Archie had spent his life trying to please and be like his parents. He loved adventures and the great unknown, but Hogwarts had made him care about other things—or rather, other people—too. He'd spent the last week before Christmas holidays writing to his parents to convince them to vacation at the Sanditon Resort rather than the jungles of India, and by some miracle they'd agreed.

"I never thought I'd get out of my room," he breathed as he approached the spot where he and Sunday had agreed they'd rendezvous at that morning. He carried one small, poorly-wrapped present in his hand; the paper was red and orange, and the bow was bright blue. It was not the prettiest sight. He glanced at the clock that stood at the end of the corridor, internally cringing when he noticed that the large hand was on the six. He was a whole fifteen minutes late.

"My mother insisted on sketching me holding one of my presents. She might seem nice, but she's actually crazy," he continued, "Crazy enough to gift me a magical machete. What would I even do with that?"

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