Through the Pages of Time: Joey’s Hogwarts Tale

When Filch returned, his expression was nothing short of murderous. It seemed that dealing with the enchanted armor had put him in a particularly foul mood. He strode over to inspect the trophies that Joey and the twins had cleaned, running a brand-new white cloth over them, searching for any trace of dust. Finding none, he scowled even deeper.

"Go on! Stuff your faces as if you'll drop dead if you skip a meal!" he snarled, waving them off. "I swear, you little brats should have been born in the Middle Ages—then you'd know what real punishment looks like! Locked in the dungeons for disobedience instead of this easy, brainless labor! No punishment at all!"

With their backs to Filch, Fred and George exaggerated his speech in perfect imitation, complete with over-the-top expressions. Fred even mimicked the nervous twitch of Filch's right eye.

Joey bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. She knew better than to provoke Filch when he was already furious—it wasn't bravery, just common sense.

Once dismissed, they made their way to the hospital wing to deal with the words still scrawled across Joey's face. Madam Pomfrey took one look at her and chuckled before handing over a small bottle of shimmering potion.

"This will clear up the mess—and even take care of freckles, if you're interested," she added with a knowing smile.

By the time they arrived at dinner, the Great Hall was nearly empty. Most students had already gone home for the holidays, leaving only a handful behind. There were fewer than ten students at the table: four Weasley brothers, Joey, one Slytherin, one Ravenclaw, and three Hufflepuffs.

Only one long table remained in the hall, with the professors seated on one side and the students on the other. As Joey and the twins entered, Professor McGonagall gave them a pointed look, signaling for them to take their seats. Then she tapped her wine glass, announcing the start of the Christmas banquet.

The professors' glasses filled with red wine, while the students' glasses brimmed with various juices.

Professor McGonagall suggested that everyone say a blessing before they began, starting with her. The professors kept their words brief—until it was Professor Trelawney's turn.

She delicately held her wine glass, her fingers trembling with excitement. "Today, I gazed into my crystal ball," she announced dramatically, "and saw a black dog looming in the shadows!" She gasped. "A terrible omen! And where is Professor Dumbledore tonight? Could it be that he is unwell?"

As she spoke, she accidentally spilled her wine onto the robes of Professor Alfic, who pursed her lips and scooted away, clearly unimpressed.

Professor McGonagall sighed impatiently. "Professor Dumbledore has important matters to attend to. I assure you, he is not sick. Honestly, making Dumbledore sick would be as likely as—" she paused, then smirked, "—as Christmas being canceled for wizards."

"Pfft—!"

The Gryffindor and Hufflepuff students couldn't hold back their laughter. Joey even had to lower her head onto the table to compose herself.

She had always wondered—what exactly were wizards celebrating at Christmas? The birth of an opponent? Maybe they were just relieved to finally have some competition!

Professor Trelawney, clearly insulted, glared at McGonagall and stubbornly refused to say a blessing, choosing instead to sulk over her drink.

To lighten the mood, Professor Flitwick stood up and began singing a Christmas carol, his tiny stature making him appear no taller than when he was seated.

As the room filled with music, the lone Slytherin student muttered, "Juice? Really? This occasion calls for something stronger."

With a flick of his wand, the juice in his goblet turned to red wine.

Joey, intrigued, whispered to her own glass, "Butterbeer."

Nothing happened. Instead, a faint, shimmering text appeared on the rim of the goblet: First-years are not allowed alcohol.

She scowled. You... absolute—! Frustrated, she shoved her cup aside.

Fred nudged her foot under the table. "Look at Professor Snape."

Joey glanced up.

Professor Snape was cutting into his steak with an expression of pure disdain. When McGonagall called on him to say a blessing, he ignored her entirely.

"Severus," McGonagall chided, clearly in good spirits, "say something! It's the holidays, after all!"

Snape's frown deepened. He wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin before finally speaking, his tone icily sharp.

"Though I fail to see what there is to celebrate on such an idiotic holiday," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "if you insist on hearing a blessing, I shall provide one. I hope that everyone here has good luck in the coming year, that all of you remain safe and sound..." He paused, then added with a sneer, "And even if you end up in Azkaban, I trust your precious headmaster will find a way to fish you out."

Joey noted the way his jaw clenched when he mentioned Azkaban, every word laced with cold fury.

Fred leaned over, whispering, "What do you think? Do you reckon Snape's heartbroken again? He looks like he's about to reduce that steak to dust."

Joey frowned, thinking back. Snape liked Harry Potter's mum, right? Then she tried to recall anything about his supposed relationships... and realized that some of what she remembered might've come from fanfiction.

"How do you know he's heartbroken?" she asked instead.

"Oh, I know!" George jumped in, grinning. "Rumor has it that Snape confessed his love to Dumbledore and got rejected!"

Joey's jaw dropped. "What?"

"Yeah! A Hufflepuff overheard them arguing in a corridor. Snape was supposedly heartbroken, saying something like, 'You just prefer him.'"

Joey was so stunned that she didn't even react when Fred popped a cherry into her open mouth. She spat it out and threw it at him before turning back to George.

"Merlin's beard—so this isn't the original story I was thrown into... It's a fanfic!"

Charlie, seated next to them, overheard the entire conversation. He sighed, relieved that Snape was too far away to hear—otherwise, these three troublemakers would've been obliterated.

Later That Night

Joey was sound asleep when an insistent peck-peck-peck on her forehead woke her.

She groaned, rolling over. "If this isn't life or death, I swear I will stew you—"

The owl, Meow, merely dropped an envelope onto her bed and stared at her expectantly.

Grumbling, she tore it open. A small model broomstick fell out, finely crafted with Nimbus 1700 engraved on its side.

Joey gasped, her exhaustion forgotten. A broomstick model?!

Piecing together the torn letter, she read:

Dear Little Joey,

I'm so sad you can't come home for Christmas. Your mother made a feast—including your favorite roast rabbit. (That little bunny you snuck from the Great Hall is still asleep at the foot of your bed, by the way.)

Now, a secret: that model broom? It's actually a voucher for a real broomstick! You can pick it up next summer in Diagon Alley. Just tell your mother you won it in a lottery—ha! That way, neither of us gets scolded!

Don't tell your brother, though. I gave him two monster books, and he's probably struggling to keep them from eating his bed.

Sleep well, my little warrior.

Your Favorite Dad

Joey squealed, jumping on her bed in excitement.

Best. Dad. Ever!