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Mr. Popescu examined Charlie's pickup authorization and gave a light tap with his wand. The list slapped itself onto a filing cabinet, and several large drawers promptly flew out, landing neatly on the counter.
"Let's see… Weasley, W…" Mr. Popescu murmured softly. He pulled on a pair of white gloves and leaned down.
As soon as his hand reached inside, every item in the drawer rose into the air, rotating slowly before his nose.
"One parcel, oh, signed. From Molly Weasley," Mr. Popescu said, lifting the conspicuously large package and placing it on the counter. "Three letters. Two from Britain, one from Bulgaria. Here, and two more parcels… three. A subscription renewal form for Quidditch Today. Will you be continuing that next year? Two books, from the Welsh Green Reserve. A postcard from Egypt, signed Bill. Another parcel, from 'Trendy Potions' Apothecary, marked 'Flammable Liquid'…"
"Ah, the Fire-Booster Potion, for the dragons with poor flame regulation," Charlie said knowingly. "I thought they'd forgotten our order."
Mr. Popescu carefully placed that parcel on the counter, maintaining a prudent distance from the other mail.
"That is everything addressed to you."
"Brilliant," Charlie said happily, grabbing a package marked "Squeeze With Caution" and tearing it open. "What's this? Oh, I know who this is from."
He reached into the box, and a loud trumpet blast immediately sounded from within. Other customers turned in surprise, their bewildered gazes landing on the package in Charlie's hands.
"I knew it," Charlie muttered.
He pulled out an incredibly flamboyant magenta hat. A tiny golden trumpet was attached to the brim, which blared a loud fanfare anytime a hand touched it.
Charlie held it up for inspection.
"Not bad. I can wear it for the next celebration," he said. "Should pair well with the boots he sent last year." He glanced at Anthony and explained, "Those boots belch fire and sneeze."
"You mean the ones that set your letters on fire last year?" Mr. Popescu asked.
"The very ones," Charlie confirmed. "You have no idea how much our magical fire-suppression charms love them."
He managed to stuff the hat back into its box. The entire time, as his hand kept bumping the brim, it let out a series of high-pitched, protesting blasts. Several owls poked their heads out from the wooden doorways, looking annoyed and wary.
Charlie gathered the remaining packages and letters, clearly intending to open them back at the reserve. Meanwhile, Mr. Popescu had already piled the parcels for Andea and Delmar onto the counter like a small mountain. Charlie swept these into his bag as well, not even bothering to check for warnings like "Fragile" or "Do Not Jostle."
Then it was Anthony's turn. Most of his mail consisted of parcels, with only two or three letters. None were from the Ministry, a welcome relief.
Apart from colleagues and friends who had exchanged gifts with him last year, Mr. Lind had also sent something. A few packages bore no name, but he guessed a small one was from Dumbledore. The wrapping paper was addressed in that distinctive, looping, slanted script: To Henry Anthony.
Like Charlie, Anthony collected his little mountain from the counter, planning to open everything back at the reserve.
He also collected Hagrid's Christmas gift and watched as Charlie asked Mr. Popescu to send Andea and Delmar's things "same as last Christmas," pulling out his own bulging cloth bag.
"Need to send gifts to anyone else, Henry?" Charlie asked, staring down at the recipient list he'd already written. He thoughtfully tapped his chin with a quill. "I'd recommend posting them now."
"Already sent them," Anthony said casually. "One of the perks of living at Hogwarts."
He had asked Coco for help before leaving. With the house-elf's assistance, his colleagues should have found his gifts outside their bedroom doors this morning. The owl that had once flown through the Romanian Longhorn herd should have received its seven dead mice.
Coco had promised to send the gifts for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Mr. Lind before Christmas, and had flatly—somewhat offendedly—refused the gift meant for her. She had accepted the card and the gift wrap, though. Anthony had also prepared a "Toad Croak-O-Matic" for Neville.
"Did Fred and George get all A's on their exams last year?" Charlie suddenly asked.
Anthony thought back. "Hmm… no. One of the Mr. Weasleys got a P in Herbology."
"Had to be Fred," Charlie declared, crossing Fred's name off the list.
He took a fresh piece of paper and began writing with swift strokes.
Dear Fred, Hope you're well. Shame, you know what Mum said. I'll send George a bigger one; you can share. Merry Christmas! Love, Charlie P.S. Merry Christmas, George, I know you're reading this too. Say hello to Percy, Ron, and Ginny for me. Hope you're enjoying the Christmas break at the castle and not causing too much trouble that'll get you in hot water with Mum and Dad. Eat some extra Christmas pudding for me.
Charlie put down the quill, folded the letter, and handed it along with his list to Mr. Popescu.
"The letter goes to Fred Weasley. The rest, one each, same as for Andea and Delmar. Oh, wait." He opened his bag, squinted inside for a moment, and pulled out a huge, dark-green scale. "This one for George Weasley."
Mr. Popescu expertly took the three bags and dumped their contents out with a rustling clatter. The counter was instantly covered in scales of various sizes, each one gleaming with a cold, deep green light, all courtesy of the Romanian Longhorns.
Charlie met Anthony's gaze and shrugged. "Yeah, I know. We're an uncreative bunch of dragon researchers."
…
Back at the reserve, Charlie went off to find Andea and Delmar after arranging to meet Anthony in the afternoon. Hagrid's door was still closed, faint snores rumbling from within. Anthony's gifts for him still sat quietly on the floor.
He picked out Hagrid's presents, placed them by the telescope and books, and carried his own haul back to his bedroom.
The wraith chicken was perched on the nightstand, dozing with its eyes half-closed. The wraith rat and cat were awake, exploring the space under the bed together.
"Merry Christmas," Anthony said to the two dusty heads poking out from under the bed frame. He nudged the door closed with his shoulder and set the gifts on the small table in the room.
The wraith rat scurried out and clambered laboriously onto a chair. It stood on the armrest, lifting its nose to curiously sniff at the presents.
"Gift time!" Anthony announced to the rat, picking up a parcel. "Let's start with Arthur and Molly."
The cat's head withdrew. Rustling sounds came from under the bed.
Inside the package was a large bag of broomstick-shaped gingerbread biscuits and a short, warm Christmas letter, undoubtedly Mrs. Weasley's doing. Anthony ate one biscuit and immediately decided to ask her for the recipe once he was back in Britain.
Mr. Weasley had included a postcard with a Sphinx on it.
Muggles are amazing—they've put up a giant statue for the Sphinx! Bill says I've got it all wrong, but he can't really explain it either. Anyway, thought you'd be interested.
In another, unmarked parcel, Mr. Weasley had sent him a lone car tire.
A note was stuck to it: Don't tell Molly I sent this anyway. Merry Christmas. Arthur
Anthony prodded the tire. It was deflated, its deep treads filled with dust and yellow sand, with even a bit of rust near the rim. It looked like it came from a jeep that had been scrapped ages ago. He laughed and set it aside, deciding to get Mr. Weasley a model car next time.
Among his colleagues, Professor Sprout had sent more herbal tea. Professor Burbage gifted a pair of gloves and a set of challenging Muggle Studies test questions. Professor Flitwick sent a bottle of ink that changed color as you wrote. Professor McGonagall's gift was a more advanced treatise on Transfiguration theory and a toy mouse that scampered wildly around the room. The wraith rat watched it, confused.
To his surprise, he received a Christmas gift from Snape—a very small, stone-like object in a tiny glass vial. A "Merry Christmas" tag in green and silver hung from it, exuding a cold, perfunctory, mass-produced feel.
He found Snape's message on the inside of the wrapping paper (a piece of parchment): Bezoar.
"Right. Thanks," Anthony muttered. He hadn't gotten Snape a gift, which meant he needed to reciprocate quickly.
Dumbledore sent him a set of cookie cutters that changed shape and let out pleasant, bell-like chimes when they clinked together.
Lupin had also sent a Christmas gift: a stack of discount vouchers for Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, where he was temporarily working. Anthony tucked them away, making a mental note to send Lupin a belated gift.
Mr. Lind sent a very cool pair of goggles and, in his letter, extended another invitation for Anthony to visit.
"I think Mary (my wife) is hoping you might provide some solutions in advance for the trouble I'm likely to get into, but I suspect even magic would struggle there. I'm about to head out on another specimen-gathering trip (yes, again), so she's worried. Given my track record, I must admit her concern is entirely reasonable.
As Professor Sprout told me, I know Hogwarts professors are terribly busy once term starts, with little time to spare. But if you'd be willing to join, or if you happen to know any trustworthy wizard with free time and interest, please do let me know. I'd be most grateful. It won't be too far this time, just within Britain."
Anthony thought for a moment, deciding to consult his colleagues before replying. He had a vague notion he might recommend Sirius or Lupin, but on the other hand, he wasn't sure if they'd be interested in specimen collection. A werewolf didn't sound like the best travel companion for a Muggle botanist, especially considering Mr. Lind's luck.
Lost in thought, he opened another unmarked parcel. A cardboard cut-out of a fish fell out, its ink-drawn eyes staring comically up at the ceiling.
Dear Henry, Hope this reaches you. Last night, Nicolas caught a fish THIS big (another handwriting interjected beside it: "Without magic."). He insisted I inform everyone who knows he is 'adventuring' as soon as possible (another interjection: "Adventuring is dull. Britain is no better than France, worse even. Fishing was good."). We are returning to France for roasted snails. Wishing you and your pet chicken a Merry Christmas. Sincerely, Perenelle Flamel
Anthony picked up the cardboard fish, amusedly measuring its length with his hands. A sudden idea struck him.
He grabbed a pen and wrote: Dear Mrs. Flamel, So glad to receive your letter. I hope this reaches you. Please convey my congratulations to Mr. Flamel—that is indeed a very large fish. I wish to express my sincere gratitude for your and his help regarding the chicken. It remains in perfect condition. Enclosed is a hole it pecked. Furthermore, I'd like to venture a question: might Mr. Flamel have any interest in plant specimen collection? A friend of mine is preparing for a trip and seeking a companion. His every past collecting expedition has, without fail, turned into an adventure.
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