Tom opens his eyes early, and blinks. His bedroom—
(The words make something in his chest quake, but he won't listen to it, can't listen to it right now).
—is on the cottage's first floor, but he knows that it was darker when he went to sleep last night. He stands up and creeps on quiet feet, practiced from both the orphanage and Slytherin, to the edge of the staircase to look down.
There's a golden light coming from the ground floor. Tom frowns. What is it? Some attempt to get rid of him?
He throws a fur-lined blanket from the bed over his own shoulders and travels down towards the warm light. The pyjamas Dumbledore Transfigured for him last night from an old blanket are thin and have golden Snitches flying around on them. Tom would die of mortification if the old man has a visitor and one of them saw that.
But when he comes downstairs, he finds Dumbledore stepping back from a huge pine tree that grows through the floor and up towards the ceiling. Tom stares up and can't find the end of it. He supposes Dumbledore must have enchanted the cottage with wizardspace.
He knows that, with one part of himself. The other part can't catch its breath.
"Ah, Tom!" Dumbledore says cheerfully. He waves his wand at the globes of golden light that he's hung all over the tree's branches. Well, just the outer ones, Tom realizes after a moment. Red, silver, green, blue, bronze, yellow, and black globes hang from inner branches near the top and bottom, and so do capering ornaments shaped like slithering snakes, crouched badgers, lions rampant, and eagles in flight. "You're just in time to help me celebrate. My apologies for not having this up last night, m'boy. My final marking took me longer than I thought it would."
Tom swallows several times. Then, he doesn't know why, he looks under the tree.
There are several presents with his name on them. Well, not just on them. Floating in flaming letters over the top of the presents, and dancing on the paper, and hovering in globes whose insides rotate and say TOM in sparkles whenever they pass by his vantage point.
"Come and have breakfast, and then we'll open the gifts. Unless you prefer to open the gifts first? I understand if you do."
The majority of the packages look flat. Either books or robes, Tom thinks, and his mouth is very dry. He licks his lips.
But he is not a child. This is not his first Christmas.
Ignoring the fact that he's never had a tree and presents for himself before, Tom coolly inclines his head and takes a step off the stairs. "Let's have breakfast first, sir. And then we can open them." His eyes go back to the gifts because he can't help himself.
Dumbledore smiles and waves his wand again, and a tray floats in from the kitchen with a steaming mug of chocolate on it, and toast, and butter, and more of the cheese that Tom so liked last night. "We can eat and watch them at the same time," he says. And with another flick, a chair is a table, and Tom sits at the table and eats and, no, he doesn't look away from the presents.