The Taste of Memory
Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borage

It began with a Christmas card he had no memory of keeping. A card naturally discovered only because he was hunting for a quill he was absolutely certain he'd left in the bottom drawer of his desk. The solitude of winter appealed to him, but apparently not enough to fend off the indignity of misplaced stationery - nor the ghosts of the past.

The card's edges were soft with age, the ink faded, the inside crowded with his mother's looping handwriting. He hadn't seen her script in years and a nearly forgotten warmth spread through his chest, irritatingly gentle, even tingling at his fingertips. A slip of parchment drifted free and fluttered to the floor.

Honey Maple Cakes
for cold days and colder moods

Only half the instructions remained, fading into blurred water damage after "add the orange zest." Typical. Of course the universe would give him sentimentality in incomplete barely legible fragments. The bindrunes along his forearms flickered with a faint resistant glow, as if cautioning him against whatever foolishness he was inspired to attempt.

He remembered the cakes: soft, warm, steeped in winter mornings.

Apparently he’d once adored them.

Merlin knew why.

Even knowing better, he set to work that evening in the kitchen of his flat. Snow clung stubbornly to the windowpanes, muting the world into silence. He followed what instructions he had, frowning at each line and grumbling at their nonsensicalness. Heat until it feels right. Stir clockwise, slowly enough for the eggs to feel comfortable. Add a spoon's courage. Ridiculous. Had he truly once enjoyed this level of whimsy?

With a long-suffering exhale, he improvised. More honey, less maple, a dash of vanilla he had no idea he still had on hand. When the batter looked approximately how he recalled it, he baked it.

The result was… almost familiar.

Almost.

He bit into one cautiously. Warmth bloomed across his tongue... then a sudden rush of something not exactly a memory, but something adjacent. Sunlight through a frosted window. Cinnamon and scratchy wool. His mother humming off-key. The weight of a blanket tucked around his shoulders.

He froze.

He hadn't thought of that morning in twenty years, at least. Hadn't even known the memory was reachable. His runes pulsed once, a soft flare beneath the skin that was strong enough to elicit a wince.

So he stood there in the quiet kitchen, half-eaten cake in hand, feeling something warm and painful unspool inside him... something gentler than grief, but much heavier than nostalgia.

Enough to remember she loved him.
Enough to remember why he'd built walls.
Enough to remind him that he, Elliot Cox, inconveniently did indeed have a heart.

The Giving Snowman by Julia Zheng
Write about a winter sacrifice, gift, or act of selfless magic that changes a life, a family, a friendship, or a community.

The Candle in the Snow

When winter locked the valley fast
With iron frost and starless night,
The river stilled, the hearths burned low,
And hope itself felt thin as light.

The village huddled, doors shut tight,
For magic waned with every gale;
No charm could coax the crops to live,
No warming spell could fully prevail.

The children coughed, the elders wept,
The frost crept closer every door,
And all felt the tally rise
Higher than it was before.

Old Rowan stood beside the square,
A wizard bent with years and care,
His cloak threadbare, his hands all scarred
By spells cast young and battles rare.

Within his palm, a candle burned—
Not wax, nor wick, nor mortal flame,
But winterlight, a spell once sworn
At cost too dear for most to name.

"For every life this fire saves,"
So went the vow he'd made long past,
"A year of mine the snow shall claim,
My seasons shortened, thinning fast."

He could have turned. He could have fled.
No oathbound spell forced out his breath.
Yet love, once learned, is binding still—
A gentler chain than fear of death.

He set the candle in the square,
Where snow fell soft as falling prayers,
And whispered words the wind stood still
To hear and carry everywhere.

The flame grew warm. The ice withdrew.
The river ran. The chimneys sighed.
Bread rose again. The children laughed.
The frost retreated, beaten wide.

By dawn, the square was empty save
A cloak dusted in silver white,
The candle gone, its work complete,
Its giver folded into night.

They say each winter's deepest cold
Still binds the village, heart to heart,
For warmth is shared where one once stood
And sacrifice became the spark.

For magic lives not in the wand,
Neither words nor spells we dare to claim—
But in the choice to give oneself
And set the dark alight with flame.

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
Write a first-person narrative from the point of view of a magical creature as it experiences the holiday season in the Wizarding World.

The Things I Notice

I know winter before the snow ever falls.

It creeps in through the stones of Hogwarts and settles in my whiskers, sharp and electric, humming with old magic. The air grows busy and restless, like the castle itself is stretching awake. That's when I know the season is coming. The season of warmth wrapped in cold.

Humans call it Christmas.

I call it interesting.

The halls change first. Evergreen appears where there was once only stone, branches woven with light and scent and memory. I rub my cheek against the lowest boughs as they're carried in, marking them properly. Someone has to.

My human bustles more than usual. Papers multiply. Books stack higher. She smells like ink and wool and determination, and though she insists she's not stressed, I know better. I make a point of sitting directly on whatever she needs most. This is my sacred duty.

At night, when the fire snaps and the windows frost over like silver lace, I perch on the arm of a chair and watch the common room glow. Laughter bounces off the ceiling. Chocolate appears everywhere. Humans are clumsier during holidays. They drop crumbs, leave doors ajar, and forget to notice what moves just beyond their vision.

That is when I do my best watching.

I have always been good at noticing what others miss. The wrong footsteps. The lies that smell sharp and sour. The tension coiled tight beneath friendly smiles. Some truths wear disguises, and some disguises squeak when they move.

I remember that rat.

I remember knowing.

Winter sharpens my instincts. The magic is old and honest then, stripped bare by the cold. Snow muffles sound but not intent. I patrol the corridors at night, tail flicking, paws silent. The castle knows I belong here. The staircases shift for me. The portraits remain quiet.

On Christmas morning, my human laughs when I bat at the ribbons on her gift. I pretend it's play, but really I'm checking the knots. One can never be too careful. I accept a bit of smoked salmon with dignity. I am not greedy. I am selective.

Outside the window, the grounds lie blanketed in white. Owls carrying parcels carve clean paths through the air. Somewhere far off, a bell tolls. It is not a warning, just a reminder. Time moves. Things change. Some creatures wait patiently for the right moment.

I curl myself tighter as the fire burns low. The castle breathes around me, ancient and alive. Winter will pass, as it always does. But while it lingers, while secrets slip and truths grow bold in the cold, I will be here.

Watching.

Guarding.

Knowing.

After all, someone has to keep an eye on things when the humans are busy celebrating.

Quidditch Through the Ages by Kennilworthy Whisp
Write about a snow-swept broom sport event and the triumph, disaster, humour, rivalry, or emotion surrounding it.

Cold Sharpens Everything

Snow always makes people think Quidditch will be pretty.

It isn't.

It stings with what feels like tiny needles against bare skin. It blinds you until the world narrows to white chaos and instinct. It turns the air into a solid thing you have to smash through at forty miles an hour, all while praying your fingers don't lock up around your broom handle. Anyone who claims to love winter matches has either never played one or is lying for dramatic effect.

Still—Merlin help me—I love them.

The pitch that day looked like it had been sketched in chalk and then shaken hard. The hoops were rimmed with ice, glittering deceptively sweet. The stands were a wall of colour and sound, bundled figures roaring beneath red and green scarves that snapped in the wind like flags in a war zone. Gryffindor versus Slytherin. Of course it was. It's always worse when it matters.

The snow came down sideways, thick and relentless, sticking to lashes and slipping down my collar no matter how tightly I'd wrapped myself. My sleeves were already damp, and my feet were numb despite the dragonhide boots. Nonetheless, I was already grinning when we mounted our brooms. Cold sharpens everything: focus, courage, temper. It strips the nonsense away and leaves only what counts.

The first Bludger nearly took my head off.

I swerved hard, laughing despite myself as it screamed past close enough to ruffle my hair. Someone in the stands had shrieked my name—probably Luna, bless her—and the wind tore it to pieces before it could reach me.

Snow made everything feel closer and farther away at the same time. Teammates flickered in and out of sight like ghosts. The Quaffle was nothing but a flash of red against a sea of white, there one second and gone the next. In conditions like this, you didn't think; you reacted.

Slytherin played dirty. No surprise there. One of their Chasers clipped my tail deliberately and had the gall to flash me a smug little grin when Madam Hooch's back was turned.

Our eyes lingered, and I tucked a promise away: revenge is best served cold.

Midway through the match, visibility dropped to nearly nothing. You flew by memory then, by knowing the pitch like it had been carved into your bones. The crowd came before the sight. An abrupt, swelling roar alerted me that something was happening.

My Seeker had spotted the Snitch.

I caught a fleeting glimpse of him diving, his robes slicing through the storm like a blade.

With everyone's attention locked on that flash of scarlet, I cut hard across the pitch, snatched the Quaffle from under a Slytherin's nose, and barrelled toward the hoops. A Bludger whistled past my ear. My fingers burned from what surely was setting frostbite. My lungs screamed as they filled with cold air.

I threw.

The goal went in so clean it felt like the world paused with squinting eyes to watch it.

The stands exploded. Snow cascaded off banners. Lee Jordan was absolutely losing his mind in the commentary box. I whooped and pumped my fist just in time to see my Seeker and theirs crash together in a snarled mess of limbs, curses, and flailing brooms.

Disaster.

They spiraled. The Snitch vanished like it had never been there.

Madam Hooch's whistle cut through the storm, sharp and furious.

When play resumed, everything was louder. Anger, determination, cold gnawed at muscles that were being pushed too hard. Slytherin scored. We answered. Someone nearly got knocked off their broom and swore loud enough to be heard three rows up in the stands. A Bludger caught my shoulder, leaving my arm numb and useless for a terrifying heartbeat.

Then—there it was.

A glint of gold, low and taunting, hovering like it knew exactly what it was doing. My Seeker dove for it again. So did theirs.

I circled helplessly, heart hammering, shouting encouragement into the wind that tore the words away.

The catch came so suddenly that it didn't feel real.

One second the Snitch was darting and gleaming, the next it was clenched tight in gloved fingers.

It was over.

We won.

Snow plastered my hair to my face. I was shaking. Cold, adrenaline, joy, they all tangled together until I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. We slammed together in midair, laughing, yelling, and nearly falling off our brooms in a very messy, undignified heap.

When we landed, I caught sight of the Slytherin Chaser who'd clipped me earlier. His face was twisted with fury and misery.

I gave him his smirk from earlier back.

Then I broke his nose.

Worth it.