~ 💎 WEEKLY POWER GOALS 💎🔥 60→1ch | 100→2ch | 200→5ch ⏰ Resets Monday! Thanks!
Even after Anthony sat down on his bed, he could still hear the intermittent singing. The Wraith Chicken had replaced the lamp, perched on the nightstand. The cat sat bright-eyed on the pillow, ready to dive under the covers at any moment. Anthony lifted the blanket and found the Wraith Mouse already curled in the gap between the bed and the wall, only a small, translucent, fuzzy back showing.
He nudged the mouse with a finger, waited for the cat to settle into its preferred spot beside his legs, then waved his wand to extinguish the fallen lamp. He wished the Wraith Chicken goodnight, lay down, and fell asleep, his thoughts drifting hazily to leaving his gift at Hagrid's door tomorrow.
…
When he woke in the morning, the room was cold as a tomb. He'd clearly forgotten to light the fireplace. Again.
Anthony sat up, amused, fished out the Wraith Mouse who'd somehow gotten into his slipper, and lit the hearth.
Outside, the world was bright. Beyond the compound fence, snow still lay thick over the ground. Many researchers were already up and about. Anthony could hear their footsteps, their cheerful calls of "Merry Christmas!", and the dragging scrape of something heavy across the frozen earth.
He opened his door and, not very surprised, found a roughly wrapped gift on the floor. He placed his own prepared gift—a pair of Quidditch-viewing binoculars with slow-motion and replay functions—outside Hagrid's closed door. Under it, he slid a last-minute copy of The Trainee Researcher's Handbook. Then, he settled on the sofa and opened Hagrid's gift.
It was a large bag of fudge. Each piece felt like a small, rock-carved sculpture. Or, more accurately, just like a rock. Anthony tried one. It was perhaps better suited as a Christmas gift for a Longhorn, a dragon that would genuinely appreciate rock cakes.
He set them aside, deciding he'd follow the dragon's lead and soften them with fire later.
After a quick wash, he stepped outside.
A few people, bundled in reserve leathers, were hauling two or three charred trees. White steam rose from their heads. Four small, wooden ponies were also hitched to the load, hooves scrabbling slightly on the ice as they strained forward.
"Merry Christmas, Professor Anthony!" one researcher called out, pausing for breath.
"Merry Christmas," Anthony replied. "What befell these poor trees?" He remembered this man had been stationed behind the mulled wine cauldron last night, steadily tipping platefuls of orange slices into the brew.
"Nothing special," the man said, rolling his neck and shoulders. "We accidentally celebrated a bit too late. So late that Patrick woke up."
Another chimed in, "He wanted to join our party and wish us Merry Christmas. Morning, Charlie! Love the hat."
Anthony turned. Charlie was ambling over, yawning. His shoulder-length red hair was a tangled mess, waving in the bitter wind like dead grass on a bare wall.
"What?" Charlie said, confused, reaching up. "Oh."
An expression of mingled amusement and annoyance crossed his face. He gave his hair a rough rake, barely subduing one wildly upright tuft. "Merry Christmas. What'd I miss? Who's angry?"
"Patrick and Delmar," the first man said. "Patrick torched three beeches, two oaks, and half a fence. These are the leftovers. Our protective measures worked perfectly. But Delmar's still furious."
"Why?" Charlie asked. "Didn't we perfectly predict what Patrick would do? Thought we deserved a medal for Divination."
"Because a few people cheered when they saw the smoke. They were drunk. Thought it was another bonfire at the medical field and wanted to charge over with their drinks."
Charlie's eyes widened. "No. They didn't."
"They did," said a man at the front of the hauling group. "Pity. Everyone's sacked. Losing your job on Christmas…"
"Better than losing your life to stupidity later," the first speaker said dismissively. "Honestly, sounds like a suitable Christmas gift to me."
"Fair point," Charlie conceded after a moment's thought. He quickly changed the subject. "Hagrid awake yet, Henry?"
Anthony shook his head. "Don't think so. Why?"
Charlie's face broke into a grin. "I'm heading to the post office in the nearest town after breakfast. You know, check for presents and such. Fancy coming?"
"Absolutely," Anthony said.
…
Charlie brought a brand new reserve leather satchel to the dining hall.
Throughout breakfast, Anthony watched him exchange constant greetings. Delmar and Andie gave Charlie a full set of protective gear and a tin of broomstick polish respectively. Charlie, in turn, pulled two brand new wand holsters from his bag.
Delmar squeezed one, then held it under his nose and took a deep sniff. "Dragonhide," he confirmed.
"Obviously," Charlie said. "Fireproof. Had Patrick test it. If our dear Evanster taught us anything, it's that you never want to set your wand—or its holster—on fire."
"Brilliant," Andie said with satisfaction, pulling up a chair. She took some bread, scooped an enormous dollop of jam with her knife, and spread it. "When are you off to the post office?"
Charlie eyed her. "Why?"
"Pick up my mail," Andie said, briefly setting her knife down to unclip her own leather pouch from her belt. She slapped it on the table. "And post these to the addresses on this parchment."
Delmar looked up. "Same here." He deposited another pouch in front of Charlie.
"Again?" Charlie said, taking a few more bites of cold chicken. "The post office workers don't bite, you know."
Delmar impatiently stabbed his fork into a sausage. "Are you going or not? I could just post my own gifts."
"Alright, alright," Charlie said, picking up a cup of a weirdly colored, viscous drink. He downed it in one go. "Off I go. Henry?"
Anthony, long finished, had been leaning back listening. He stood and grabbed his outer robes. "Ready?"
Charlie nodded, collecting Andie and Delmar's pouches. "Sure."
He led Anthony to a door beside the dining hall. The moment it opened, a wave of hot air hit Anthony's face. Flames flickered through the crack, as if a dragon resided within. Peering over Charlie's shoulder, he saw a small room containing only a massive fireplace that took up an entire wall and a few metal buckets. Fire roared within, casting dancing shadows on the plain white walls.
Charlie walked calmly to the hearth, opened a bucket, and grabbed a large handful of Floo powder.
"Used the Floo Network before, Henry?" Charlie asked.
"I have," Anthony said.
The next second, Charlie threw the powder into the fire. Emerald flames shot upward. He stepped into them—
"Wait!" Anthony said. "The address, Charlie. I might not be able to pronounce a Romanian address clearly."
Charlie grinned at him from within the flames. For a moment, he looked strikingly like one of his twin brothers.
"You'll be fine, Henry," he said.
Anthony was bewildered. "What?"
"I have faith in you," Charlie reassured him. "I remembered it on my first day here."
Anthony felt zero reassurance.
"But—"
The flames in the fireplace deepened, turning a dark, almost blackish green.
"Really have to go now. See you in a bit, Henry."
"Wait, Charlie—"
"Post. Office," Charlie enunciated loudly and clearly. He vanished.
…
Anthony stumbled out of a fireplace and saw Charlie waiting for him.
"Like I said," Charlie remarked. "See? You did remember."
"Yeah. Thanks," Anthony said, looking around.
This was undoubtedly a magical post office. Above the heads of wizards and witches in various robes, owls flew everywhere. The room hummed with soft hoots. The opposite wall was hung with a large clock and had several wooden doors leading to unseen spaces. Owls who'd finished deliveries constantly ducked through them, while rested owls emerged, shaking their feathers.
Four or five workers stood behind counters. The busiest were helping owls untie letters and parcels from their legs, reading out addresses loudly. Corresponding drawers in a massive filing cabinet kept popping open, only to snap shut with a thud after the mail was tossed inside.
A few other workers were dealing with customers—collecting or sending post—switching rapidly between Romanian and English.
"No, sir, you must present a trade license or a gifting certificate to mail a Longhorn horn."
"I've checked. There's no post for you from Southampton. I'm sorry, please don't cry, they haven't necessarily forgotten your Christmas gift… perhaps… uh, I don't know, we've never lost a letter."
The crying customer looked up hopefully. "Perhaps your owl was eaten by a dragon?"
"No. Impossible," the worker stated firmly.
The customer resumed crying and was gently ushered to the back of the line by other, impatient patrons.
"Merry Christmas, Mr. Weasley," said the worker in front of Charlie.
"Merry Christmas, Mr. Popescu," Charlie said, evidently familiar with him. "Could you check for post for Charlie Weasley, Andie Radu, Delmar Kumar, and Henry Anthony… oh, and add Rubeus Hagrid to that."
As he spoke the names, a nearby quill was already scratching them onto a piece of parchment.
"Of course," Mr. Popescu said. He took the parchment and tapped it with his wand. It floated up, hovering above the filing cabinet. A few owls resting on the cabinet turned their heads, scrutinizing the names with serious eyes.
Mr. Popescu produced two more pieces of parchment and handed them to Charlie. "The proxy forms. You know the drill."
"Yes, yes," Charlie said, scanning the documents quickly before grabbing a quill and signing at the bottom.
Anthony peered over. All the names Charlie had just spoken were listed on the agreement. By its terms, if Charlie failed to deliver regular mail within five days or urgent mail within one day of collection, or if he opened any letter before delivery, his name would be placed on the International Wizard-Owl Postal System blacklist. Every owl post office would refuse him service thereafter.
"So if anyone I collect for disappears on me, I'm hunting them down for a duel," Charlie said without looking up, finishing the final flourish on the 'y' of 'Weasley'. "Even if the recipient got eaten by a dragon, I'm making sure that dragon eats the letter too."
Mr. Popescu clarified, "If contact is genuinely impossible for verified reasons, you can appeal to the International Wizard-Owl Postal Headquarters. They'll lift the blacklisting after investigation."
Anthony asked curiously, "How do they verify?"
Mr. Popescu suddenly grinned. "They try to contact the recipient personally. If—and I'm just saying if—they receive an appeal stating our dear customer, the intended recipient, is resting peacefully inside a dragon—Merlin bless him… or her… well, Headquarters will do their utmost to find that specific dragon."
"Really?" Charlie asked.
Mr. Popescu glanced sideways—his colleague was packing a box full of Christmas bells, filling the post office with jingling—and tried to keep a straight face as he lowered his voice. "If the appeal letter words it that way. I know of a client, coincidentally also British, who was quite agitated in his appeal, telling Headquarters his friend had gone missing fighting Death Eaters. Just because he wrote 'ask You-Know-Who', Postal Headquarters is still trying to locate You-Know-Who for verification."
Charlie said, "I'm guessing they haven't found him."
"Unfortunately. Or fortunately. Yes," Mr. Popescu said. "But after confirming the disappearance was genuine, Headquarters temporarily removed the gentleman from the blacklist. Temporarily. They still need that confirmation from You-Know-Who."
"A shame. They just missed their chance," Anthony remarked.
If they'd gone to Hogwarts a bit earlier, they could have consulted Professor Quirrell.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
📚 BOOK COMPLETED ON PATREON!📚
This story has reached its conclusion on my Patreon!
🔥 Full story available now
💎 Exclusive bonus content & early access to new books
👉 Join my Patreon community today!
✨patreon(.)com/GoldenLong
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━