Julian was hit by the familiar wave of weakness the moment he finished the ring, but Flitwick had anticipated it. A quick spell steadied him before he could stumble.
Julian didn't waste a second. He slipped the broom-shaped ring onto his finger and willed it to activate.
A Quidditch pitch appeared out of thin air in miniature form, hovering like a crafted illusion. Flitwick gasped, openly awed.
Julian ignored him and willed the game to begin. A slight weight settled onto his mind as two teams of faceless broom riders appeared in formation on the tiny field.
...
Once Julian fed in his own understanding, what he'd seen in matches and what he'd learned from books, the "players" began moving on their own.
Flitwick watched, astonished by how realistic it was. There were fouls. A point counter. The faceless figures played like proper opponents, based on Julian's admittedly limited grasp of higher-level tactics.
When he was satisfied, Julian removed the ring and placed it into Greed alongside the other gifts he'd prepared.
"What was that?" Flitwick finally asked, eager and a little breathless.
...
"I knew McGonagall loves Quidditch," Julian explained proudly, "so instead of giving her some useless trinket, I blended several fields of magic that normally don't mix. This lets her have a match at her fingertips whenever she wants."
He paused, the satisfaction showing more in his tone than his expression.
"The best part is that it'll adapt. The more she controls it, the more realistic it will become."
"Marvelous," Flitwick breathed, grinning. "Truly remarkable!"
"If it wasn't such a pain," Julian admitted, "I might've considered popularizing rings like that. But as you can tell, making even one is basically my limit for now."
"It's a pity," Flitwick said, still smiling, "but there is always the future."
"Indeed," Julian replied. "For now, I'm starving. It should be dinner time, so let's go fuel up."
Steve seemed to agree. He climbed onto Julian's shoulder immediately, ready to leave.
...
Student and professor chatted casually on the way to the Great Hall, unaware of the chaos unfolding elsewhere in the world.
Earlier that day in Germany, a group of twelve people had appeared outside an isolated town, one of them unmistakably Grindelwald.
"Today we take another firm step toward our goals and the betterment of all wizardkind," Grindelwald said. He didn't cast a spell, yet every follower heard him clearly, and their faces brightened with eagerness.
"Erect the barrier so we may begin," the Dark Lord ordered.
His followers scattered, running to surround the town, just like the last one they had sacrificed.
Once he was alone, Grindelwald looked toward the town and shed a single tear.
"I will not dare ask your forgiveness for my actions," he whispered, quiet but sincere, "and I only hope you can understand the reason for them."
Then he hardened his expression.
...
Dinner was grand, as it always was during the holidays. Roast turkey, thick rich gravy, and an array of festive food that felt almost excessive in its warmth.
There weren't many people in the castle. Most had gone home.
That didn't apply to the Weasleys, Harry, and a handful of others who stayed behind.
"I still don't get why you're still working so hard, Julian," Ron complained, exasperated. "It's the holidays. You know, time to relax!"
"Crafting helps me relax," Julian said with a shrug.
"UUUGGH! You are bloody hopeless!" Ron groaned, and the Gryffindor table laughed.
The atmosphere stayed cheerful through the meal, and even Dumbledore seemed unusually jovial.
...
That mood didn't survive the evening.
When Dumbledore returned to his office, the news arrived of what had happened earlier in the day.
What do you hope to accomplish, old friend? Dumbledore thought, sorrow weighing on him as he absorbed the report of yet another town sacrificed for an unknown purpose.
Fawkes tried to comfort him, but Dumbledore was exhausted and simply wasn't open to it.
...
Julian woke at dawn as usual and went for a quick hour-long jog around the grounds to wake his body properly.
Breakfast began the same way it always did. Food first. Then the owls arrived, delivering the morning mail.
The Great Hall fell into silence when someone read the headline aloud.
{DARK LORD STRIKES AGAIN! TERROR GRIPS THE WORLD!}
Having something like that happen so close to Christmas drained the warmth out of the day. The hall felt darker, heavier, and far too quiet.