The Highland winter did not arrive with a whisper; it arrived with a roar of white. By mid-December, Raven's Cottage was nearly buried in drifts of powdery snow that sparkled like crushed diamonds under the pale moon. Inside, the magic of the Carter household shifted from the airy brightness of autumn to a deep, golden coziness that made my soul feel as though it were being wrapped in a warm wool blanket.
Christmas at the cottage was a sensory feast. Mother had spent the last week charming the garlands of holly and ivy to sing low, choral carols whenever someone walked beneath them. The scent of cinnamon, dried orange peel, and Mipsy's famous "ever-rising" yeast rolls permeated every corner.
In the center of the parlor stood a towering fir tree, plucked from the edge of the forbidden woods. It wasn't decorated with plastic tinsel or electric lights; instead, Father had charmed dozens of real, tiny goldfinches made of enchanted glass to flit between the branches, chirping in time with the holly garlands.
But the most important decoration was the one we had all been waiting for: the small, handwritten calendar on the fridge where Alex had crossed off every day until the twenty-first of December.
The sound of the carriage bells echoing across the frozen loch sent Alex sprinting for the door, nearly tripping over Barnaby. I followed at a more dignified pace, though my heart was hammering against my ribs.
When the door swung open, the freezing mountain air rushed in, but it was eclipsed by the sight of a figure in a heavy navy-blue cloak, a bronze-and-blue scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. Addam looked... different. He seemed taller, his posture more certain, and there was a new, sharp intelligence in his eyes that only Hogwarts can brew.
"Addam!" Alex shrieked, tackling him into a snowbank.
"Careful! Archimedes doesn't like sudden movements!" Addam laughed, holding his owl's travel cage high above the fray.
Once inside, the reunion was a chaotic blur of hugs and shedding damp cloaks. Mother fussed over his thinness—"Are they not feeding you enough at that Ravenclaw table?"—while Father beamed at the sight of his firstborn 's reunion.
That evening, we gathered in the parlor. The fire was roaring, fed by logs that burned with a magical, crackling blue flame. Addam sat in his favorite armchair, a mug of steaming cocoa in his hands, while Alex and I sat at his feet like disciples.
"The Great Hall at Christmas is something you wouldn't believe, Ash," Addam said, his eyes reflecting the firelight. "There are twelve trees, all decorated by different professors. Hagrid—he's the Groundskeeper, a massive man—brings them in on his shoulders."
He told us about the moving staircases that had a mind of their own, the ghost of the Grey Lady who drifted through the Ravenclaw common room with a tragic grace, and the library that felt like it went on for miles.
"And the classes?" Father prompted, leaning back with his pipe.
"Transfiguration is the hardest," Addam admitted, pulling his ebony wand from his pocket. He gave it a sharp, elegant flick toward a stray button on the rug. With a soft pop, the button puffed out into a tiny, perfectly formed tortoise that crawled slowly toward the hearth.
Alex gasped, poking the tortoise. "You did it! A real one!"
I watched the tortoise and felt that familiar pang of longing. I knew the theory—I had been sneaking reads of Addam's A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration all term—but seeing it done in our own living room made the reality of my three-year wait feel like an eternity.
"I saw the Knight Bus once, too," Addam added, lowering his voice. "And I think... I think I found a corridor on the third floor that smells like old ozone and ancient dust. Nobody goes there. I'm going to explore it more next term."
Later that night, after Alex had fallen asleep on the rug and Father had retired to his study to record Addam's progress, it was just the two of us. The glass goldfinches on the tree had settled into a quiet hum.
"You missed it, didn't you?" Addam asked softly, looking at me over his mug.
"The castle?" I asked.
"The feeling of it. I know you, Ash. You've been reading my letters until the ink faded." He reached into his cloak pocket and pulled out a small, silver-wrapped chocolate frog. "I saved this for you. It's a Rowena Ravenclaw card inside. I thought you should have the founder."
I took the chocolate, my fingers brushing his. For a moment, the "Ashlyn" who remembered another world faded away, replaced entirely by the little sister who loved her brother.
"Is it everything the stories say?" I whispered.
Addam looked around our cozy cottage—at the singing holly, our sleeping mother in the armchair, and the frost patterns on the windows that looked like lace.
"The castle is brilliant," he said sincerely. "But coming home to Raven's Cottage... this is the real magic. Don't rush it, Ash. The castle will wait for you. It's been there for a thousand years; it isn't going anywhere."
I leaned my head against his shoulder, the scent of Highland pine and Hogwarts ink clinging to his robes. He was right, of course. My story was unfolding exactly as it should—one snowy Christmas at a time.