“Feeling a bit maudlin this Christmas, then?” asked a sarcastic voice from one of the other nearby portraits. Phineas Nigellus arched a thin eyebrow and continued. “Really, Dumbledore, I never took you as one to drink to his misery.”
Albus took a slow sip and let the dark liqueur warm his throat. “I’m merely toasting the holiday,” he replied lightly. “Care to join me?”
Phineas seemed to ponder the invitation for a moment, before he nodded curtly. “I believe I will, in honor of the holiday.” He walked out of the frame of his own portrait and was soon standing in the painting behind the desk with Dumbledore.
The most recent headmaster handed Phineas a heavy snifter and raised his own glass. “Cheers,” he offered, and together they sipped their brandy.
“So what’s on your mind, Albus?” asked Phineas after a moment. They moved toward a set of chairs by the fire, and settled in for a night’s talk.
“Too many things, Phineas. Too many things,” Albus replied contemplatively.
“The boy?” Phineas couldn’t help it when his lip curled at the mention of Harry Potter; he still had his doubts about the so-called Chosen One, in spite of Dumbledore’s confidence.
“Yes, Harry is often on my mind,” said Albus. “I know he is at the Burrow, however, where he is much loved.”
Phineas snorted at the word Dumbledore continued to toss around like candy, and took a long sip of brandy. “What else then?” he continued. “What of Severus Snape?”
Albus sighed. “I do not know. I must confess that I worry about him, after all he’s been through.”
Phineas narrowed his eyes at Albus’s uncharacteristic confession. “He’ll manage, Albus. He’s kept the charade going this long. How is the Order faring without an inside source?”
Albus studied the fire for a moment. “Remus Lupin leads them well, but the task they face is almost overwhelming. Voldemort continues to gain strength, even more than during the first war. There have been a great many losses.” He sighed again as he remembered Dedalus Diggle and his shooting stars, and Kingsley Shacklebolt with his booming voice, two lives lost to the ongoing fight.
“Lupin was a good choice to take over,” offered Phineas. “They are doing the best they can. I suppose now it is up to the boy.”
“I only wish . . .” Albus trailed off, and smiled to himself. “Ah well, it does not matter.”
Phineas set down his drink and pierced Albus with a sharp stare. “You don’t like being dead, do you?” he asked bluntly. “It’s your first Christmas in this portrait and you’re feeling sorry for yourself.”
Albus raised his eyebrows at the other man. “Hardly, Phineas. I of all people understand the necessity for death. I’ve accepted my passing. I mourn for those left behind.” At times he despaired for them, knowing what they faced without him.
Phineas snorted again. “You’re so magnanimous, you -” He was cut off by the abrupt sound of the chimney coming to life in the empty office below them. They both stood and moved toward the edge of the portrait, staring down at the hearth. Green flames erupted in the fireplace, and to their surprise a large man stepped nimbly from the ashes into the circular office.
He was almost as tall as Hagrid, though quite a bit more round. He had a bushy white beard and deep green eyes that twinkled as he looked around the room, grinning. He was dressed in garish robes of red velvet, trimmed with white fur, and carried a large sack over his shoulder. He wore a matching red hat, which he removed as he entered the office, and black buckled boots, which he stomped clean on the rug.
“Kristopher!” exclaimed Albus, a smile lighting his own face. “It’s so good to see you, old friend. It has been far too long!”
The large bearded man glanced around the vacant office looking puzzled. “Up here, giant,” offered Phineas Nigellus dryly. The man finally found the portrait behind the desk and strode over.
“Hello Phineas,” said the man in the red robes with a rumbling laugh. “Still as grouchy as ever, I see.” He reached a hand toward the portrait, and it passed right through the canvas, reappearing in the painting to shake Phineas’s hand.
“Albus,” said the man, and his hand moved through the portrait to clasp his friend on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you again, at least.”
“I hope you’ll join us, Kristopher,” invited Albus, stepping aside and indicating the way toward a third chair now set by the fire.
“Don’t mind if I do!” exclaimed Kristopher with another deep laugh. “Let’s see if I can recall how. . .” He pulled his hand from the portrait and took out a wand. He tapped himself on the head, muttered a quiet spell, and instantly appeared in the painting with the two former headmasters. “That is still one of the strangest charms I’ve ever done,” he remarked as he looked around the portrait, then back into the spacious office.
“Not very many people can work the spell,” said Albus, pouring his guest a drink. “I’m glad you remembered.”
He handed Kristopher a drink, which the large man promptly Transfigured into a steaming cup of tea. “Sorry, Albus, I’m on the job,” he explained as he took a small sip. The three men went to the chairs by the fire.
“Job?” asked Phineas, eyeing the larger man’s vibrant red robes. “Would that have anything to do with your unusual . . . costume then?”
Kristopher laughed merrily. “It would indeed. You don’t think I’d wear something this fancy just for fun, do you?”
“You’ve always been rather larger than life,” Phineas replied dryly.
“And now I’m a legend!” exclaimed Kristopher with another hearty laugh.
“Not the Muggle myth?” asked Albus curiously, taking a sip of his brandy as he studied the large man.
“None other,” answered Kristopher, inclining his head proudly.
“How remarkable,” said Albus. “I haven’t thought about him since I was a child. For a while I believed quite strongly in him.”
“Indeed,” said Phineas, sounding irritated. “Not being well versed in Muggle traditions myself, I’d love to know what’s so remarkable about this brilliant outfit.”
Albus exchanged a wry look with Kristopher. “I’m Father Christmas,” explained the larger man.
“You don’t say?” asked Phineas skeptically. “And do you perhaps know the tooth fairy?”
“I met him at the last staff meeting,” answered Kristopher with a wink. “He’s a right jolly bloke, great sense of style.”
Phineas snorted and drained his glass.
“I’d ask what’s new around here,” began Kristopher, eyeing Albus, “but I’m not sure it’s really necessary.” Phineas made a huffing noise as he stood to refill his snifter.
“I’m afraid much has changed since we last met, Kristopher,” answered Albus.
“Obviously,” said Kristopher, his face sympathetic. “What exactly happened?”
“It is a long story, and not one for the holidays,” replied Albus quietly, staring into the fire for a moment before turning back to Kristopher with a smile. “So tell us instead what brings you to Hogwarts.”
“I bear gifts for the students, of course,” said Kristopher with broad smile. “It’s Christmas morning, that’s my job now. I have something for both of you as well.”
He reached into his sack and drew out a finely made pair of gloves and a small book, both of which he handed to Phineas. “These are for you, Phineas. I hope you enjoy them.”
Phineas inclined his head as he examined the dark leather gloves. “They are quite nice, thank you.” He opened the book and raised his eyebrow when he saw the title. “Songs of Innocence and of Experience? How unusual.”
“I think you’ll like them, even if you never admit it,” replied Kristopher. “William Blake had a good deal of insight to offer through those poems, and your skeptical mind could use a bit of broadening in these times.”
Albus laughed at the affronted look on his friend’s face. Kristopher laughed with him as he dug deep into his sack once more. He reached farther and farther, until his head was in the bag and he was searching through it with both hands. “Yours is here somewhere, Albus,” they heard his muffled voice rumble, as if from far away.
“It’s really not necessary,” said Albus, standing to refill his drink. “I am content.”
“Bollocks,” said Kristopher, untangling himself from the bag. “Everyone gets something from Father Christmas, whether they know it or not.” He carried two items in his hand, and held out a small blue bundle first. “These are for you. I know your fondness for them and knitted them myself.”
Albus took the soft package and found a warm pair of fuzzy socks. He laughed as he sat down again. “Thank you, Kristopher. I have always said that socks are better than books!” He set down his drink and pulled on his new gift. There was an intricate pattern woven into the blue socks, and his feet instantly felt warm and relaxed. Albus smiled with delight. “Did you knit some sort of charm into them?” he asked.
Kristopher touched the side of his nose and smiled. “I tried. The first pair bit my toes; these simply warm them. It was a bit tricky, really, not being much of a knitter myself.”
“They’re perfect!” exclaimed Albus, leaning back and closing his eyes contentedly. “Thank you very much.”
“I have another gift for you, Albus,” said Kristopher, and his voice grew serious. Albus opened his eyes and sat up straighter in his chair. His breath caught in his throat as Kristopher held out an exquisite glass ornament in the shape of a golden phoenix.
“Where did you get this?” he asked softly, taking it gently and turning it over in his hands.
“From the one you gave it to six years ago,” replied Kristopher. “I bring word from Severus Snape. He is safe and continues to watch over the boy. I know your trust was difficult to give, Albus, but it was well placed. He remains loyal and I have faith that he will do the right thing when the time comes.”
Albus sighed softly. “I know, Kristopher. I never doubted Severus. I fear it was harder for him to trust me at the end. I can only imagine how he must feel.”
“He is finally starting to understand, I think,” replied Kristopher. “So trust that you did the right thing.”
“That is far easier said than done,” said Albus. “I carry the burden of an old man’s many regrets.” He gazed in wonder at the beautiful ornament. He had given the glass phoenix to Severus the first year that Harry had come to Hogwarts. It had been a difficult time for Severus, and Albus had sensed that the potions master had needed a sign of reassurance. The phoenix represented Albus’s trust in Severus, and now it came back to him as a reminder to keep that faith. As he held the delicate ornament, he felt a strange warmth course down his arm and through his body. Dimly he thought he heard the soft echoes of Fawkes’s beautiful song somewhere out on the snowy grounds.
“You must trust yourself as you trust others, Albus,” said Kristopher quietly. “I know you have faith in Severus, and in Harry.” Albus glanced up in surprise. “I’m not as out of the loop as I pretend to be,” explained the large man. “If you believe in them as you say you do, then you must let go of your regret, your guilt, and trust the decisions you have made. Only then can your faith in them be true. Only then can your love shine through.”
Albus stared at Kristopher as if taken aback at the man’s words. Phineas Nigellus watched them both, astounded at the deep exchange. Albus looked down at the phoenix once more, and closed his eyes. After a long moment he opened them with a smile. “You are right, of course,” he finally said, his voice barely a whisper. “It is not Severus whom I question, or Harry whom I doubt, but myself. It is difficult to watch them go on alone, without me.”
“You must believe in them, as they believed in you,” said Kristopher simply. “They will do what they need to do, just as you did.”
Albus nodded slowly. “Yes, I did. And they will as well, though I hope with far less regret than I.”
“Do not despair, Albus,” said Kristopher, and he stood to leave. “The phoenix is a reminder: faith, loyalty, and love surround you, and always will, in life or death.”
Phineas and Albus stood as well. Kristopher shook Phineas’s hand before grasping him in a solid hug. Phineas grimaced as he patted Kristopher awkwardly on the back, and the larger man finally stood back with a grin.
“May you always remain your skeptical, scornful self, Phineas,” he said, his voice light again.
“And may you find a new job soon,” retorted Phineas, shaking his head as he once more took in the giant’s eccentric costume. “Red is definitely not your color.”
“I think I’ll keep this one for a while, thank you,” answered Kristopher with a last wink. He turned to embrace Albus, encircling him so tightly that the former headmaster seemed almost to disappear into his red robes.
“You make a fine Father Christmas, Kristopher,” Albus said, finally stepping back. “You’ve given me a priceless gift. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome,” said Kristopher, replacing his hat and taking up his sack. He moved over to the fireplace. “When you find your heart has doubts, you have but to remember the gift you once gave, and have faith once more.”
Kristopher reached into the pocket of his robes and withdrew some grey powder, which he tossed into the hearth. “I think I’ll take the shortcut,” he grinned before stepping into the fireplace. “Happy Christmas, gentlemen!”
“Happy Christmas, Kristopher,” said Albus, and Phineas inclined his head.
With a shout of, “The Burrow!” the fireplace erupted into green flames, and Kristopher disappeared to continue his holiday rounds. Albus and Phineas returned to their chairs by the fireplace. Phineas began to flip through the book of poetry he had received, while Albus idly examined the golden phoenix by the light of the fire.
Suddenly Albus stood, still clasping the glass bird in his hand. “Excuse me, Phineas. I have some gifts of my own to distribute this morning. I’ll be back in a short while.” He strode out of the portrait, leaving the other man to his volume of poetry. Phineas huffed to himself, poured another drink, and settled down to wait. It was almost an hour before Albus returned, looking pleased. Phineas noticed immediately that the glass phoenix was gone, as were the blue socks. He merely raised his thin eyebrows, and Albus raised his in return.
“Happy Christmas, indeed,” said Albus, and he settled down once more, a smile on his face.
Far away, a young man woke several hours later to find a pile of presents sitting at the foot of his bed. He pulled on his glasses and ran a hand through his messy black hair as he began to open the gifts. He was startled when he came to a beautiful glass phoenix, exquisitely detailed, its red and gold color reflecting the morning sun shining through the window.
The young man studied it with serious green eyes for a long while, puzzled. Soon a smile came over his face, as if he grasped something about the strange gift that only he could understand. He set the glass bird down gently on the side table next to his bed.
“Thanks, Professor,” he whispered to the air.
Even farther away, a thin, greasy-haired man woke in a cold, dingy room. He glanced around in disdain, as he did each morning, and began to rise. He stopped when he saw a small gift at the foot of the bed. Sitting down again, he frowned as he opened the lumpy package. Inside he found a pair of cozy blue socks, knit with a complex pattern of spells.
The man studied the odd gift with glittering black eyes, his heart pounding strangely in his chest. With a small shrug, he pulled on the warm socks, and noticed immediately that they warmed his feet wonderfully well. He stood and glanced around the empty room.
“Thank you, Professor,” he whispered to the air.
A/N: This story was written for the December Challenge extra credit prompt about Santa Claus. It had to feature a canon character meeting Santa Claus during 7th year. I knew Albus would probably be friends with such a man, and sensed that he needed some reassurance during his first holiday in the portrait. The glass phoenix ornament is from the story “A New Year’s Gift,” which I wrote for a Ravenclaw challenge.
Many thanks to Grey Lady for her quick and thorough beta work on this piece! She did a wonderful job and I really appreciate her help with this story!