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HP427- Yule
🕑 Added 2025-05-15 00:41:26 +0000 UTCThe next two chapters might feel a little repetitive, but I still wanted to include the Potter Yule. Last year, Harry missed it because of the Tournament, and in the years to come, it will take a backseat to more pressing matters. I didn’t want to skip over it entirely. That said, I did speed through a few parts, especially the dances.
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The next day, by evening, Harry and Petunia were already back in Britain. Snow still clung to the roof of Longbottom Manor, though the paths had been cleared by the elves earlier that morning. This year, the celebration was held in the Garden Hall—a sprawling, enclosed wing of Longbottom Manor warded against the cold, strung with enchanted garlands and filled with warm light, with an enchanted ceiling covering the sky. The smell of roasted lamb and honeyed root veg drifted from the kitchens.
Harry stood near the front entrance, checking over the last list in his hand. Ward reports were clean. Goblins were posted at all agreed points—discreet but visible enough to deter any idiot who thought Yule was a good time for funny business. The elves had done their part too—guest rooms done, charms refreshed, heating spells steady.
Petunia walked past him, straightening a wreath on the archway, muttering, “It’s crooked again.”
Harry didn’t look up. “That one’s cursed. I gave up.”
Neville jogged down the stairs two at a time, half-dressed, hair still wet. “Harry! You seen my—”
“Cufflinks are on the mantel,” Harry said, glancing briefly at him. “Other side. Fleur moved them.”
Neville darted off with a “Ta,” nearly slipping on the rug in his socks. Augusta, already dressed in a regal burgundy set of robes that probably cost more than most vaults held.
“Honestly, Neville, it’s Yule, not a pub crawl. Look presentable.”
“Getting there, Gran!” he shouted back, stumbling into the sitting room.
Harry smiled, slipping the parchment into his coat. Fleur came next, heels clicking softly, robes done up in that understated French way that still managed to turn heads. She raised an eyebrow at the hallway.
“Is Neville in one piece?”
“Barely,” Harry said.
She adjusted her bracelets. “Good. Wouldn’t do to have him fall apart before the guests.”
The first arrivals came just as she said it. The floo shimmered green, and Harry moved toward it with Petunia beside him. Augusta followed, with Neville and Fleur close behind. The door opened to admit Susan Bones and her aunt Amelia first. Susan wore soft red robes trimmed with silver; Amelia, predictably, looked ready for both dinner and a Ministry interrogation.
Amelia gave Harry a short nod before moving past him to greet Petunia. The two hadn’t seen each other in months—Petunia had spent most of the term in France, and Amelia had been drowning in Ministry work since stepping in as Minister. They clasped hands and exchanged a few quiet words as soon as they saw each other.
Susan, meanwhile, beelined straight for Harry with a grin and pulled him into a quick hug. Her robes smelled faintly of cinnamon.
“You look beautiful,” Harry said with a teasing smile.
Susan went pink, laughing as she stepped back. “You look handsome as always too,” she replied, smoothing his collar.
Before Harry could answer, more guests began arriving through the Floo. The Zabinis were next—Elisabetta leading, of course, with Blaise following at a slight distance like he was bracing for impact. She kissed Harry on both cheeks, far too close, eyes amused.
“Darling, I hope you’ve saved me a seat.”
Harry chuckled, “Of course, Mrs Zabini. You’re a guest of honour.”
Elisabetta narrowed her eyes. “How many times have I told you to use my name?”
“Lost count,” Harry said easily. “But I quite enjoy winding you up.”
She tutted under her breath, amused. “You’ll regret that when I seat myself next to you all night.”
Harry gave her a look. “As long as you don’t drag me into another debate about wand regulation and corset charms."
“No promises,” she replied, breezing past into the hall.
Blaise followed with a nod and a quiet, “Evening,” looking mildly horrified his mother had already made herself at home.
Next came the Greengrasses—Cyrus in tailored navy robes, Helena in an elegant shade of bronze. Daphne and Astoria followed just behind, both dressed sharp but understated. Daphne wore black with subtle green threading, and Astoria had gone for soft blue.
“Cyrus, Helena—welcome. Hope the journey wasn’t too dull.”
“It was fine,” Cyrus said as he shook Harry's hand, “Astoria insisted we Floo rather than Portkey.”
Helena gave Harry a once-over. “You’ve filled out, dear."
Harry kissed Helena’s hand lightly, with a smile. “And you look more radiant each time we meet. We ought to bottle that and sell it—could fund half of Hogwarts.”
It’s natural, dear,” Helena said with a laugh. “Believe me, I’ve tried to bottle it
Harry gave an exaggerated sigh and shook his head. “Tragic. Think of the market.”
That earned a chuckle from Cyrus and a faint smile from Daphne. Before anyone could say more, Astoria launched herself at Harry with a grin.
“First dance is mine,” she declared, arms around his neck before he’d fully straightened.
Harry caught her without stumbling, patting her back. “You’re not even pretending to wait for the music, are you?”
“Claimed it weeks ago. Don’t try wriggling out of it now.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry said. “Just keep your heels off my toes.”
Astoria beamed, then stepped back as more guests arrived through the Floo. The room was filling out fast now—robes in every colour, laughter and chatter bouncing between garlands and candlelight.
The Davises were next—Jonathan with his usual easy smile, and Marianne right behind him, already chatting with Augusta. Tracey followed, elegant in midnight purple. She gave Harry a once-over and smirked.
“You clean up alright,” she said.
Harry gestured toward her dress. “Matching your attitude tonight, I see.”
“Careful, or I’ll ask for the second dance too.”
He held up both hands. “One Black Widow per night is my limit.”
That earned a snort from Daphne, who sauntered over to Tracey and murmured something that made Tracey grin wider. The two slipped off into the crowd together, heads angled close, already eyeing the next conversation worth interrupting.
The next arrivals came fast—doors swinging, Floo sparking green as names and faces rolled in. Cho Chang,Padma Patil, Pervati Patil and Lavender Brown, walked in with their parents, all in elegant winter silks charmed against the cold, their laughter half-muted by the rush of introductions around them. Cho gave Harry a wave; Padma a quick hug. Rest followed in.
Next, the Abbotts appeared—Eleanor’s hair in an elegant twist, Thomas’s hand placed lightly at her back. Hannah followed close behind, “Harry!” she said, cheeks rounding in a grin. “Happy Yule.”
“Same to you,” Harry said, nodding to her parents. “Glad you made it.”
Eleanor smiled and brushed a bit of soot off her sleeve. “Couldn’t miss it. And I brought something for Petunia. From the bakery.”
Petunia greeted them, thanking for the gift. Behind them, the Floo flared again. Xenophilius Lovegood stepped out with Luna floating just behind him, as if she’d walked through air rather than flames. Xenophilius gave the room a sweeping look and nodded at Harry. “Ah, Harry. As glorious as ever. Good work.”
Harry gave a quick laugh. “Cheers, Xenophilius. Grab a seat before someone nicks it.”
Luna slipped past her father and hugged Harry without hesitation. “You smell like chocolate,” she said.
“Probably the croissants,” Harry replied. “They’re everywhere today.”
Luna gave a small nod like that made perfect sense and tugged her father toward the drinks table without another word. The Weasley clan arrived through the Floo in one puff after another—Arthur first, followed by Molly with a tray of wrapped parcels floating behind her, then the rest spilled through in varying states of readiness. The twins were already cracking jokes before they’d even dusted off the soot. Percy nodded stiffly and drifted toward the drinks. Ginny beamed and hugged Harry at once.
Ron came last, half a step behind, shoulders slightly hunched like he’d rather be anywhere else. Professor McGonagall was next, her tartan shawl impeccable as always, sharp eyes sweeping the space with quiet approval. Sprout came in right after her, laughing with Flitwick over some charm demonstration that had apparently exploded on a student earlier that week. Snape nodded once, walking in.
Tonks arrived just after the professors, dressed in plum-coloured robes that clashed with her hair—currently bright blue—but somehow worked. She was followed closely by her parents. They greeted Augusta and exchanged pleasantries with the rest before finding their place near the drinks table.
Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott walked in together, minus any parents. They looked unbothered by the lack of family escort. By now the hall was full—light flickering off charmed icicles dangling from the ceiling, music low but steady from a quartet of enchanted violins near the far wall. The smell of roasted meat had intensified, warming the space with something rich and familiar. Plates clinked, conversations overlapped, the steady rhythm of a house used to celebration.
It was as much politics as it was celebration. Some exchanged business cards, others tested the waters for joint ventures. The Potter Yule had turned into a hotspot for connections, and everyone knew it. Harry, naturally, caught more than a few glances. The Long Green Pot had taken over the continent's potion market in the last year alone, pushing even older names to the edge. Dragon Delight chocolates weren’t far behind—its latest seasonal run had sold out in under a week. Add to that the Potter Grant Fund for Student Invention, and suddenly every young inventor with a wand and half a brain wanted an audience with him.
It had, by now, become something of a Potter Yule tradition—students pitching magical inventions for investment. Two years ago, at the very first event, it had been more casual—mostly his friends from Hogwarts.
This year, the floodgates were open. Half a dozen young witches and wizards were already eyeing the presentation table near the back, a low platform cleared just beside the refreshments. No official announcements, no sign-ups—just tradition. Everyone knew to wait until the dinner lull, then bring their best.
Harry caught sight of Dennis Creevey hovering near the table, clutching a wooden box like it might explode. Beside him, a third-year from Beauxbatons was whispering furiously to her older brother in French, holding up what looked like a levitating grooming brush. Another lad from Durmstrang was already fiddling with a set of enchanted boots, heels clicking oddly against the floor like they were desperate to dance.
There were plenty from abroad—China, India, Africa, South America—all here with prototypes tucked into enchanted boxes or floating beside them, eyeing anyone with potential of funding, whether from Harry or anyone else in the crowd.
Right on cue, Dobby popped in at the head of a cluster of house-elves, all dressed in neatly pressed festive wraps, some even wearing matching scarves. They marched in like an organised guild, which they rather were now. Dobby beamed when he caught sight of Harry and made a beeline for the table to his left.
“Harry Potter, sir, we is arriving just as scheduled!” he said, puffed with pride. “Even Grinkle brought pudding from the kitchens!”
Harry nodded, shaking his hand. “Good to see you, Dobby. Sit.”
Dobby squeaked, clearly pleased, and began organising the other elves at the table. The the goblins arrived next. Grimbletack led the delegation—two senior investors behind him, one of whom Harry recognised from the last audit at Gringotts. They didn't so much as blink at the gathering storm of noise, food, and enchanted snowflakes still drifting from the ceiling.
“Lord Potter,” Grimbletack said with a curt incline of his head. “Your event grows.”
Harry gestured to the table on his right. “Your seat’s waiting. Drinks should already be circulating. Talk to Bucky if they aren’t up to standard.”
The goblin gave a grunt that might’ve been approval, then stalked off with his group. Several others followed in. The last notable arrival came just as the third round of drinks went round.
A faint shimmer swept the far end of the garden hall—like someone had nudged the wards gently. Firenze entered first, A dozen centaurs followed behind, dressed plainly but walking like they owned the land. Which, in parts, they probably still did.
A few guests blinked when the centaurs walked in, but most didn’t even flinch. This was the Potter Yule, after all. By now, people were used to their presence.
“Evening,” Harry said, stepping forward to greet them.
Firenze inclined his head as Harry shook his hand. The other centaurs spread out around the edge of the hall, keeping mostly to themselves but making no move to hide.
“I was hoping you’d make it,” Harry said. “Still no luck with the merfolk?”
Firenze gave a slight shrug. “They declined. Said they didn't want to leave the lake."
He’d considered inviting the merfolk this year. Worked out how they could fit, where to place the tanks, even how to warm the water just right. But they’d made it clear they weren’t interested in mingling with surface folk. Harry didn’t push. No point forcing diplomacy on a crowd that didn’t want it.
By now, the garden hall was in full swing. Laughter echoed from every corner, champagne flutes floated freely, and the elves kept food trays moving like clockwork. The centaurs had settled along the outer edges, mostly quiet, observing.
Harry, half-watching the chaos unfold, slipped another biscuit onto his plate and wandered toward the drinks table. Petunia was already there, casually sipping what looked like eggnog. From somewhere near the main table, Luna’s voice cut through. “Mr Creevey is vibrating.”
Harry glanced over. Dennis was, indeed, bouncing slightly on his heels, wooden box still clutched tight. He looked like he might either faint or launch into orbit. The presentation table filled up quicker than expected. This year’s turnout had outdone the last two, clearly. It wasn’t just Hogwarts kids now—plenty had come from Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, Mahoutokoro, and even a few from smaller private institutions across Europe. The quality had gone up, too. Harry could tell just by the way they handled their gear.
