~ A large bonus chapter.~
Chapter 29 — Christmas Holiday or Yule?
I board the Hogwarts Express with a small sigh of relief. The platform is bright with winter sunlight, and steam rolls around my ankles as I climb into the train. It is the start of the Christmas holidays, and I feel lighter than I have in months. Still, as I find an empty compartment and settle my trunk, my mind drifts back over the term that has just passed.
It is strange how quickly the first months slipped away. One moment it was the end of our first week; the next, we were already counting down to the holidays. Everything in between feels full, packed with lessons, people, and moments I did not expect.
I sit by the window as the train fills up. My breath fogs the glass a little. Snow lies across the field near the station, shining like someone sprinkled silver dust across it. It reminds me of the first morning frost we saw in October. I remember waking early that day and feeling excited for no reason at all.
I lean back, hands folded across my lap, and think about the term.
I liked almost every subject—more than I thought I would. Herbology made sense to me. Professor Sprout is our Head of House, and she teaches like everyone is capable of doing well if they only try. She is warm but firm, and she knows every plant like it is a relative. I learned quickly that if she says, "Don't touch that," then you really should not touch it. Jack Young made that mistake once with a Fanged Geranium, and he still has a small mark on his thumb.
Charms became another favourite. Professor Flitwick is so lively that his voice alone keeps you awake. He is tiny, cheerful, and so sure of what he teaches that even the hardest spells feel possible when he explains them. When he praised me for my progress with the Levitation Charm, I felt a warm glow in my chest that lasted hours.
Potions with Snape stayed difficult, but in a way I understood. He is strict, sharp, and often unfair, but his skill is unmatched. If every professor taught with his level of mastery, Hogwarts would be full of geniuses. Sometimes, when he looked straight at me, I wondered whether he remembered what we shared before I came to Hogwarts—those two quiet moments when he helped without question. He never shows a sign of it, but I know.
Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall is strict but fair, and she is patient when she needs to be. Defence with Professor Thorn is steady and useful. In all these classes, I never felt lost. The instructions were clear, and the more I listened, the more I found that magic was not impossible at all. It was like learning a new language from teachers who had spoken it all their lives.
Except History of Magic.
That class remains a trial.
Professor Binns, being a ghost, teaches like someone reading a list of facts carved into stone. He floats through the blackboard sometimes without realising it, and his voice never changes. Listening to him is like trying to stay awake while wrapped in a warm blanket after lunch. I tried, I really did. Even with the best sleep, even with good intentions, his lessons turn my eyes heavy and my mind slow.
Corin once whispered, "This class might be cursed." I think he was only half joking.
But even if one subject was dull, the rest of the term felt alive.
Flying class with Professor Hooch turned out to be far easier than I expected. She had the same sharp whistle and firm voice described in the books, but she taught clearly and never raised her tone unless someone's broom wobbled too high. We practised the basics of mounting properly, steady hovering, smooth rises and controlled descents. Nothing dramatic happened, and no one broke a wrist. The broom listened to me almost at once, as if it recognised my balance, and the air felt steady under my hands. It was enjoyable, light, and strangely peaceful. But even with that, I never once felt the urge to join Quidditch. The game didn't matter much to me but I don't want to waste precious time in practicing for games. I was perfectly content just flying in my own time, quietly, when the pitch was empty and the sky felt wide or whenever I had the time.
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My friendships grew in ways I had not expected during the first week. Now, a few months later, I realise how different my life has become. My Hufflepuff roommates—Jack Young, Callum Brookshire, and Corin Ashwell—became my closest companions. We studied together, ate together, and shared stories before bed. Sometimes we talked nonsense until we fell asleep laughing.
Some other Hufflepuffs were James Rhodes, who always has a steady opinion; Jake Harper, who likes to challenge every rule; Gabriel Iglesias and Luis, who keep the mood light; and Beatrice Haywood, quiet but sharp, became part of my daily life too. With them, the common room felt like a home.
Outside my House, I made friends in Gryffindor as well. Raj Kapoor is bold and curious and too much of a romantic person. Maximus Windwheel talks too loudly but means well. Sam Wilson is steady, kind, and better at flying than any of us. Missy Cooper, the twin of Sheldon Cooper, is trouble in a good way. She has a wild grin and enjoys making jokes that leave everyone confused except her. Sometimes she looks at me sideways, like she is planning something. I do not fully understand it, but I notice.
There was Jackie Chan too, a joyful blur who could somehow trip over nothing, roll, and stand up again like he meant to do it. He could do stunts that made us wonder if there are even bones in his body or not.
Ravenclaw had its own mix. Mila Scott and Priya Choudhary both helped me with notes whenever I missed something. Sheldon Cooper remained strange but clever; he speaks like a book walking around, but I grew used to it. And Natasha Romanoff, she is quiet, observant, and far more confident than anyone our age should be. There is something sharp in her gaze, but when she talks to me, she softens just a little. Enough to make me feel uncertain.
Then there is Slytherin. Lucian Bole is serious and controlled. Ela Miller keeps to herself but listens well. Nick Fury is silent, watchful and always brooding. His gaze sometimes felt like he had the burden of keeping the world at peace in his shoulders. Wanda Maximoff, though is sweet but carries a strange edge. She smiles at me in a way that makes me feel warm and uneasy at once. She acts shy sometimes, but her eyes linger long enough to say something else.
Between Wanda, Missy, and Natasha, I found myself confused more often than not. It felt like they each carried a small flame, one red, one gold, one blue, and every time I stood too close, the heat changed in ways I did not know how to read.
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Then there was Halloween.
Or Samhain.
The day came quickly, filled with decorations and sweets and laughter. Everyone dressed up, floating pumpkins lined the corridors, and the Great Hall glowed like a festival of lights. Children shouted, laughed, and celebrated. It should have been fun.
But when I woke up that morning, I felt something else.
The air had changed. The magic around me felt lower, quieter, heavier. Like the world itself had taken a deep breath and held it. Like the ground and sky were remembering something old. Something solemn.
I felt it in my chest, in my bones, like someone brushing cold fingertips along my spine. It was not fear. It was respect. Solemn. A sense that the day meant something more than sweets and jokes.
Yet everyone around me was cheerful.
Their laughter felt out of place. Too loud. Too bright. Each cheer and joke pressed against that solemn feeling inside me, and it made the air feel strange, like two songs playing at once in different rhythms.
I felt it distinctly, especially through all three special powers of myself, my mind, my body, and even my soul. It bothered me so much that I felt uncomfortable in my own skin. My mind, body, and whatever part of me could listen to magic all heard the same thing which Mother Magic was whispering, that this is not a day for shouting joy. Something is wrong.
At first I thought it was just me. But the feeling did not fade. It followed me through the day, through the feast, through the night. At night it was the most uncomfortable time. I could not explain it. It was like someone had changed the meaning of a word, and I was the only one who remembered the old one.
Thinking about that feeling later made me wonder about the old wizarding families who still follow ancient traditions. Deep, old ones that trace back hundreds or even thousands of years. They have honoured certain days and rituals for centuries, passing them down long before the first Magical school even existed. Those traditions must hold some truth. People do not hold to rituals and follow the same practices for generations and centuries without reason. There must be truth in them, meaning passed down even if no one remembers why anymore. But many modern witches and wizards, especially muggle-borns, grow up without that background. They celebrate Halloween the cheerful way Muggles, or non-magical people, do without knowing the deeper magic behind Samhain.
Maybe the wizarding families who still honour the old ways are not foolish. Maybe they know something everyone else forgot.
With Christmas—or Yule—approaching, I knew I had to understand what I felt. I did not want another day where my heart and the world around me disagreed so strongly. I needed answers.
So I thought about who I could ask.
Professor McGonagall? Too strict.
Flitwick? Too cheerful.
Sprout? Too busy.
Thorn? Too modern.
Snape? …No. Not for this.
Dumbledore? Definitely not.
Even the Hogwarts librarians would not have the answers I needed. They had books, but not the living memory of old magic.
That left only one place.
Gringotts.
The goblins have been part of wizarding life longer than many families. They keep older knowledge. They hold records, histories, and truths that do not appear in school textbooks. And they revere Mother Magic more than any bloodline or even their coins and craft.
If anyone could explain the quiet magic of Samhain, the meaning behind Yule, and other traditions and why I felt the things I felt, it would be them.
Of course, goblins expect something in return. But that is fair. Knowledge has value, and I am willing to give something for it.
So I made a plan.
I will go home with my parents as usual when the train reaches London. Then, tomorrow, I will go to Diagon Alley and walk straight into Gringotts.
I will ask my questions.
I will listen to what they tell me.
And I will sort out the strange knot of worry that has been sitting inside me since Halloween.
Outside the train window, I see students rushing past in groups. Some laugh. Some wave. Some run to find seats.
I sit still, watching them, feeling calm.
My first term at Hogwarts was good. It was busy, full of learning, full of people who surprised me. I made friends. I learned more magic than I expected. The professors were competent, wise, and steady. All except Professor Binns, but even he has his charm in a strange way.
Now Christmas—Yule—is coming. And with it, answers. I hope.
End of Chapter 29 — Christmas or Yule?