velvet gifted to him by a French ministry official with questionable taste, sat in his private office surrounded by a mountain of gifts.
Fawkes crooned from his perch, blinking lazily at the scene as the Headmaster picked up the next box.
"From the Magical Cultural Attaché of Austria…" Dumbledore murmured, removing the gilded wrapping to reveal a dense book titled "The Harmonious Principles of Bureaucratic Diplomacy."
He chuckled softly, flipping open the front cover to reveal a note:
"In appreciation of Hogwarts' continued neutrality and your wise leadership. Perhaps we might meet in Vienna this spring to discuss interschool initiatives?"
Dumbledore set it aside, murmuring "Fascinating bedtime reading," before turning to the next item.
A rather large, misshapen parcel bulged ominously under its own weight. It contained what appeared to be a set of violently striped robes in alternating red and lime green.
Attached was a note written in spidery cursive:
"To the only man brave enough to wear fashion fearlessly. Warmest wishes, Millicent Bagnold."
Dumbledore grinned. "Ah, Millicent. You always knew how to make an entrance — and force others to make one too."
Next came a series of greeting cards from prominent wizarding families, each loaded with platitudes:
"May the holiday season bring you peace… and clarity regarding Wizengamot reform."
"In hopes the new year brings opportunity — particularly for ambitious young wizards in need of recommendations."
"Season's greetings, and do remember our family's historic contributions when reviewing future school grants."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Subtlety, thy name is not Fawcett or Parkinson."
The pile slowly shrank as he sorted the politically loaded from the well-meaning. Occasionally, he paused to admire the finer ones — an elegantly carved candy dish from Professor Sprout, a cozy scarf from Minerva in subdued Hogwarts colors, a thick brewing almanac from Horace Slughorn with a cheeky note that read "To the only man I know who drinks lemon drops like potions."
Then, at the very bottom of the stack, was a small, plain parcel. No grand sealing wax or imported paper. Just neat handwriting, a modest brown wrapper, and a short note pinned to the top:
To Professor Dumbledore,
Happy Christmas.
— H.P.
Dumbledore stilled.
Slowly, carefully, he unwrapped the parcel. Inside were… socks.
Soft, simple, hand-knit woolen socks. Thick and warm, dark blue with little yellow moons.
He held them in his hands for a long moment.
For all the decades of ornate gifts, influence plays, and heavy expectations wrapped in ribbon, these socks — so plainly given, so clearly meant only to comfort, to give warmth — struck something deeper.
Fawkes let out a soft trill, as if sensing the quiet shift in mood.
"Do you know," Dumbledore said aloud, "that I once told Flamel that I saw in the Mirror of Erised a simple pair of socks? I don't think he believed me. But…"
He held the socks against his chest for a moment, then gently folded them and placed them on the side table with care, as if they were spun from gold.
"Thank you, Hadrian," he murmured, lips curved into a wistful smile. "Wherever your path takes you… it's good to know kindness is part of your magic."
Outside, snow fell softly against the high windows of the castle, and inside, a very old man felt — for a moment — a bit younger.