The Third Day of Christmas.

He found himself not wanting to get out of bed when the sun crept in the next morning, although this time it had little to do with his desire to lose himself. He wriggled in quiet delight beneath the wonderful duvet that had faded from the brilliant silver into a rich red that shimmered with a assortment of shades. He tried not to think of the satin sheets, although he certainly allowed himself to enjoy their silky texture and the way they made him feel simply wonderful, just from having rested on them. If it wasn't for the fact he had run numerous revealing spells over them, he would think the sheets themselves possessed some form of magic, for it had been a long time since he had woken up feeling as though he was ... special. It felt strange to even think of himself that way.

It was a feeling that was sure to wear off eventually, which was another reason why he would have been content to remain in his fabulous bed for many hours more. But the library called to him, not for study or extra assignments, as it usually did, but to try and solve the mystery that was all of this. Perhaps if he could find a copy of the Muggle song that seemed to be related in some way to the letters ...

The library was empty when he finally coaxed himself down there. Even though there was surely a mass of assignments that many of the students had, it was likely that it would all be left to the last minute, Percy reflected disapprovingly. He was positive the Twins would corner him on Boxing day, swearing with innocent eyes that the dung beetles or stink bombs that had been sent to him for Christmas hadn't really been from them, and would he mind helping them with their Dark Arts assignment?

For a pair of brats who prided themselves on their individual flair, they were getting awfully predictable.

The Hogwarts library, which had always fulfilled his academic needs, was turning out to be rather hopeless when it came to Muggle Christmas songs. He'd never been convinced that he'd be able to find the song in the small non class based section of the library, but had felt for sure that it would be covered in the Muggle studies section. According to the catalogue, there should be at least 30 books covering Muggle music, yet he hadn't been able to track down a single one. They couldn't all be out, surely? Perhaps someone had accidentally split invisibility ink on the section of the bookcase they had been in?

But no amount of revealing spells could find the books, and Percy had a sneaking suspicion that he had been outplayed. Whoever was sending the gifts obviously knew him well enough to know he would check out the library for clues. In fact, they were most likely wondering what had taken him so long!

With a groan, he let himself flop bonelessly into the closest chair, glancing down impassively at one of the books he did have in his hands. Advanced Herbology. Damn Herbology for being a compulsory subject even for Seventh years, it was the subject he'd always had the most trouble with. There were just so many names that one had to remember, and getting it wrong could be more deadly than a mistake in potions. Briefly, he glanced at the worn book beneath the dreaded Herbology one. Aristophanes: The Clouds. It was the only old attic comedy that the library held, certainly the only Aristophanes play. Even though the humour could be at times downright vulgar, he'd found himself loving the play like a guilty pleasure. At times, he'd even found himself laughing out loud at some of the scenes, and when he'd read the forward from the translator saying that this was one of Aristophanes' least popular plays, he'd been shocked. The comic masterpiece had written plays that were considered far better, quality wise? He had considered asking the Librarian to order several of the other plays in, but had quickly talked himself out of it. It would not do for people to find out that Percy Weasley read such 'trash'. Even if that trash was ancient literature that was fabulously funny. If the Twins ever caught on that he read even the one book that had such content, he would be doomed to a fate that would suggest following the road that Socrates took.

Ah, Socrates. An ancient philosopher of far more class than the crude Aristophanes. Far more boring, as well.

With a hesitance that came each time he had to make this decision, he placed the play down on the desk, and opened up the Herbology text book instead, running slightly desperate eyes over the long lists he would have to have memorised before his final exams. He thought he knew most of them, but what if one of the ones he didn't know turned up as a long essay, or if he didn't know them in enough depth? As a bunch of third years swooped into the room, giggling and chattering away loudly and with not an ounce of respect for the sole member of the room, Percy decided that perhaps it would be best to take his study elsewhere. A smile came to his face as thought of his room. Perhaps he would study on his bed, instead of at his desk as usual. Checking the Herbology book out at the door, he was reading it as he walked back to the common room, when he crashed into something that was amazingly solid, considering he was walking in the middle of the corridor.

Arms flailing in what must have seemed comic to any bystander, he managed to retain his balance, although lost his glasses in the effort. As the world blurred before him, he felt himself begin to panic, dropping into a crouch. He thrust a blind hand in front of him, a desperate hopelessness guiding it. They found instead of the glasses a warm hand, which quickly clutched onto his own.

"Perce, here they are." While the form of the person in front of him was merely a mass of blurs, the voice was undeniably Oliver's. The hand that wasn't holding his own rose to his face, and awkwardly slipped the glasses back on. With a shuddering breath of relief, he let Oliver pull him to his feet, thanking the other boy with a silent nod.

"Lethea monoi," Oliver spoke up quietly as he bent down to pick up the briefly forgotten Herbology book, before handing it to Percy. Lethae monoi. Of course. It was the summoning spell he had cast on the glasses, so that he could call them to him if they ever fell or slipped. He'd forgotten it when panic had blinded him, but Oliver had obviously remembered. Considering that Oliver had helped cast that particular spell in their second year, and had been a witness to the events that had led up to it, it really didn't come as a surprise. It still gave him nightmares, remembering the day that a small group of third years had thought it would be funny to hide the 'strange, workaholic' Gryffindor's glasses while he was asleep. Oliver had been woken up by his terrified screams, had been the one to pull him to his feet and into a calming embrace when he had, rather insanely, launched himself from the relative safety of his bed, trying desperately to find his glasses. The result was obvious to anyone who cared to spare such a situation a thought - he'd banged against something almost instantly and crashed to the floor where he had broken down into tears. He'd handled it pretty well, considering he was only 12, and practically blind without his glasses.

Oliver had handled it far better. But then, Oliver always did. The moment Oliver had gotten him settled back on his bed, he had dashed down to the common room, but not before letting Percy know that he would be back quickly. And he had been. Only 5 minutes, 32 seconds had passed before Oliver had returned, glasses in hand. Oliver had never told him how he had gotten them back so quickly, although the grimly determined face that had been the first thing he had seen when he had slipped his glasses back on perhaps told him all that he needed to know. It had been Oliver, if truth be told, who had thought up the idea of cursing the glasses, and Oliver who had cast the spell. Even then, he'd still been shaking, sniffling loudly as Oliver left one arm wrapped around his shoulders in comfort.

They'd drifted apart years ago. But they had been close, once.

Oliver was heading for the Gryffindor common room as well, so they walked together, briefly discussing the advances in Wizard glasses, and how vastly superior they were to Muggle ones, and the chances of Gryffindor winning the Quidditch Cup this year. They were almost at the entrance when Oliver motioned to the heavy book that Percy was carrying.

"Why in the world are you studying that, Perce? I doubt that there is a huge amount of specific information about Mangolias in there!"

"Mangolias?" Mangolias were a fascinating subspecies of fern that they had covered at the beginning of the year. "Unlikely, but we DO have to study more than Mangolias." Oliver was looking at him as though he had a few brain cells missing.

"The exam is a practical one this year, remember?" It was said with a smile and the shake of the head. "It's at the front of our notes, and the plant in question just happens to be -"

"Mangolias!" He would have to check his notes to be sure, but Oliver was an able student himself and unlikely to make such a mistake. If it was a practical on Mangolias, then the topic would be far easier to study for than if it had been a general exam. Mangolias were not an easy plant to deal with, and were one of the plants he had had problems with - there were few he hadn't had - but narrowing down the field made the subject far less stressful. Oliver grinned at his obvious relief.

"Yeah, that is what I thought as well. Far easier than Buck weed, or learning the hundreds of different types of fungus." Oliver stopped in front of the Fat Lady, pausing for a moment. "They're bound to be playing a game of Trivial Pursuit in there, want to partner up?" Oliver's grin could only be described as cheeky. "You're bound to be pounced on the moment you get in there, I wanted to nab you as a partner before anyone else got a chance to."

"That depends," he found himself replying with mock seriousness. "You don't intend to cheat now, do you?" Oliver's warm laugh filled the common room as they entered it, and caught the attention of the small group who were indeed playing Trivial Pursuit.

"Hey, Perce, wanna team up for a quick round?"

"Shut up George, he wants to partner his *nice* twin brother, not you."

"How about teaming with someone who is sane, this time round?"

"Lavender! You already have a partner!"

"Believe me Seamus, you're nothing if not dispensable."

Percy found that his own, quiet chuckles rose to mingle with Oliver's louder ones. He excused himself from the bantering group to go drop his book off in his room, smiling slightly as their voices accompanied him up the stairs. Muttering lightly the enchantment that would allow him to enter his room, he glanced around in nervous excitement, wondering if perhaps his magical giver had been at it again.

As his eyes came to rest on his desk, Percy found that he had.

Gone were the books that normally adorned the table in a mess; they had been placed in the half empty bookcase that held the majority of his textbooks and precious little else. In their place was a pile high of sweets, of chocolate Frogs and Boomer Bangers, of non-defrost strawberry ice cream, of ever lasting and ever tasting. As he approached the pile that was so huge that many sweets and cakes had tumbled off the edges and onto the ground, his eyes fell on the envelope that topped the pile as though a golden cherry. The third day of Christmas.

He didn't know quite what to say.

He scooped up a handful of the sweets, examining them closely. Half of them he didn't even recognise, but from the brand names that adorned many of their wrappers, one could tell that several of them came from exotic locations. France. Germany. Kuwait. What was he to do with them all?

"Come on, Perce - what is taking you so long?" Ron's disgruntled voice floated up the stairs, reminding him of his commitment to the game and bringing to mind a possible solution to his dilemma at the same time. With a smile, he cast a spell on the sweets, causing them to rise as one in front of him. With a flick of his wrist, they headed down to the common room, with him firmly in tow. Fred was the first to notice the flying array of sugar, and could only stare at it in disbelief, attracting the others attention as he did.

"One of the students I tutored sent them instead of a mere thank you note," he lied easily at the surprised looks from his house mates. They didn't question his statement, simply digging eagerly into the sweets that he had let drop to the floor in front of them. With a smile he picked up one of his own as he settled down next to Oliver, glancing at the card that the Quidditch captain was practically growling at. "I take it it is our turn?"

The Forth Day of Christmas.

There were few things more frustrating than being the focus of the Twins' attention. They'd been almost civil these past few days, and it had been short-sighted of him not to realise that such a reprieve was surely only temporary. He tried to ignore the laughing Mermaid who had been giggling non-stop since he had entered the bathroom. She obviously shared the same sense of humour as the twins. He scowled as he glanced up at his reflection, the dark green mass that had once been his red hair mocking him with its outrageousness. It was horrible and revolting and ...

"Maybe this way people won't think he is related to us, George!"

Tired eyes drifted closed, long lashes gently capturing the tears that had threatened to fall ungracefully. The Twins had embarrassed him because they were embarrassed *by* him, so in the end he was a victim of his own faults. If he was more like Ron, or Bill or Charlie ... But, he wasn't. He was simply Percy. The Weasley who didn't seem to quite fit in, no matter how much of a fool he made of himself trying.

Maybe, if he wasn't the only one trying, he would have more success.

"And would you shut up!" The words came out as a hoarse demand, and the beautiful mermaid was stunned into silence as a result. Popular amongst the male Prefects especially, she very rarely had anyone raise their voice when speaking to her. Percy himself got along with the painting, during the times he had used the quiet Prefect's bathroom as a refuge when he was unable to reach his bedroom, Twin-free, he'd even chattered stiffly with her, rarely being able to supply her with the gossip she so desired. Even with his eyes still jammed closed, he could feel her eyes studying him. He wondered what kind of image he presented, the Head Boy leaning over a sink, knuckles slowly draining of all their colour as they clutched hopelessly to the basin. Green head bowed in what could only be deemed as submissive, there was not an ounce of strength or confidence that radiated from his body, just a lonely emptiness.

"I knew your elder brothers, you know," the pretty Mermaid finally spoke up. If the words were intended to draw him from his misery, then the painting knew precious little. Instead, he simply laughed softly, his chuckles ringing with mockery.

"I'm sure you did." The Mermaid did not miss the implied undertones; her answering grunt of distaste was testament to that. But then, Bill and Charlie had known every pretty girl in the school and had been adored by many of them in turn. Why would the painting that watched them bathe and shower be any different?

"You remind me of them, with all your moping," she finally continued, and this time his eyes flew open in disbelief, and he spun so he was facing her. "At first, I thought Bill was just over dramatic, but Charlie was just the same." She glanced down at him, as though she was looking for something that he himself couldn't see. "What is it that inspired the three of you to aim for the unachievable, and then upon reaching it, wishing you had never done so? A strange breed, you Weasleys are."

"What *are* you talking about?" The Mermaid now had his full attention, her words confusing him.

"Perhaps you should reflect on why your younger siblings have not aimed for similar heights as you, Bill and Charlie did," she answered in a way that left him even more confused. "I hear that even though that youngest brother of yours would have himself be all three of you combined," she broke off to giggle at such a thought, "he is aimless in his desire, and little effort is put into anything other than brooding. He, likes the others, has learnt well from the mistakes those who went before them made."

"I thought you were a Mermaid, not a Sphinx," he found himself muttering angrily. "You speak in riddles, and riddles are something I could do without." They reminded him far too much of the twins.

"Tell me, my dear. Are you happy?" It was said quietly, yet he found he could not bring himself to answer her. "If so, then why is it that you often shed tears here, and occasionally use me as a sounding board for your woes?" She lifted a hand as he started to protest. "Now shush, Percy. You know that if I did not want to listen to you, I would simply dash off to visit someone else. But if you aren't happy, you are doing as miserable a job as Charlie and Bill did at hiding it from me."

"Bill and Charlie were happy, how could they not be - they had everything!"

"And you do not?" She smiled slightly - he obviously looked as floored as he felt. "Tell me Percy, if Charlie was so happy with his Quidditch, then why did he turn down England to go play with dragons? And if Bill was such a socialising and fun-loving Head Boy, why did he flee to Egypt as soon as he graduated?"

"It wasn't like that!" he protested, although his own argument was starting to sound meek even to his own ears. "Was it?"

"That is something you should ask your brothers. There secrets are not ones I should tell, not even to you." She paused, before motioning to a cabinet on the far right wall. "There should be a purple container on the third shelf. If I remember correctly, Marcus Flint used whatever potion is in it to remove a nasty shade of pink dye that your sweet brothers used on him a couple of years back. It should work on that hair of yours." It took him barely a minute to find the particular bottle in question, but when he turned to thank the Mermaid, he found that she had left her frame. The slimy yellow liquid smelled rather foul, but by now he was willing to try anything to remove the horrid green from his hair. Besides, it provided a welcomed distraction from the thoughts that had formed during the Mermaid's speech.

It was nearly 10pm. While part of him could feel nothing but relief for the fact the horrid day had almost come to an end, another yearned for the wonder that always surrounded the mysterious presents he had been receiving. Perhaps yesterday had been the last day for such gifts, and if so, he shouldn't be acting like some child who had been promised something magical, only to have it go undelivered. Wrapped up in his duvet, he was certainly feeling far less despondent than earlier, so the magic was still there, even if it wasn't presenting itself in a new form. It seemed both silly and selfish to wish for more when he had already been given so much.

Light snow had begun to fall again, and he found himself mesmerised by their slow journey past his window. What was it like, to be a snowflake? Forever at the whim of wind and gravity, a flake never had to make choices of its own, or deal with 'humorous' brothers. They never had to cope with feelings of emptiness or self-loathing. But then, was it worth it, to have had a journey that was simple and without complications, if the result was to be crushed so easily when impact was made with the ground? Was it not better to try and fight the winds and the breezes, to challenge their control, so that even if you failed, and become simply just another frozen snowflake on the ground, then at least you had tried?

Melodramatic, the Mermaid had called him. Or was it Bill she had classified as such? It still felt rather disconcerting to think that Bill, perfect Bill, might have had any problems during his last year, and Charlie too. They never talked about Hogwarts in a negative light, yet, neither did he. Perhaps weakness was something his elder brothers found hard to show as well. It was strange to think that he might share something in common with them, after all.

For the third time that evening, he lifted a hand to his ear, making sure his glasses were still firmly in place, unlikely to be jolted when he stood up. He'd fallen into the nervous habit since yesterday afternoon, and while it was sure to pass in a couple of days, it reminded him of just how vulnerable he was without his glasses. Oh, it had been several years since he had slunk into a round of anger over his eyes, and why his were so badly effected when other Wizards who had had some form of damage done to their eyes had been repaired. Wizard medicine could work wonders, but in most cases, only if the ailment or treatment was attended to practically immediately. A broken arm needed to be attended to within 24 hours, otherwise it would have to heal naturally 'muggle style'; a cold would hang around for what would seem like a hundred lifetimes if not treated in the first four days of symptoms showing. And eyes? Blindness, or other, lesser effects, could be picked up and dealt with before a child was born; it was when it was brought about later in life that problems arose.

It was with a sigh that he recalled the many times his Mother had said that there had never been a chance of getting him to a Wizard Doctor in time. She seemed to forget, or perhaps simply wanted to, that he *knew* that well enough on his own, without being reminded of it. Phantom cries and desperate pleas for help were all that he let himself linger on, before banishing the memory far away. There were parts of his childhood that he wasn't yet willing to deal with, and this was one of them. And in consideration, poor eyesight was not what one should classify as a huge loss when compared to the mass damage and destruction that Voldemort had inflicted during that time. He'd been lucky to escape that era with only a pair of crummy eyes.

As he straightened his glasses again, he let his hand rest there as he rose to his feet, heading for the window that he had only just noticed wasn't latched shut properly. One thing the Wizard world had been able to do was create glasses that were far stronger than Muggle ones, so with them on his sight was that of anyone else.

Reaching for the latch, he tried to pull the window closed that last few inches, but found that it wouldn't budge. Glancing down to see if anything had somehow managed to get stuck in the small space, all thoughts of eyes and the past slid automatically from his thoughts, as he saw that there was in fact something caught in the gap between the window and the latch. An envelope.

He let the wind catch the window, which caused it to thrust it wide open, as he reached for the envelope. He hadn't doubted for a moment that the golden writing would be his own name, yet it thrilled him all the same. He slipped out the parchment inside, and a wave of giddiness that managed to both embarrass and delight crashed around him. The Fourth Day of Christmas. There was nothing else in the envelope, so he glanced around, hoping to catch some glimpse of what could have possibly accompanied the letter this time.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me!"

Floating just outside his window was what could only be an oriental rug. Leaning out over the window pane, he ran a hand over it, feeling the individual woven threads under his hands. Disbelieving eyes took in the elaborate design, and he found himself pushing down on the rug, testing to see just how stable it was.

A flying carpet. He'd been sent a flying carpet.

He chewed down on his bottom lip as indecisiveness crept into his thoughts. Flying Carpets were illegal in England, and he could be suspended if he was caught out on it. Not to mention that it was dangerous to use such a gift when he had no idea who the sender was. Yet ... yet, it was unlikely that anyone would be out at this time of night, and if he stayed away from populated areas, then the chances of being seen were almost non-existent. As for the fact the gift could be dangerous, he couldn't bring himself to believe that his secret giver, who could make him feel wonder and amazement that he hadn't felt for years, would be somehow attempting to do him harm. If he was, he was failing miserably.

Percy Weasley: Head Boy, could have the night off for once, he decided with uncharacteristic bravery and daring, a grin forming. He grabbed his thick winter jacket, pulling it on before jumping up onto the window ledge. Briefly, he ran through the list of spells he could use if anything did go wrong, if the carpet suddenly lost control or if someone happened to be out for a midnight stroll. His resolve wavered slightly as he glanced down at the carpet. It seemed far smaller when one looked at it from above, framed by the snow that was many stories beneath it. He had to force himself to take the first step off the windowsill, and he noticed with a touch of humour that his legs were only slightly shaking. Finding that the carpet was indeed holding his weight, he gently stepped the rest of the way onto it, before dropping quickly to his knees on the thin material. While it appeared to be strongly woven - and beautifully so, he noted, running a finger along the wonderfully woven design - the carpet still flexed and moved on top of the wind currents that were holding the carpet and himself up.

It was almost, he reflected, like the carpet was floating on gentle waves, calm enough so that you felt no fear of being thrown off, but with just enough crest that you felt as though you were riding the air themselves. It was a feeling much like nothing he had ever experienced before, it had a sense of freedom that being on a broom could never have - you always had to be in complete control when you were on a broom, and it was far easier to fall off of.

Of course, he knew how to fly a broom. Flying carpets however were certainly not his area of expertise. Experimentally, he leaned forward so both his palms were flat on the carpet before him, then pressed down slightly with his right hand. The carpet dipped slightly, and for a moment he panicked, clutching the cloth beneath him desperately. Yet, the carpet seemed to be able to sense not only his movements, but his thoughts as well, and the spiral he had sent himself into with the slight push of his hand was gentle and slow, as though he were a feather floating on a timid breeze. The slope downwards was slight and wide enough that he could easily keep his balance, and he found himself almost laughing out loud at how wonderful the slow descent was. When he was only a few meters from the ground, he lifted his right hand up off the carpet, causing it to slowly stop, hovering. Perhaps it would be best to practice down low for several moments, before he tried anything more risky ...

Less than half an hour later, he was soaring over the Forbidden Forest, this time not even attempting to contain his laughs of delight. Dipping low, he skimmed across the top of the trees, before angling the carpet arching upwards before diving steeply back downwards. He dared not enter the forest itself, yet from his view high above the trees, he had seen many of the wonders the forest held. A beautiful unicorn, gazing mournfully at its reflection in a moonlit pond, a pack of winter wolves roaming through the trees, animals that he knew not the names of, plants that he had been able to smell the sweet scents of even from his place with the winds. The Forest which from a distance looked as though it was a mass of nothing more than gnarled, ageing trees, seemed to come to life when flooded by the silver moon.

Leaving the Forbidden Forest, he guided the carpet towards the Lake, which had been spelled not to freeze over this winter, skimming so low across the lake when he reached it, that he found he could dip one hand over the edge of the carpet and cup the gleaming water in his palm. He brought the carpet to a stop near the middle of the lake, letting the carpet hover mere inches above the waves. He'd never experienced anything like this, it was almost like he himself was flying, tumbling through the clouds and thin winter air. Now he relaxed on the soft rug, stretching out so that he could gaze at the stars above, clear of the snow clouds that had been around earlier. There was something about the crisp, winter evening that made the stars seem to shine brighter, to be bolder in their brilliance. Perhaps his secret giver had shined them himself, he thought with a smile, as he let the quiet lapping of the waves beneath him lull him into peacefulness.

As drowsiness and the emotional drain of the day started to take over, he gave in without complaint to the demands of sleep, letting his eyes drift shut. It was only the giant squid, who had floated to the surface to see what the strange disturbance above the waves was that some of the mer-people were chattering about below, who would see something that had not been seen for years on the Weasley child: a small, innocently content smile.

The Squid decided to let him be. The carpet would surely take the boy home when it was time. For now, the child had deserved his rest.