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Chapter Text

Harry had never been the sort to eagerly await Christmas.

In truth, his memories of the occasion were almost invariably dismal. The rare gifts he received consisted of Dudley’s old clothes—usually several sizes too large and bearing mysterious stains—or hole-ridden socks meticulously darned by Aunt Petunia, who made no effort to conceal her disdain as she handed them over. While the Dursleys threw themselves into the frenzy of holiday shopping, stuffing the car boot with brightly wrapped parcels, Harry was dispatched to Mrs. Figg’s house.

Each visit, she forced him to leaf through endless albums filled with photographs of her cats—most blurry or poorly framed—while enthusiastically recounting the most mundane achievements of each.

It was little wonder Harry’s Christmases were, at best, tedious. At worst, utterly forgettable.

That frosty morning, as he headed to his next lesson, Harry was exiting the bathroom when he spotted Draco Malfoy emerging in the corridor. The blond was alone, which was, at the very least, curious—Crabbe and Goyle, his ever-present bodyguards, were nowhere in sight. The crooked smirk on Malfoy’s face betrayed his intentions before he even opened his mouth.

Since the prank orchestrated by Fred and George that had left half of Slytherin literally reeking of shite, Draco seemed to have grown even more irritable and sour than usual—particularly toward Harry.

The tension between them had simmered, and now their hallway sniping had become almost routine.

“Oi, Potter!” called Draco, his voice drawling and infuriatingly casual.

Harry turned automatically, a scowl already forming.

“Pity whoever’s stuck here has to endure Christmas at Hogwarts.”

“Didn’t ask,” Harry replied coldly, turning to continue walking without breaking stride.

Draco pressed his lips together, the malicious glint in his eyes flashing for an instant.

“It’ll be great seeing my parents,” he said in a singsong tone, tracking Harry with his gaze. “Do give your parents my happy Christmas wishes—oh wait, you can't.”

Harry stopped.

Rage rose like pressurised steam, and a gust of magic escaped him as if the air itself were compressing. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened, and he whirled around, eyes blazing.

But Malfoy was already gone. Vanished down the corridor like a snake slithering into undergrowth.

“Coward!” Harry shouted, his voice echoing off the cold, empty stone walls.

The fury dissolved gradually, like smoke carried by the wind.

Malfoy's venomous remark still echoed in his mind, but it was being pushed to the depths of his memory as he entered the classroom and settled into his seat once more, his quill scratching hurriedly across the parchment.

It was the final Transfiguration exam of the term, and he needed to focus—no matter how difficult it was to ignore Malfoy's sneering voice ringing in his ears.

He ignored the blond when he entered the room quietly, but he could feel his malicious grin burning into the back of his neck.

Yet, despite sharing a castle with people whose emblem was a venomous serpent and who had a rotten habit of feuding with his house, Harry couldn’t have been more pleased.

For the first time, the prospect of not returning to the Dursleys’ made his heart overflow with hope. If he wanted—and he did, with every fibre of his being—he could experience a truly different Christmas, far from the loneliness and frustration that usually accompanied it.

The festive spirit had taken over the castle; there wasn’t a corridor or common area left undecorated for the holiday.

Term was nearly over, and the anticipation of the break hung in the air. Snow piled along the window ledges, and Harry watched curiously three Saturdays before Christmas as Hagrid dragged enormous fir trees into the Great Hall.

That vast hall, though nearly empty in the quiet afternoon, looked more enchanting than ever.

Twelve towering Christmas trees lined the room, each lavishly decorated with shimmering ornaments in the colours of Hogwarts’ four houses—scarlet and gold for Gryffindor, silver and green for Slytherin, bronze and deep blue for Ravenclaw, and yellow and black for Hufflepuff. The enchanted lights twinkled softly among the branches, as if each tree housed its own tiny, magical universe.

Red and green carpets covered the stone floor, muffling footsteps and adding warmth to the vast, chilly space. Velvet curtains in yellow and blue, hung on the otherwise bare walls, swayed gently in the warm draught from the fires crackling at either end of the hall. The flames burned merrily, casting golden reflections that danced along the walls and floor as if celebrating along.

Above it all, the enchanted ceiling performed its usual spectacle:

A delicate snowfall drifted down in absolute silence, the flakes glinting under the floating candles before vanishing gracefully a few feet above the ground, never touching the students or tables. It was like standing inside a snow globe, suspended in a perfectly magical, serene moment.

Harry sat flipping through a Quidditch magazine while Ron played a game of wizard’s chess against Neville. Beside Neville, a book of strategies lay open, and he frequently glanced at its pages between moves.

“You’re really still reading that?” Ron grumbled, propping his head on his hand, bored.

“I’m tired of losing to you,” Neville shrugged, adjusting his next move according to the text.

Ron sighed, moving his piece swiftly. “Fred’s invited us for a snowball fight. Fancy it?”

“I’m in,” said Harry, not looking up from the magazine. “But no spells this time. We can’t counter theirs.”

“You mean counter when they launch one at your arse at high speed?” Ron half-grinned.

Neville shuddered.

“No dodging that,” he sighed. “The one they hit me with last time left a mark till evening.”

Ron mused aloud, “Maybe we could get even… learn how to make the ground slippery. Like Peeves does.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Pranking the pranksters? The twins? Did you hit your head on the wall too hard?”

“What’s the issue? I’ve known them since birth—I’d know when they’re vulnerable.”

“What’s the issue? Blimey, let’s think.” Harry tapped his chin theatrically. “Maybe the fact they’re the biggest pranksters in the school? That not even Peeves outdoes them? Or that they’ve got a terrifying arsenal to pay you back tenfold?”

“And let’s not forget what we did last time… d’you reckon they’d go easy?” Neville gulped.

“Nah, they wouldn’t… well… actually, they might. Yeah… best drop it,” Ron conceded, sighing as he resumed the game.

Silence lingered until Harry broke it.

He looked at the redhead, curious.

“You lot staying?” he asked, a hint of hope in his voice.

It was a daft question. Professor McGonagall had taken names days ago for students staying over the holiday, and no Weasleys had signed up… in fact, barely any Gryffindors had.

“No...” murmured Ron, shaking his head slowly. His expression held a mixture of resignation and reluctant understanding. “Mum wants everyone back at the Burrow this year. Fred and George have already spent two Christmases here, but she's right... Bill managed to get a week off work in Egypt, and Charlie's coming from Romania for the holidays. She wants the whole family together.”

“He's the one who works with dragons, isn't he?” asked Neville, genuine curiosity widening his eyes.

“That's him!” said Ron, visibly brightening. “You should read some of the stories he sends in his letters... they're mental!”

Harry knew exactly how much Ron admired Charlie—perhaps nearly as much as he admired Bill. Whenever this older brother was mentioned, Ron's voice took on a different sort of enthusiasm, as though Charlie were some kind of personal hero. There was something about the idea of working with dragons in Romania that seemed to completely capture Ron's imagination; maybe it was the danger, or maybe it was simply the fact that it was a dead cool job.

It was obvious that, for him, having a brother who handled one of the most dangerous creatures known to wizardkind—and that breathed fire, no less—was a source of quiet pride. The sort Ron would never admit to aloud, but which seeped into every offhand remark.

Though he constantly took the mickey out of Percy for being “too much of a goody-two-shoes,” and regularly grumbled about Fred and George's pranks—the twins he'd spent most of his childhood with, building makeshift tents in the yard and playing with homemade explosives—Ron rarely had a bad word to say about Charlie or Bill. To him, the two were practically untouchable in terms of brilliance and bravery, and he seemed to like the idea that maybe, one day, he could be like them.

“Mum nearly had a fit once,” Ron went on, his grin widening, “when a dragon broke out of its cage at the reserve and went charging after him. Fred and George nearly died laughing when they read that in his letter.”

He snorted, letting out a muffled laugh at the memory.

Harry said nothing.

There was a quiet tightness in his chest, the sort he knew well but could never quite describe. He didn’t fully understand what it was like to be wanted enough that someone would genuinely miss your presence at Christmas. Or what it must be like to have brothers who cared about you—mutually cared.

For a brief moment, something clenched even tighter inside him, a flash of envy he shoved away quickly, as if he might be caught feeling it.

“Hey mate, don’t look so glum,” Ron tried to cheer him up with a weak smile before turning to Neville. “You’re staying, right?”

“Hm?” Neville looked up from his book. “Oh, yeah. I talked to my gran, and she said it was fine.”

“Did you want to stay?” Harry asked carefully. “I mean... it’s nice here, but she’s your gran...”

“I wanted to stay,” Neville replied, giving Harry’s back a reassuring pat. “She won’t be alone—I’ve got three great-aunts who always come over for Christmas.”

“You lot are lucky,” Ron remarked with a smile. “At least Percy won’t be here to annoy you.”

“Why don’t you like him?” Harry asked hesitantly. Family matters always seemed delicate, but Ron never minded talking about it.

“Percy’s... complicated,” Ron sighed, propping his elbows on the table. “He only cares about his ‘future Ministry position’,” he mimicked Percy’s affected voice. “Always been the rule-follower, and lately, he’s been more insufferable than ever now that he’s a prefect. Reckon it’s gone to his head.”

“We might not have Percy, but the twins won’t be here either, unfortunately,” Neville commented.

“Oh, cheers for including me,” Ron laughed, pretending to be offended.

“Ron makes the list?” Harry asked, feigning deep consideration with Neville.

“Well... it’s a delicate matter, Harry,” Neville replied, trying to look serious. “There are pros and cons.”

“If I rank above Malfoy, I’m happy,” Ron said airily.

Harry raised an eyebrow and held out his hand. “How about a compromise? Somewhere between Crabbe and Goyle? Deal?”

“Bugger off, Harry!” Ron swatted his hand away, laughing.

The three of them burst into laughter, and between chuckles, Ron made his move on the board.

“Checkmate,” he said flatly, watching Neville with a deadpan look.

Neville stopped laughing immediately, staring at the board in defeat while Harry and Ron howled even louder at his sudden mood shift.

“Not even with the books, Nev?” Harry teased, still laughing.

“I give up on this thing,” Neville huffed, though a frustrated smile tugged at his lips.

“Practice makes perfect,” Ron shrugged. “You’re loads better than before, mate.”

They spent a few more minutes playing wizard’s chess, trading jokes and laughing, until the idea of leaving the Great Hall for one last snowball fight before the train ride became irresistible.

But before diving into the fun, they decided to stop by the library to fetch Hermione.

She was exactly where they expected to find her—tucked away in a secluded corner, absorbed in her books as always. Harry knew this was one of her usual hiding spots in the library. Her bushy hair fell like a curtain across the pages of her book, creating a silent barrier between her and the rest of the world. Madam Pince, meanwhile, sat at her desk near the entrance, engrossed in a romance novel with a daringly risqué title, reading with the gravest expression as if it were a work of great literary importance. Except for her, Hermione was the only person in the vast space—not even the Ravenclaws had dared to show up on that chilly morning.

Ron was the first to approach, as always, trying to coax her into joining them. But even he was starting to lose patience with her stubbornness.

“Come on, Hermione! It’s Christmas, you don’t need to study today. Forget the books for once!” he exclaimed, slapping his thighs in frustration.

Hermione looked up, sharp eyes locking onto his. “I’ve told you, I like reading. Besides, it’s freezing outside.”

“You’re staying here until it’s time to leave?” Harry asked, his voice tinged with something he couldn’t quite place. There was an inexplicable sadness in her that surprised him. “I mean... you’re leaving in a couple of hours, and you’d rather sit here alone?”

Hermione sighed, already weary of the argument. “Well, yes. I’ve got two spellbooks I want to review before tonight.”

Neville looked disappointed, the corner of his mouth drooping slightly, while Ron let out an audible sigh—more resigned than frustrated.

“Well, we tried...” said Ron with a weak smile. “Just don’t forget to say goodbye to these two,” he pointed at Harry and Neville, “they’re not coming back with us.”

Ron started to leave, and Neville hesitated for a moment before following. He gave Hermione a quick wave before hurrying off.

“Er... right, see you later,” Neville said awkwardly.

“Bye then,” Hermione replied, not looking up from her book, as if the words were mere formality.

Harry, however, stayed where he was, watching her.

Hermione, noticing the undisguised discomfort on his face, hesitated between returning to her book or looking at him. She observed how he seemed to be weighing his words, and something in Harry's eyes made her hold her breath for a moment.

Harry cleared his throat, as if searching for the right words, but something inside him felt odd—unsettling.

Perhaps it was her cold rejection of spending a few minutes with them before leaving for Christmas. He didn’t quite know, but for some reason, he wanted to be there with her—maybe more than he could admit.

“Harry, are you all right?” Hermione asked, frowning curiously, unsure how long he’d been standing there.

“You know...” Harry began, the words coming out quieter than he'd intended. “If I had someone—someone I cared about, willing to spend Christmas with me... I'd hold onto that like it was the best gift I could ever get. Doesn't come around every day, that sort of thing.”

Hermione’s confused expression shifted to surprise. Her eyebrows rose as she stared at him, mouth slightly open.

Harry never spoke about himself like this—never with such simple, disarming honesty.

“Well, anyway...” Harry tried to lighten the mood, squaring his shoulders and clearing his throat. “Just… well, just don’t forget to say goodbye before you leave.”

He flashed a quick, casual smile, then turned to go.

As Harry reached the library door, he heard Hermione call out.

“Harry! Wait!”

She hurried after him, ignoring Madam Pince’s irritated shushing motion.

“I’ll come with you,” Hermione said, slightly breathless from the short sprint, adjusting her thick winter coat.

Harry grinned—a genuine, relieved smile—and nodded.

“We like having you around, you know?”

Hermione flushed slightly, looking at the ground as if embarrassed.

“Well, I... I'm not quite used to this sort of thing yet,” she sighed, slightly awkward.

“You mean—”

“Having friends,” Hermione cut in, the words tumbling out in a rush. She quickly corrected herself, flustered. “I mean, I'm still getting accustomed... so, sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise,” Harry said softly, nudging her shoulder playfully. “Now, are we having that snowball fight or not?”

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress her smile.

“Fine, we can try. But if you hit my hair with a snowball...”

“I swear I won’t!” Harry promised, dodging her accusatory finger as they left the library, laughter trailing behind them.

They quickly caught up with Ron and Neville in the corridors, both thrilled she’d changed her mind. Thankfully, neither asked how Harry had convinced her.

He didn’t want to talk about it either.

Outside, the cold hit them immediately, a stark contrast to the warmth still colouring their cheeks. Harry adjusted his scarf—one end perpetually longer, whipping behind him like a cloak’s tail.

In the courtyard, where snow reached knee-height, Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws had already joined the Gryffindors.

The twins began organising an inter-house battle, each claiming one end of the snowfield as their territory.

Hermione, observing the chaos and seeing their house becoming an easy target, frowned in concentration.

“We need a proper strategy!” she declared, dodging a snowball.

“Oi!” Neville yelped as one struck his back. “What's the plan then?”

“Start making snowballs—pile them up. Harry, you gather and attack their front line,” she commanded with military precision.

“Where's Ron?” Harry asked, pelting two rapid snowballs at a distracted Hufflepuff.

The question answered itself as three redheads appeared further down the field, digging snow trenches like their lives depended on it.

Fred and George seemed particularly determined to hit male opponents in their “sensitive regions.”

“Low blow, Weasley!” someone howled in pain, sending the twins into fits of laughter.

“Eat snow, Goldstein!” Ron shouted as his perfectly-aimed snowball smacked the Ravenclaw square in the face.

Harry's laugh turned into a grunt when a particularly hard-packed snowball hit his stomach.

“Sorry, Potter!” Terry Boot called, not sounding sorry at all.

“You'll pay for that!”

Fred and George were molding snowballs with disturbing focus, their eyes locked on Professor Quirrell as he attempted to skirt around the childish snowball fight while crossing an open corridor in the distance. With two subtle flicks of their wands, the snowballs shot forward at alarming speed—one smacking squarely against the back of his head, the other thudding into his backside with deeply satisfying force.

They swiftly concealed their wands before he could spot them, their faces the picture of innocence.

Quirrell whirled around, his murderous glare sweeping the grounds uselessly before he hurried away, the twins shaking with silent laughter.

Meanwhile, Hermione was erecting snow barriers with spellwork so precise it would make Flitwick proud.

“Protego Nivis!” she incanted

Her wand movements were razor-sharp as another small snow barrier materialized before them.

Neville, who'd barely dodged a volley of snowballs, scrambled behind her latest creation, panting.

“Where'd you learn that?” he panted, eyes wide with surprise.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“The library, obviously,” she said in that tone that implied only an idiot wouldn't know this. “Where else?”

“Right... should've guessed,” Neville nodded, shooting Harry an amused look as their friend lobbed snowballs at a group of Hufflepuffs.

“You lot should visit the library more. Did you know snow has fascinating magical properties? The crystalline structure actually—”

“Not a Transfiguration lecture, Hermione!” Harry laughed from behind a tree, pelting Ernie Macmillan who beat a hasty retreat.

“Someone has to keep you educated,” she sniffed, conjuring another wall just in time to block an incoming attack.

“She's not wrong,” Neville admitted, fumbling with his misshapen snowballs. “I'd never manage this... with spells or—”

“Focus, Neville!” Hermione chided. “Less snow, more compression!”

Neville sighed but obeyed.

Across the field, Harry nailed Cedric Diggory, who retaliated with alarming accuracy.

“I'm about to get serious now, Potter!” Cedric called, hurling snowballs with terrifying accuracy.

“Could've fooled me—OW!” Harry choked, diving behind Hermione's makeshift defences just as a snowball shattered against his nose.

He barely had time to recover before another one, launched with brutal force by Ravenclaw's Roger Davies, whistled dangerously past his ear.

"Brilliant, now my glasses are bent again," Harry grumbled, desperately trying to adjust the frames with his fingers—only making them worse.

"Stop that, you'll snap them proper—let me see," Hermione huffed, snatching the glasses from his hands before he could protest.

With a fluid flick of her wand, she muttered:

"Oculus Reparo!"

The wire twisted back into place, as good as new. Harry slipped the glasses onto his face, relieved.

"Thanks, Hermione!" he said with a grateful smile.

She flashed him a quick smile before—

"AH!"

Harry yanked her down sharply, sending her tumbling almost on top of him—she barely managed to catch herself on her knees beside him as a densely-packed snowball whizzed through the space where her head had been moments before.

"Harry!" Hermione shrieked, winded.

He gave her a half-grin. "Would've ruined your hair."

The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs appeared to have formed a temporary alliance, concentrating fire on the disorganised Gryffindors. Hermione's once-imposing defences now trembled under relentless assault, and a constant barrage of snowballs began breaching their barricades.

“This is getting properly unfair,” Harry panted to Hermione, wiping snowflakes off his glasses.

“Don't fret,” Hermione said with a sly smile. “I've got a few tricks left... Start using Neville's stockpile. With proper logistics, we'll outlast them.”

Harry grinned. “With you on our side, Gryffindor might actually stand a chance.”

“A chance?” Hermione's eyes gleamed. “We're going to wipe the floor with them.”

“From someone who didn't even want to come, you're taking this awfully seriously,” Harry teased.

She frowned, but a small smile escaped. “Keep throwing, can’t you see they’re getting into better positions?”

Neville and Harry took advantage of their little fortress. She started coordinating the two of them and was scoring several hits on the eagles and badgers.

Seeing that what the three of them were doing was having a much greater effect, more classmates quickly joined them.

Within minutes, Hermione had taken command with ease. She organised the Gryffindors into teams: the older ones, able to cast spells, swiftly built a snow fortress, while the younger ones were put in charge of constantly making snowballs, and a group of throwers sprang into action.

The twins even went to the trouble of conjuring a red flag and raising it on one of the walls to mark their territory. The rival Houses were left stunned by the swift turn of the game.

When the battle finally drew to a close, the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors agreed on a draw—the Badgers having mirrored their strategy almost perfectly, focusing on constructing the most impressive snow fortress imaginable with minimal spellwork, since Hermione seemed to know every snowball-related charm ever documented. The confrontation reached a stalemate, neither side gaining ground. The Ravenclaws, consequently, found themselves thoroughly snowbound, having become the primary targets for both houses.

Hermione couldn’t wipe the smile off her face at the outcome, as if her little military campaign had paid off splendidly.

As they walked back to the castle, she was out in front of the boys, humming. Her hair seemed to dance along with her steps.

“She’s going to be like that the entire trip back, isn’t she?” Ron asked in a low voice to Harry and Neville.

“I prefer her like this than all alone in the library during the holidays,” Harry shrugged, brushing snow off his shoulders.

“Brains win over brute force once again…” Neville sighed.

“Oi! Fred, George and I were holding our own!” Ron grinned triumphantly. “Nicked five blokes right in the family jewels,” he crowed victoriously.

Harry laughed and noticed a few Ravenclaws shooting dirty looks at Ron.

“Think you might get your comeuppance at some point,” he chuckled.

“Let them try,” Ron scoffed mockingly. “What’re they going to do? Throw books at my head? Hermione nearly does that already.”

“She’s more likely to jinx you, to be fair,” Harry said thoughtfully.

“By the way, Harry, how did you convince Hermione to come with us?” Neville asked, brushing snow from his hair. “She didn’t seem too keen on leaving the library.”

Harry blushed a bit and ran a hand through his hair.

“Well… I said spending Christmas alone is a bit rubbish… and that we liked having her around, that’s all.”

“Much better her having fun with us than bossing us around to study more, honestly,” Ron shrugged.

Back at the castle, still with snow stuck in their hair and clothes starting to get damp, everyone went off to dry off and grab their trunks.

Meanwhile, Harry and Neville passed the time with a game of wizard chess while saying goodbye to the classmates who were leaving.

“Merlin, you look adorable in a scarf!” Angelina exclaimed in a high-pitched voice, making the twins burst out laughing.

“I am not adorable!” Harry protested, his face turning as red as the Gryffindor scarf he wore.

“Ooh, he’s blushing!” she went on, in the same tone one might use to talk about a cute puppy or baby.

Katie and Alicia took the opportunity to mess up his already unruly black hair even more, while Harry rolled his eyes.

“If you want any prank tips, just owl us,” said Fred, resting a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“An empty castle’s brilliant. Try sneaking out at night, even Filch never bother around this time—it’s dead easy,” George added with a mischievous grin.

“Will do… but I might wait a bit longer to start,” Harry replied with a playful smile.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, don’t be traumatised forever by that Slytherin prank! That goes for you too, Nev,” said Fred, shooting a look at Neville, who glanced away, embarrassed.

“Anyway, happy Christmas, Harry!” George offered a final handshake.

Harry shook his hand, only to feel something slimy.

“Oh, come off it!” Harry stared at his hand, now coated in green goo, as the twins roared with laughter. “You're joking!”

“’Course we are! You're prime testing material for new inventions,” Fred chuckled.

Harry tried wiping his hand on Fred's shoulder, but he dodged nimbly—both twins sprinting away cackling.

“Gits...” Harry muttered, though he couldn't suppress a grin.

“Hey,” a familiar voice called.

He turned to see Hermione approaching, her trunk in hand.

“Hi,” Harry replied, watching her. “So… heading off already?”

“Yes, I want to make sure I get a good spot on the train. Rony will thank me later,” she said with a smile, placing her trunk on the floor.

Neville stood up, a little awkwardly.

“Erm… bye then, happy Christmas, Hermione.” He offered his hand.

She shook it with a gentle smile. “Happy Christmas, Neville.”

Harry automatically extended his right hand—still sticky from the twins’ goo—but, realising it, quickly swapped to his left. At the exact same moment, Hermione had opened her arms for a hug, but seeing his gesture, froze mid-movement.

The two of them stood there—Harry with his left hand outstretched and Hermione with her arms half-open—in a moment of such palpable awkwardness that even Neville’s chess bishop seemed to turn and look.

Hermione cleared her throat, her cheeks turning a shade of red that rivalled the Christmas decorations in the Great Hall.

“Er… happy Christmas… to you,” Harry said, his voice coming out a bit higher than he’d meant.

“Of course—I mean—happy Christmas, Harry,” Hermione replied quickly, now blushing even more as she realised she’d just repeated what she’d said to Neville.

She grabbed her trunk so quickly she nearly tripped over her own foot.

With a final smile that didn’t quite manage to cover her embarrassment, Hermione disappeared through the portrait of the Fat Lady, her brown curls bouncing merrily behind her as she went—a stark contrast to the clumsy farewell.

Harry turned to Neville, who simply shrugged with an understanding smile before returning his attention to the chessboard.

“I never know how to say goodbye properly...” Harry confessed with a sigh, running a hand through his still-embarrassed hair.

“Tell me about it,” Neville replied, moving his piece before glancing at Harry's hair. “Er... you scratched your head with the wrong hand.”

“Wrong hand? — Oh no…” Harry groaned in defeat as he felt the sticky mess in his hair.

Snow was falling gently over Hogwarts that Christmas morning, cloaking the castle in a gleaming layer of white. In the Gryffindor dormitory, the cosy warmth of the central fireplace crackled softly, playing a soothing melody that cradled Harry in a deep sleep, his blanket nearly covering his entire head.

Suddenly, he felt something soft and light creeping up his back, followed by the gentle scratch of claws.

Hedwig landed delicately on his shoulder, giving him a gentle peck. Harry groaned in protest, pulling the blanket over his head. He couldn’t help but admit it was infinitely better to be woken almost every day by his beloved owl than by someone hammering on the cupboard door, as had happened with the Dursleys.

“Harry!” Neville’s cheerful voice rang in his ear. “Wake up!”

“Wha’...?” Harry mumbled groggily, opening his eyes slowly, still half-blinded by the soft light spilling through the snow-covered windows.

Hedwig, impatient, gave a light flap of her wings, as if encouraging Harry to get up.

“Merry Christmas, Harry!” Neville exclaimed, with a grin so wide it seemed to brighten the air around him. “We’ve got presents!”

“Presents?” Harry repeated, confused, as he put on his glasses and blinked a few times to adjust his vision. “But I never get presents...”

Neville laughed, pointing to a small Christmas tree in the corner of the room. “Look at that! It’s covered in parcels with your name on them!”

Harry blinked in surprise. He sat up, still dazed, and his eyes widened at the sight of the number of gifts at the base of the tree. Trevor was beside the tree, peering curiously at the packages.

“All this... presents?” His voice was full of disbelief.

“Yes!” Neville was practically bouncing with excitement. “I checked—they’ve all got names, no mix-ups.”

Neville’s pile was bigger than Harry’s, as he didn’t have great-aunts who loved sending more than one present like his friend did, but that didn’t dampen his spirits.

Receiving presents was the most brilliant thing that had ever happened to him at Christmas.

Hedwig, sensing the excitement in the air, did a cheerful loop, making Harry smile.

The day before, Neville had insisted they have their own Christmas tree in the dormitory, and with Hagrid’s help and a few borrowed baubles from McGonagall, they had managed to put one together. Now, looking at the scene, it felt like a small Christmas miracle.

Harry and Neville laughed cheerfully and began unwrapping their presents.

One was from Molly Weasley—Ron’s mum—who had sent hand-knitted jumpers with their initials on them. Harry pulled his on straight away—a dark blue one with a golden H—it was properly cosy, and he silently thanked her for finally having a jumper that actually fit, with sleeves that didn’t get in the way.

It was the first time a stranger had given him something, and it felt so lovingly made that it warmed him from the inside out.

Harry read the note that came with it:

Ron always talks so much about you, Harry, so I made a jumper for you myself. I hope it keeps you warm this winter.

Merry Christmas, from all the Weasley family!

He’d thank her properly when he wrote to Ron next over the holidays.

Hermione had sent Harry a basic broomstick maintenance kit and a book, Quidditch Through the Ages. Harry wondered if she’d like the present he’d chosen for her: a huge spellbook, so thick that if Hedwig had to carry the parcel, he feared his poor owl wouldn’t manage to lift it. It was exactly the sort of gift Hermione would appreciate—he already knew that this kind of book counted as “light reading” for her.

McGonagall. Her gift was a book on basic Transfiguration spells.

When Harry opened it, a small note fluttered out:

To my exceptional student. Keep it up, Mr. Potter.

He smiled, feeling a little proud, though he’d never admit he was doing well in Transfiguration. Hermione would huff and roll her eyes whenever Ron teased that Harry was the best in the year with mock pride.

Then Harry picked up Hagrid’s present, a brown package with little black spots.

Upon opening it, he was greeted with a small cake with chocolate icing—some charm had clearly been used to keep it fresh and warm, as though it had just come out of the oven.

Unlike the rock cakes, this one looked incredibly soft and inviting, with a shiny glaze that caught the firelight.

“Cake for breakfast?” Neville laughed, his eyes wide with amused surprise. “If my gran saw me eating sweets before morning tea, I’d be in trouble until next Christmas.”

“Well, she’s not here, and it is Christmas,” Harry replied, shrugging in a way that was meant to look casual, but ended in a cheeky grin.

He flipped through his new Transfiguration book, fingers sliding over the pages in search of something useful.

“Let me try conjuring some plates and cutlery.”

Neville sighed dramatically, propping his chin on his hand.

“If Ron finds out you can do that on your first go, he’ll wind Hermione up for weeks. You know—about how you’re the best in the year.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Harry protested, his face going slightly red. “You know Hermione knows more magic than all of us put together. Being good at one thing doesn’t mean...” He hesitated, as if reconsidering his words. “And I’m not even that good, really,”

Neville raised his eyebrows in a way that clearly said stop being modest. “Now you’re just playing coy. Go on, I want to see the magic.”

“I won’t get it first try,” Harry tried to sound serious, but a laugh escaped his lips. “You always do this! — Stop looking at me like that!”

Neville raised his hands with a grin. “I’m not doing anything!”

With a graceful movement, Harry picked up four baubles from the little Christmas tree and lined them up on the floor.

He raised his wand with confidence and, with a precise flick, said:

“Decorus Scutella!”

The nearest bauble instantly transformed into a white porcelain plate with golden edges—so perfect it could’ve come straight from the Hogwarts kitchens.

For a moment, the two boys were silent, staring at the flawless transformation. Then, as if on cue, they burst out laughing, Neville pointing at Harry mid-laugh.

“I just like casting spells—it’s different,” Harry explained, still chuckling as he picked up the plate. “The theory of Transfiguration is what separates the good from the great, and that’s where I get all tangled. Hermione always explains it better when we revise.”

Neville picked up a knife and began cutting a generous slice of cake.

“Can’t argue with that,” he agreed with a resigned sigh. “She’s my lifesaver in Potions. I think I’d have failed the year without her help.”

They shared the cake as they talked about the presents they’d received. It was incredibly delicious, and Harry felt a wave of warmth at Hagrid’s thoughtfulness, imagining that the flavour was even better because of the affection that had come with the gift.

After eating more than half, they returned to unwrapping the rest of the presents.

The Dursleys had sent a pair of socks.

“Well, at least these are new,” he mused.

Harry shrugged and tossed them aside carelessly, used to the lack of affection.

They also had presents to exchange among themselves; Professor McGonagall had collected the list of presents they had chosen from the various Hogsmeade catalogues, and she herself—along with other professors—had purchased the things they had requested beforehand.

“This one’s from me,” said Neville shyly, handing him a small parcel.

Harry opened it carefully, his eyes lighting up at the sight of a pair of finely crafted leather gloves.

“Wow! These are amazing!”

“I heard you say your hands freeze during Quidditch practice,” Neville explained, smiling bashfully. “These gloves’ll keep your hands warm and help you grip your broom better.”

“Cheers, Nev. Really appreciate it!” Harry replied, genuinely touched. He then grabbed a present and handed it to his friend. “Here, this one's for you. Though I reckon it's not half as good as those gloves.”

Neville chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “Somehow I doubt that.”

He unwrapped the gift and gaped at a complete Herbology kit—top-quality gardening tools including a trowel, pruning shears of various shapes, and even some magical implements. They normally had to use Hogwarts' battered old equipment during lessons; now Neville had his own professional set.

“Harry, this is amazing!”

“Glad you think so, because I haven't the foggiest what most of these even do.”

They shared a laugh, basking in the moment, until Neville spotted a lone white box nearly hidden behind the tree.

“Harry... is that present for you?”

Harry tilted his head, wondering who else might have left him a gift. He picked up the box, curiosity prickling at him.

“My name's on it, but... there's no sender.” He read the message aloud:

Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well.

“Your father?” Neville peered over, intrigued. “Who's it from?”

“Good question.” Harry shrugged and carefully opened the box, revealing a folded piece of fabric that looked old yet impeccably preserved.

“Merlin's beard!” Neville gasped. “Harry, that's... that's an Invisibility Cloak!”

Harry stared at the shimmering material in disbelief.

As he draped the cloak over himself, his body vanished before his very eyes. Hedwig observed keenly from her perch on the windowsill, golden eyes sharp, while Trevor hopped closer with a curious croak, as if puzzled by Harry's sudden disappearance.

“They’re incredibly rare!” said Neville, gaping. “They usually lose their effect over time, but this one... it looks brand new, even though it belonged to your dad!”

“Really?” Harry asked, disbelieving.

He looked down at himself, still concealed, and couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. At last, he had something that had belonged to his father—something real, something magical.

As they talked and sorted through the presents, Harry felt his heart warm.

That special gift, that memory of his father, made this Christmas unlike any other. For the first time, he felt like he had something to belong to, something that was truly his. Hedwig let out a soft trill, as though celebrating Harry’s happiness, while Trevor seemed to nestle beside the tree.

The rest of the day was wonderfully pleasant.

The Gryffindor Tower, usually filled with laughter and lively chatter, was strangely silent. The flames in the fireplace crackled softly, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls, and the squashy armchairs looked almost abandoned. The only other occupant besides them was Taller Jackson, the sixth-year student who had once competed with Harry for the Seeker position on the Quidditch team.

Taller was hunched over a pile of books, but looked up when Harry and Neville entered the common room.

“Feels weird, I know,” he remarked, shutting a leather-bound volume with a gentle thud. “Christmases at Hogwarts are usually a lot livelier.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Harry agreed, glancing around. “Looks like it’s just the three of us from Gryffindor.”

“This year, nearly everyone decided to spend it at home,” Taller explained, getting to his feet and stretching his arms with a sigh. “Well, it happens. Anyway, if you lot need anything, I’ll be in the library. Sixth year’s taking more out of me than I’d like.”

“Cheers, Taller,” Harry replied with a smile. “Good luck with the studying.”

Taller nodded and left, leaving them once again enveloped in the cosy quiet of the common room. Neville let out a sigh, sinking into the nearest armchair.

“Honestly, I don’t want to be revising over Christmas when I get to sixth year…” he muttered, staring into the flames with a near-melancholy expression.

Harry knew just how much Neville loved Christmas—perhaps even more than his own birthday, since he always spoke more enthusiastically about this date. There was something about the magic of the season, the sparkling decorations and the festive air, that seemed to lift his spirits in a way nothing else could.

“Well, that’s still a fair way off,” Harry said, shrugging. “Fancy a game of something?”

Harry and Neville spent the afternoon immersed in a peculiar game that Neville’s eccentric great-aunt Frida had sent him as a Christmas present—the intriguing Hero Path.

Scattered across the Gryffindor common room carpet, the game’s strange dice shimmered in the firelight—some with only four sharp sides, others with so many faces they looked like tiny faceted balls. The rulebook, bound in leather, contained instructions as creative as they were confusing, encouraging players to let their imaginations run wild.

“So... I can make any kind of character?” Harry asked, his quill hovering over a parchment as he tried to decide between creating an elven warrior or a dwarven rogue.

“Any!” Neville confirmed, eyes shining with excitement. “It says here you’ve got to have a good imagination.”

While Harry meticulously jotted down the attributes, skills and backstory of his character—a half-elf paladin named Eldrin—Neville took on the role of Game Master with a seriousness Harry had never seen in him before. His face glowed with concentration as he invented challenges and riddles for Harry to overcome.

The game reminded Harry of something from the Muggle world he vaguely remembered seeing somewhere.

Castles and Dragons? Or was it Dungeons and Demons? but with a decidedly magical twist.

To begin with, the dice sometimes rolled on their own, floating in the air before settling on a result. The enchanted map, the game’s centrepiece, shifted fluidly as Neville narrated the adventure, its pewter mountains rising and its rivers of blue ink altering course.

Meanwhile, Trevor decided it was time for exploration and vanished somewhere in the tower. They spent over half an hour searching for the toad, until they found him nearly halfway up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory.

“You can’t go up there!” Neville exclaimed, clutching the toad firmly and attempting to scold him.

“There’s no lady toads up there for you to chase,” Harry joked, amused.

Trevor, however, merely gave a disdainful croak, as if protesting the reprimand.

When dinner time came, Harry approached Professor McGonagall to thank her for the gift she’d given him. She returned his gratitude with a satisfied smile, while Dumbledore was as serene as ever. Hagrid, for his part, waved cheerily while swapping stories about erumpents he’d once had to care for and illusion charms with Professor Flitwick.

Still, not everything was merry.

Snape was present to remind him that bitterness and sneering looks didn’t thaw certain hearts—not even at Christmas.

Not that Harry much cared; the dislike he felt for his Potions master grew stronger with each passing day. Snape’s constant barbed remarks and veiled digs about Harry’s “fame”, the loss of points from Gryffindor for ridiculous reasons, and the endless threats directed at Neville during lessons did nothing to brighten his afternoon.

The dinner table was filled with little wizard crackers.

When pulled, they exploded with a bang as loud as a cannon, letting out blue smoke and revealing a gift hat. The first time he heard the noise, Harry’s heart nearly stopped in surprise, while Neville laughed, clearly used to the wizarding Christmas traditions.

Harry got a king’s crown, McGonagall received a stylish top hat, Neville ended up with a fisherman’s cap, and Dumbledore—to Harry’s surprise—got a Father Christmas hat that, oddly enough, made him look remarkably like the man himself.

When the food appeared, Harry let out a surprised sigh, his eyes gleaming. He tucked into the grand feast with delight.

Eight roast turkeys were laid out on the table, alongside puddings, savoury pies, and, for dessert, a variety of chocolate cakes covered and filled, puddings, and ice creams that seemed nearly endless in quantity.

Harry had never eaten so well at Christmas—normally the Dursleys gave him only cold leftovers. But here, everything was hot and delicious.

As Harry sat at the table, savouring the festive fare, he felt a curious gaze fall on him. Turning his head, his green eyes met those of Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington—the Gryffindor ghost—who hovered near the table, his melancholy gaze fixed on a succulent stuffed turkey.

Neville gave a startled jump as he noticed the ghostly apparition, his hand flying instinctively to his chest as if to check that his heart was still beating.

“Sir Nicholas, how are you?” Harry greeted warmly, a smile lighting his face. “Enjoying the Christmas spirit?”

The ghost gave a deep sigh, making his lace ruff flutter.

“Oh yes... merely... admiring the fare,” he replied, his hungry gaze sweeping over the food-laden table.

“But... with all due respect, sir, you can’t eat, can you?” Harry asked, a hint of pity in his voice.

Sir Nicholas let out a sigh so deep it made the nearby candles flicker.

“Alas, no. It's been centuries since I last tasted a decent meal... But well, such is life—or rather, death,” he added with a melancholy smile, gliding elegantly over the table, his nearly-severed head wobbling precariously.

“Sir Nicholas, do ghosts have any special traditions at Christmas?” Neville asked, his curiosity overcoming his initial fear.

The ghost's eyes gleamed with supernatural excitement.

“Ah, we hold a magnificent feast down in the dungeons! In fact, I ought to be there right now. I only came to check on my favourite Gryffindors,” he confessed, his smile becoming more intimate. “I thought it best to come myself rather than send the Bloody Baron or, Merlin forbid, Peeves... They're rather prone to... disruption in such cosy settings.”

“Couldn't agree more,” Harry laughed, imagining the chaos the poltergeist might cause at the feast.

“The Baron’s fond enough of the students, in his own peculiar way,” Nick went on, adjusting his ruff. “But he has a particular knack for ruining the festive atmosphere. At any rate, enjoy the spread and have a splendid Christmas!”

With one final dramatic gesture, the ghost vanished slowly, like smoke dissolving into the air.

As soon as Sir Nicholas had gone, Neville leaned towards Harry, his eyes wide with amused apprehension.

“Can you imagine if Peeves had come instead?” He widened his eyes further, as if the poltergeist might appear just by being mentioned. “He’d probably blow up the turkey and hurl the Christmas pudding at the ceiling!”

Harry couldn’t help but smile at the memory. “You once said you'd love to take a strawberry tart to the face...”

Neville raised his hands in defence, nearly knocking over his goblet of pumpkin juice.

“That was before I thought he might actually turn up instead of Nearly Headless Nick!” he protested, his round face turning slightly red. “And anyway, strawberry tart is completely different from Christmas pudding!”

“Because one’s made of strawberries and the other of dried fruit?”

“Actually, because one’s a tart and the other a pudding, but mostly because strawberry desserts taste far better than dried fruit ones,” Neville replied easily.

“Well, seeing as you're clearly an expert, I’ve no argument to make.” Harry laughed. “Do you reckon he’d really dare to wreck a Christmas dinner?”

“Remember when he made Snape slip that one time to save us?” Neville whispered. “I don’t think Christmas would stop him doing anything.”

Harry laughed heartily at the memory. “That night was unforgettable…”

“Something the matter, Potter?”

The light mood froze instantly as that voice, cold as the Hogwarts dungeons, hissed behind them.

The two boys jumped, turning to find Professor Snape looming like a thundercloud, his black eyes gleaming with contempt. Neville seemed to stop breathing entirely.

“No, sir,” Harry replied quickly, forcing a casual tone. “It’s Christmas, after all.”

Snape raised an eyebrow slowly, as if inspecting a particularly uninteresting specimen.

“Indeed...” he murmured, his voice syrupy. “Do enjoy your... meal. And a... Merry Christmas.” The way he uttered the words sounded more like a curse than a seasonal greeting.

“And to you, sir, Merry Christmas…” Harry returned, keeping his composure as he felt the professor’s eyes burning into his back while he walked away.

Once Snape’s dark silhouette had vanished among the tables, Neville finally let out the breath he’d been holding in a long sigh.

“I swear my heart stopped for a second—twice in under three minutes,” he confessed, clutching his goblet of pumpkin juice with trembling hands. “I think I’ll end up in the hospital wing if this keeps up.”

Harry merely shook his head, his smile gradually returning as he watched the snowflakes dancing outside the tall windows of the Great Hall.

Christmas at Hogwarts, he decided, would never be entirely peaceful—but it certainly would never be dull.

Later that night, while Neville slept soundly, Harry tossed and turned in his bed, unable to quiet his mind. The gift he had received continued to pulse in his thoughts. His father's Invisibility Cloak… The simple idea that it had once belonged to him made Harry’s heart beat faster.

What if I tried it out? Harry thought, the glimmer of a plan beginning to take shape.

Fred and George had assured him that, during the holidays, not even Filch usually patrolled the corridors.

It was the perfect opportunity—perhaps the safest one he’d have for a long time.

Without thinking much more—and still in his pyjamas—Harry made his way down the stairs of the boys’ dormitory, the cloak folded in his hands. Upon reaching the common room, he cast one last look around and, in a swift movement, threw the cloak over himself.

The sensation of vanishing completely was strange and fascinating. With steady breathing, he passed by the Fat Lady’s portrait, who mumbled something incoherent in her sleep, and moved silently through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts.

“Maybe I’ll find something in the library… something that explains the pain in my scar,” he murmured to himself as he descended the stairs, feeling the chill of the castle’s stone and shivering. “Should’ve brought a cloak… it’s bloody freezing.”

The pain in his forehead had been growing more frequent—especially during Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons. But the incident in the Forbidden Forest, when his scar had burned fiercely, still haunted him.

He didn’t know if there was any connection—if there was, what kind exactly? Was Quirrell the one killing unicorns in the middle of the forest, miles from the castle? And why? Or was he after whoever was doing it?

Harry never seemed to be able to answer these questions.

But if there was one place at Hogwarts that might offer him answers, it was the Restricted Section.

When he reached the library door, Harry tried to open it, but, as expected, it was locked.

Drawing his wand, he whispered:

“Alohomora.”

Click!

The latch made a satisfying sound as it unlocked, and he stepped inside.

“Need to thank Hermione for teaching me that one…” he thought to himself.

With another wand movement, he intoned:

“Lumos.”

The tip of his wand lit up, casting a glow over the shelves in the pitch-black library.

Harry wandered through the sections, the shadows of the bookshelves looming ominously in the faint light of his wand. At last, he arrived at the Restricted Section—it was an area surrounded by protective bars and locked by a gate. The forbidden zone for younger students, where only the more experienced were permitted to handle the books that contained dangerous secrets. Harry knew well the sharp gaze of Madam Pince, always poised to watch over the students—but tonight, he was completely invisible.

There was a padlock on the gate and he tried “Alohomora” again—unsuccessfully.

He sighed deeply at his own innocence.

“Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. Like no one’s tried that before.”

A sudden thought struck him and he went to Madam Pince’s desk. In one of the drawers, there was a key—old, heavy, and looking as though it hadn’t been used in centuries. It fit perfectly into the lock and opened.

“What kind of wizard would look for a key to open a padlock? Only someone raised by Muggles,” he muttered amusedly to himself.

His adrenaline was surging—it was impossible not to feel like a proper spy doing this.

He began inspecting the forbidden books.

The old leather covers felt almost alive beneath his fingers, and the titles—some frightening, others indecipherable—caught his eye.

One book titled Love Potions, Amortentia and Their Crimes seemed out of place.

“What could be so bad about a love potion?” he mused. In his mind, it made no sense. “Aren’t they supposed to give love?”

Others had no title at all, only strange symbols or ancient runes etched into the covers, their pages brittle with age.

Then a particular title caught his curiosity.

The Dark Arts: The Evil of the Wizarding World.

Harry pulled the book from the shelf, its faded grey leather suggesting it had once been a darker shade. He opened it, hesitant, the pages creaking under his fingers as he began to leaf through the contents.

As he read, his stomach churned.

It wasn’t a spell manual, as he’d expected.

Instead, it described in vivid detail the horrors of the Dark Arts, discouraging their use and outlining their devastating consequences. Harry read about curses that dismembered victims, caused internal bleeding, could crush organs as if they were made of modelling clay, explode bones and inflict fatal burns—so graphically that he nearly vomited up his Christmas dinner. Grim photographs of mutilated wizards illustrated some of the curses.

Just as he was about to give up, already feeling quite nauseous, a particular chapter caught his attention:

The Three Unforgivable Curses.

A chill ran down his spine.

Every curse he’d read about had been unforgivable in some way—so if these had earned that title, they couldn’t possibly be any better.

Curiosity won over discomfort, and he read attentively.

The book described, with terrifying precision, the three most feared curses in the wizarding world.

The Imperius Curse seemed the least awful, as it “only” allowed the caster to control the victim like a puppet.

He was wrong.

Harry swallowed hard as he read a story where the caster ordered the victim to kill themselves with their own wand. He shuddered at the thought of someone without free will, forced to obey every command—even the most cruel.

Next was the Cruciatus Curse.

Used for torture, this curse could cause such unbearable pain that it could drive the victim mad if they suffered for too long—

Harry couldn’t read much more when it began detailing some famous examples—he skipped ahead to the last one.

Avada Kedavra.

The Killing Curse. The one that had taken his parents from him.

Harry took a deep breath as he read the description.

“With a simple lightning-shaped movement of the wand, a flash of green light is cast, instantly killing its victim — without pain or visible injury... It cannot be blocked by any spell, just like the Cruciatus or Imperius, and is considered unbeatable and final. As it ends life completely, it is regarded as the worst of the three Unforgivable Curses…”

Harry ran his hand over the scar on his forehead, feeling an ache. It was frustrating. There was no mention—none at all—about his mark; his was unique.

Scowling, he slammed the book shut, irritated with himself for having expected anything different. 

“Of course… I’m the only one with this mark,” he muttered to himself, dejected. “There’s no way I can learn more about it if I’m the only one who’s got it… Hermione said it was a bad idea…”

He didn’t really want to dwell on it; in fact, he’d use her idea as an excuse, because he was going to try and find out more about his mark no matter what.

Harry thought about his parents more that Christmas than at any other time he could remember. When he was reading or waiting for Neville to make his next move in chess, his mind wandered to what it might be like to have Christmas with them. Harry imagined the warmth of his mother’s hug, the comforting touch of his father’s hand ruffling his hair, both of them smiling, happy to be together—like normal families were at this time of year.

But thanks to that fucking curse and a shite evil wizard, here he was—in the middle of the night, trapped in a dark library inside a winter-chilled castle… alone.

Not that he was ungrateful.

In fact, he was enjoying every second of the holiday—by far the best of his life so far. The warmth of friendship, the laughter, the food…

Hogwarts gave him everything he’d ever wanted.

But sometimes… sometimes in the silence between one laugh and the next, or in the quieter moments, he couldn’t help the thought:

“What would it be like if they were here?”

The absence of his parents was a constant shadow, and it left him reflecting with a touch of melancholy.

Of all the horrible ways his parents might have died at the hands of Voldemort, after reading this book, at least he had one small consolation.

“Their deaths were quick… Painless.” He could tell himself.

Something yanked Harry from his thoughts.

He’d heard the library door creak. He’d left it ajar, and now it was swinging open with a disturbing screech.

“Who’s there? Show yourself!” came a familiar growl that made Harry freeze.

“Meaw…”

Filch. And just behind him, the raspy mewl of Mrs. Norris.

“Nox” Harry whispered, extinguishing the light from his wand and yanking the Invisibility Cloak over his head.

He swallowed hard as the yellow light of Filch’s lantern began to approach, casting sinister moving shadows across the shelves. A chill ran down his spine as he tried to calm the rising panic.

Harry crept forward, his feet barely touching the floor. Filch’s breathing echoed through the library, mixing with the oppressive silence of the place. Then, Harry’s heart nearly stopped when Filch’s gaze seemed to lock right onto the spot where he stood, freezing him.

“I know someone’s in here,” Filch growled, his voice full of disdain. He stepped closer to the book Harry had taken from the shelf. “Show yourself, you little scoundrel.”

Moving slowly so as not to make a sound, Harry backed away, never taking his eyes off Filch.

Every step felt like it took an age. But then, out of nowhere, Mrs. Norris leapt onto a nearby table, sniffing the air. Her yellow eyes fixed on the empty space, and she let out a loud meow, calling Filch.

“Where is he, Mrs. Norris?” Filch approached the cat, raising the lantern.

Harry quickened his pace, still walking backwards, eyes glued to the caretaker—when he bumped into a chair. The creak echoed through the library like a gunshot. Filch spun round at once, holding the lantern high, fury etched across his face.

“Wretched kids…” he muttered, storming towards the sound.

Harry’s heart pounded like a drum in his ears. He tried to slip away, but then a soft, familiar voice spoke slowly, freezing him in place.

“Is something wrong, Argus?”

Snape appeared like a shadow, his imposing presence making the air around them feel heavier, almost suffocating.

Harry turned instinctively, only to come face-to-face with the tall figure of the professor approaching. He narrowly avoided colliding with Snape, who, thankfully, didn’t look directly at him.

“There is,” Filch replied, eyes wide in that usual conspiratorial way, his face rigid and tense. “There’s someone out of bed, I’m sure of it. Absolutely certain!”

Snape raised an eyebrow, his gaze hardening further.

“I’ll lock the library,” he said in an icy tone that made Harry’s blood run cold. “And we’ll search the corridors. Whoever it is, they’ll be trapped here until breakfast.”

A sneer curled his lips as he strode towards the door.

“Oh, what a dramatic affair, Snape!” Peeves exclaimed, appearing as if out of thin air, a mischievous grin lighting up his ghostly face. “Hunting down a student out of bed? Sounds like a new spin on The Ghost Wars and the Filch Catchers!”

"What the bloody hell does that mean?" Filch grumbled.

"Ooh, new slogan, eh?" Peeves cackled. "Heard some Muggle-born say it. Must be one of their funny little things."

“Peeves, leave,” Snape snarled, turning to the poltergeist, clearly annoyed.

“But how could I, dear Snivellus? My soul is free, and I live to cause havoc!” Peeves declared, floating back and forth, striking an exaggerated pose.

“Don’t call me that,” Snape hissed threateningly, seething.

Harry inched towards the exit, cold sweat dripping as he listened in.

“Why not?” Peeves asked dramatically. “I thought you liked that quartet! One of them was a genius with nicknames. What was his name again?” he pretended to ponder. “Ah, doesn’t matter.”

“Go away,” Snape said slowly, fixing the poltergeist with a steely glare.

“But I do know where the student is! Don’t worry.”

Filch shook his head, exasperated. “And where is he?”

“Let me think,” Peeves said, hands on his hips. “He’s in a castle… and inside the castle, in the library…”

Snape pursed his lips. “Let’s not waste time, Argus.”

“Oooh! Someone’s in a hurry! Careful, children—Potions Master bites if you’re late!” Peeves teased, laughing and somersaulting mid-air. “Let me guess—the student’s in trouble, and here you two are, carrying on like Hallowe’en creatures even though it’s Christmas? One of you dresses like a bat, and the other… what do you dress as, Filch?”

“Shut it, Peeves!” Snape snapped, struggling to keep his composure.

“Just get out the way!” Filch growled grumpily.

By that point, Harry had already slipped through the door and was starting down the corridor.

“Oh, but the fun’s only just begun! Who needs spells when you’ve got a mischievous ghost and a grumpy caretaker?” Peeves chirped, winking. “I’m like an actor—better on stage than in action!”

“This isn’t theatre!” Filch retorted, shaking his head with disgust. “All you do is rhyme and wreck!”

“Yes, but who else could come up with rhymes about a grumpy caretaker and a professor who always looks like he's been sucking on a lemon?!”

Peeves grinned broadly, taunting Snape.

“It's a perfect match, like pumpkin and pie—or better yet, like you and a broken broomstick! Hahaha!”

Heart pounding, Harry still moved cautiously, even with a good distance between them. He watched as Snape locked the door with a silent spell.

The click of the latch echoed in the stillness.

Harry managed to slip into an empty room and, raising his wand, murmured, “Colloportus,” sealing the door magically to avoid being caught off guard.

Tearing off the Cloak and still panting, he ran a hand over his forehead, trying to wipe away the cold sweat.

The adrenaline surging through his body would take a while to wear off.

“I'm going to kill those two,” he muttered, eyes narrowed, as the faces of the redheaded twins rose in his mind.

“Oh don’t worry, Harry, Filch neeever comes out during the holidays!'” he mimicked Fred and George in a theatrical voice.

“Bollocks he doesn’t! Even Snape’s on duty in the dead of night!”

After venting enough, he took a deep breath and finally paid attention to where he was.

The room was small and clearly hadn’t seen a good cleaning in years. The dust piled up and cobwebs clinging to the corners made the place feel even more dismal. At first glance, it looked almost empty, save for a few scattered student desks and one curious object at the back—a tall mirror, nearly reaching the ceiling, with a golden frame that stood out against the dusty surroundings.

Drawn by a curiosity rising within him like a silent flame, Harry stepped towards the mirror. It looked recently polished, gleaming faintly as though it didn’t belong in this forgotten and dust-choked room. The frame was extraordinarily beautiful—tall and arched, carved from old gold, with two lion’s paws sculpted at the base. Etched just above, strange words shimmered as though wand-carved:

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi

Harry tilted his head, frowning.

“‘Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi…’” he murmured, trying to puzzle it out. “What on earth does that mean?”

But the question was swiftly forgotten.

His eyes had caught the reflection. At first, he saw only himself—skinny as ever, with his perpetually messy hair that defied both comb and charm. He looked a bit rosier, perhaps, thanks to months of eating properly at the castle, but it was undeniably him.

Then something changed.

There were other people in the mirror.

Harry blinked, bewildered. Two figures were beginning to take shape behind him.

He spun round sharply, heart thudding—but the room was still empty.

Turning back to the mirror, his stomach twisted... and there they were.

To his right stood a tall man, with untidy black hair and round glasses just like his own. A shy smile touched his lips, and his brown, gentle eyes shone with pride.

To the left, a woman of serene beauty. Her long red hair cascaded in waves over her shoulders, and her eyes—the same almond-shaped green eyes he saw every morning in the mirror—were gazing at him, full of tenderness.

They looked so young…

So alive…

Harry felt the breath leave his lungs as if he'd been punched.

A lump formed in his throat and, for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. He blinked rapidly, as if that would dispel the image—but they remained.

“Mum?... Dad?” he whispered, voice trembling, barely more than a breath.

And then they smiled. A soft smile, brimming with love. They inclined their heads, as if to say yes. As if they’d been waiting for him all this time.

Harry’s legs nearly gave out. He barely noticed the cold wooden floor beneath his bare feet, nor the utter silence of the room. His heart was thudding wildly, and his eyes welled up.

In the mirror, he saw his parents’ hands resting on his shoulders—he could have sworn he felt the warmth of that touch, as real as the wind on his face when flying a broom.

And then, he cried.

At first, the tears were silent, but soon they became uncontrollable sobs, echoing through the empty room like ancient laments. He cried like he never had before—not from physical pain, nor anger, but from a longing that had followed him since the cradle.

“I... I miss you so much...” he whispered between sobs, voice breaking.

In the mirror, his parents’ eyes were glistening too. There was sorrow in them, but understanding as well. A love that was silent, eternal, unshakable.

Harry tossed and turned in bed, the laziness weighing on his bones like a stone, while the warm blankets wrapped around him like a cosy cocoon. The idea of facing the cold outside—the snow that had accumulated over the past few days—seemed an unnecessary punishment. The sun tried to break through the blue curtains, casting a faint light over the room.

Outside, the day had already begun. He could hear the muffled footsteps of people moving around the house, the sound seeping under the door. Soon, the door opened gently, as it did every morning. He buried his face in the pillow, trying to prolong the moment of stillness. But it was futile. She sat on the edge of his bed, leaning slightly to touch his shoulders with a gentle stroke.

“Darling... it's time to get up,” her voice was sweet, almost a melody.

Harry slowly opened his eyes, and even without his glasses, he would recognise that face anywhere.

His mother.

With a tender smile, she woke him up as she did every day.

“All right,” he muttered, his voice still thick with sleep, a silly grin escaping.

“Dad’s finishing the eggs... don’t take too long, or they’ll go cold.” She said it in a soft, affectionate tone before leaving the room.

He sighed, reluctant, and finally disentangled himself from the covers, his feet touching the wooden floor that creaked lightly under his weight. His room, spacious and cosy, was filled with details that were part of his life.

The large wardrobe that held all his clothes, carefully chosen by his mother—who always had to convince his father that leather jackets weren’t suitable for every occasion, especially in the wizarding world. The shelves were filled with toys and books he had received as gifts.

Opening the curtains, he gazed out at the snow-covered backyard. The swing hanging from the tree swayed gently in the cold breeze, and birds nestled in the branches, enjoying the cold winter sun. Harry dressed quickly and ran downstairs, drawn by the unmistakable smell of fried eggs.

In the kitchen, his father had his back to him, focused on the stove, while his mother set the table with plates and cups.

James Potter, though he didn’t appear so, was a master in the kitchen—at least when it came to eggs. He excelled at all versions: fried, scrambled, and even boiled. But when it came to bacon... things didn’t always go as well... His mother, by consensus, handled the lunches and dinners.

Harry ran to his father and hugged him.

James laughed and lifted him slightly off the ground, showing his strength despite his lean frame.

“Look who’s up early! Didn’t need to call twice,” James said, laughing.

“Today’s a good reason,” Harry replied as he served himself some tea with milk.

“Ah, so if there’s no good reason, you don’t get up?” Lily raised an eyebrow, but a smile played on her lips as she sat at the table.

“You said I could sleep in during the holidays.” Harry shrugged with an innocent smile.

James snorted with laughter as he put the eggs on plates. “Sleeping in, at most, means until nine. If you had it your way, you’d sleep past eleven!”

“I have to sleep to grow, wasn’t that you who said that?”

“That’s called laziness, dear,” his mother replied, pouring herself some tea. “You weren’t even asleep when I woke you.”

Harry sighed, resigned, as his parents exchanged amused glances.

The conversation during breakfast flowed naturally.

The plan for the day was to go out and wander around the town, watch the film Beauty and the Beast, and perhaps visit the amusement park, before a mandatory stop at the town’s bookstore—his mother’s favourite.

“That’s why I always say,” James commented, casually leaning back in his chair while taking a sip of tea, “marry an intelligent woman who loves to read. One day, son, you’ll thank me. There’s no greater beauty than intelligence.”

Lily raised an eyebrow over her cup, casting a look at her husband that mixed scepticism and affection, as if reading a book for the hundredth time and still noticing something new.

The kind of look that clearly said: “I know exactly what you’re doing, James Potter.”

Harry, for his part, seemed far more interested in cutting his sausage than paying attention to his parents. Fork stuck in his plate, he completely ignored the silent game unfolding before him.

“Hmm...” Lily murmured, pretending to consider her husband’s words with a thoughtful air.

“What? It’s true!” James exclaimed, with that mischievous smile he always wore when caught trying to be a charmer. “I’m a sincere and deep man.”

“I know you are. And I also know when you’re being genuine,” Lily retorted, her green eyes sparkling with mischief, though her voice maintained its impeccable composure.

“See? Never made a better choice.” James winked at her, the smile now so wide it barely fit his face.

Lily tried to maintain an impassive expression, but the slight flush that rose to her cheeks betrayed her effort. She pretended to focus on her toast as if it were the most interesting thing on the table.

“Can you two stop?” Harry grumbled, finally looking up from his plate and frowning. “It’s weird.”

“It’s weird now, but when you’re my age...” James began, with a conspiratorial chuckle, already preparing for some embarrassing piece of advice.

“James Potter!” Lily warned in a sharp tone, though there was clear amusement behind the words.

Her eyes gleamed dangerously, as if threatening to cast a tongue-tied spell at any moment.

“All right, love, I’ve stopped!” he said, hands raised in surrender, but the smile still firmly on his lips showed he wasn’t at all regretful.

When they finished breakfast, his father stood up to wash the dishes, preparing for the planned outing, not before Harry gave him another hug.

“You know I love you, right, champ?” His father said, ruffling his hair.

“I love you too, Dad,” Harry replied, smiling.

In the living room, his mother was sitting comfortably on the sofa. She held a book in her hands, and her serene expression lit up the room, as if the simple act of reading transported her to a world of peace.

Harry approached slowly, as though not wanting to break the peace. Upon seeing him, Lily looked up and smiled, a smile full of love that warmed his heart.

“What's the matter, dear? Want to sit here?” she asked, her voice soft and inviting, as she calmly closed the book and patted the empty space beside her.

He answered with a shy smile, feeling a wave of comfort as he heard the question. Without hesitation, he sat down beside her.

For a moment, they just looked at each other, as if words were unnecessary. Lily's eyes sparkled, and she blinked at him affectionately.

Then, without a word, Harry curled up and lay his head on her lap.

The warmth of his mother, the gentle touch of her fingers playing with his hair—this was all he wanted. A comfort so simple, and yet so deep.

It was the kind of love he had always longed for.

They stayed in silence for a long time, the outside world seeming to vanish, leaving only the stillness between mother and son. The environment around them no longer existed—only the warm feeling of his mother's affection, the soft sound of her breathing, and the delicate touch on his hair.

“I love you, Mum,” Harry whispered, his voice muffled.

He pulled his hands closer to his face, almost hiding in them.

Lily smiled, that gentle smile that always lit up her green eyes. Small wrinkles formed at the corners, soft lines of eternal love.

“I love you too, my love... your father and I love you so… so much,” she said sweetly.

Harry had never felt so loved, so complete.

The softness of her fingers in his hair, the warmth radiating from her touch, the familiar sound of the lullaby she began to hum, something distant and yet incredibly close, wrapped around him like a blanket. It was a melody he recognised, though he didn’t know from where.

But then it all ended when he opened his eyes, waking from his daydream.

The cold sensation hit his body.

The cold wooden floor was beneath him again. Reality returned brutally and painfully. He was back in the abandoned room. The dream—if it could even be called that—was over. The warmth of his mother's lap and the sound of her voice had faded, replaced by the impenetrable silence of the dusty room. Only the mirror in front of him remained.

A long, heavy sigh escaped his lips.

Harry felt his chest tighten painfully, as though all the air had been sucked out. This was the second night in a row he had returned to this place, spending hours on end in front of the Mirror, unable to pull away.

All he wanted was to see his parents again—alive, smiling, there with him.

The lack of sleep was taking its toll, and the circles under his eyes told the story of sleepless nights and shattered dreams.

Harry had thought about telling Neville about the mirror, but how could he explain something so unbelievable?

“My parents are alive... in the mirror.”

Just thinking the sentence made him know how it would sound. Insane. Surreal. Even he found it hard to believe. But he couldn’t deny what he felt.

It was so real.

His mother's love, his father's touch—he could feel them as though they were truly there. And so, the next day, Harry stayed silent. He couldn’t gather the courage to share his secret, and it made him even more withdrawn than usual.

However, it didn’t go unnoticed by Neville.

He had noticed Harry’s strange behaviour, especially during the times when they played chess or Hero Path and read their books in silence in the common room. Neville, ever kind, didn’t press, but Harry noticed the furtive glances, the worried expressions, the moments when Neville almost asked, but then stopped.

And maybe that was for the best.

On that first night, when the abandoned room had become the refuge of his pain, Harry had sat curled up on the cold floor, crying until nearly exhausted, and the idea of talking about it now seemed impossible, shameful.

He couldn’t show weakness, he had learned that it would leave him vulnerable.

He rubbed his face with his hands, letting his fingers slide over his tired eyes. It was probably well past three in the morning, and still, here he was, sitting on the cold floor, staring at the mirror as though it were a window into a past he could never have back.

“I need to tell Nev,” he thought to himself. “I need someone to see this so they don't think I'm crazy.”

How was this possible? How could he feel everything so intensely? His mother's love, his father's unpredictable humour, the unwavering passion they had for each other—and for him.

The pride in their eyes.

It was so tangible that Harry couldn’t accept it wasn’t real. With these thoughts echoing in his mind, he finally stood up, put on the Invisibility Cloak, and returned to the Gryffindor dormitory, utterly exhausted.

The next morning, Harry continued to think about how to tell his best friend about it.

He could mention it at breakfast, but then people might hear. That’s when he thought about inviting him to take a walk around the castle grounds.

“Alright, Harry?” Neville's hesitant voice pulled him from his thoughts.

They were walking slowly, the fresh snow crunching under their feet as they made their way to the dock.

“Hm? Oh, sure... everything’s fine,” Harry replied automatically, though he knew it wasn’t true.

Neville nodded, but he didn’t look convinced.

They continued in silence for a few moments, a stronger gust of wind messing up their hair as they took in the view of the frozen Black Lake in the distance.

Then, Harry let out a sigh, finally resolved.

“Actually... no, everything’s not fine.”

Neville stopped, concerned. “What happened? Can I help?”

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around.

The castle in the distance, the snow-covered trees, everything seemed so far away.

He hesitated for a moment.

“I’ve got something to show you. It’s... it’s kind of crazy, but I think, after everything we’ve seen here” he gestured to the whole castle “crazy is kind of the norm, apparently.”

Neville blinked, confused. “Crazy? Well, I mean, I know a griffin guarding a stone of immortality isn’t exactly normal, but other than that, things are pretty normal...”

“Nev,” Harry interrupted. “Unicorns exist. Dragons exist. Sticks do real magic. People fly on brooms and play a crazy sport with it. And on top of all that, it’s all been hidden from the rest of the world for centuries... not to mention you’ve got a toad... that runs away to the girls’ dormitory,” he finished with a playful smile, trying to ease his own inner melancholy.

Neville sighed with a laugh, which made Harry laugh to himself at his reaction.

“Well, when you put it that way... yeah, I guess it makes sense. For me, this is just another day. I was born into this world, remember?” He shrugged, but soon frowned. “Except for the girls’ dormitory part... but still, he only tried to climb up there once!”

“Still, only tried once. Wait until the holiday’s over... when Fay’s toad comes back with all her amphibious beauty,” Harry replied, patting Neville on the shoulder, who rolled his eyes with an exaggerated sigh. “They grow so quickly, don’t they?”

When Neville resumed walking with him, returning to a comfortable silence, Harry stopped smiling and adjusted his scarf around his neck, still thinking about how to explain it.

“Are you sure about this? What if Snape’s around?” Neville asked, his voice trembling as he swallowed hard.

Harry, standing beside him, opened the door to the room with extreme caution, both of them hidden under the Invisibility Cloak.

“There’s no one... I think,” Harry whispered, though he couldn’t shake the chill that ran down his spine as he remembered the last time he almost bumped into Snape when he was in the library two nights ago.

They entered the room in silence, the air heavy and dusty, and Harry gently closed the door behind them. The faint light from his wand illuminated the space, casting distorted shadows on the walls and the abandoned desks in the corners. Everything seemed to be exactly as it had been the past few nights. The same silence, the same imposing mirror.

“Wow...” Neville breathed, his wide eyes reflecting the flickering light. “So this is the mirror?” His hand trembled slightly as he pointed at the relic. “It looks... old. But well-preserved.”

Harry swallowed hard before speaking, his heart beating faster.

“This is where I saw my parents,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended. Part of him feared Neville wouldn’t see anything, that it was all just a delusion of his own. “It takes a while, but they will appear—they always appear.”

Neville stepped forward cautiously, as if approaching a wild animal. His eyes scanned the inscriptions on the elaborate frame.

“What’s it say up there?” he asked, tilting his head to try and decipher the faded letters. “They look like ancient runes.”

“I... I don’t know,” Harry admitted, furrowing his brow. “I could never make it out.”

A heavy silence fell over the two boys as they stared at the mirror’s silver surface, the anticipation hanging in the air like mist. Suddenly, Neville took a step back, his eyes widening like two full moons.

“Do you see?” Harry asked eagerly, a hesitant smile spreading across his lips. “They’re there, aren’t they? My parents?”

But Neville didn’t answer. His face lit up in a way Harry had never seen before—an expression of shock, joy, and a pain so intense that it almost hurt to look at.

“They’re not your parents...” Neville whispered, his voice so soft it barely broke the silence. “They’re mine.”

Harry felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach.

“What? But... but how?” His green eyes flicked between Neville and the mirror, trying to understand.

Neville stepped forward like in a trance, his trembling hand reaching towards the glass.

“My parents...” His voice broke, the words tumbling out between ragged sobs. “They're smiling... they're... they're whole. Mum's hugging me and Dad... Dad's laughing...”

A solitary tear traced a silvery path down Neville’s cheek as he gazed at the reflection.

They hadn’t noticed the presence of an old, wise wizard, sitting in one of the chairs in the corner of the room, hidden under a Disillusionment Charm.

With two quick circular motions of his wand, he made himself visible.

“Back again, Harry?” Dumbledore said.

His hands gently crossed behind his back.

Harry and Neville gasped in surprise, their eyes wide with astonishment.

Paleness washed over their faces instantly, and Neville, who seemed on the verge of fainting, stared fixedly at the headmaster.

Harry tried, unsuccessfully, to stammer some sort of apology for being there, but no coherent words came from his mouth.

Dumbledore smiled kindly as he observed the two distressed boys.

“It’s nice to have a word with you too, Mr. Longbottom.”

“I-I...”

“W-we...”

Dumbledore made a calming gesture with his hand, and the two fell silent.

“There’s nothing to fear,” he said gently. “I see you’ve discovered the wonders the Mirror of Erised can offer, haven’t you?” He raised an eyebrow, curious.

“I… I don’t know,” Harry admitted, defeated, as he squeezed his own arm as if for comfort.

“The mirror, as the inscription says,” Dumbledore continued, approaching as he pointed to the engraving at the top of the frame. “'Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.' Which, reversed, means 'I show not your face but your heart’s desire.'”

Harry looked at the inscription and mentally slapped himself.

Of course, it was a reflected message. How hadn’t he realised before? Harry thought that if Hermione had been there, she would’ve figured it out right away.

“They say that the most content man in the world would only see himself in the mirror,” Dumbledore explained patiently. “He would see himself as he truly is, as he no longer has any desires left to fulfil. But for us, who are never fully satisfied with our desires, the mirror reflects the deepest, often unattainable yearnings of our hearts. Sometimes, they are things we can achieve. Other times, they are impossible dreams.”

Harry sighed deeply, turning his eyes back to the reflection of his parents, still smiling kindly at him, just as they always did. Next to him, Neville watched with the same melancholy look at the reflection of his own parents.

“So... it’s all a lie?” Harry asked, trying not to let the sorrow show in his voice, though the pain was evident.

Part of him still wanted to believe that this, somehow, was real, possible.

Dumbledore looked at Harry with an understanding expression, his blue eyes filled with wisdom and empathy.

“It depends on the dream,” he replied with a tone of sadness. “Most dreams will never come true, I fear. The mirror never shows us the truth. It does not give us wisdom or knowledge. Many wizards have lost themselves before its promises, seeking a power they could never achieve, and ended up in misery, forgetting the real life around them.”

Harry swallowed hard, the weight of Dumbledore’s words settling on him like a heavy blanket. He knew the headmaster was right, though it was painful to accept. The vision of his parents was just an illusion—a beautiful, cruel illusion.

“I ask that you don’t seek out the mirror again,” Dumbledore continued, his voice soft yet firm. “It will be removed tomorrow. It is unwise to lose oneself in dreams and forget to live your own life. You have so much to accomplish, and losing yourself in dreams and unattainable desires will only bring harm. Your hearts need not be burdened with these illusions.”

The boys nodded silently, resigned to that reality too good to be true.

Harry looked at the headmaster, and suddenly, a question slipped from his lips, almost without thinking.

“And what do you see?”

Dumbledore paused for a moment, his eyes still fixed on the mirror, his face failing to hide a faint look of sadness.

When he finally replied, it was with a slightly playful tone.

“Slippers.”

Harry blinked.

“Slippers?”

“Oh, of course,” Dumbledore said, with a serene smile. “There’s nothing better than reading a good book in a comfortable armchair, with your feet in warm socks facing the fire, wearing slippers. This winter, in particular, proved that.”

Harry scratched his head, genuinely unsure if that was truly the headmaster’s greatest desire or not. Given how eccentric he was, it wasn’t hard to doubt whether that was true.

“Are we in trouble?” Neville suddenly asked, his voice trembling with fear, breaking the silence that had fallen over them.

“No. Youth sometimes cries for adventure, and I understand that. But it’s getting quite late, and I’m past my bedtime. I no longer have the stamina I once had, but you’re both young, and a good night’s sleep is essential for your health. So, it’s time for you both to return to your beds... preferably in the same manner you came.”

Harry hesitated for a moment before grabbing the Invisibility Cloak. He exchanged a quick glance with Neville, and then his eyes met Dumbledore’s again.

The headmaster gave a kind smile and a slight nod, as if saying that he knew about the cloak.

Of course he knew.

Harry and Neville had just returned from their midnight adventure with the Mirror of Erised, their minds still swirling with unanswered questions. Sitting cross-legged on two large floor cushions—side by side—wrapped in blankets they'd dragged from their four-posters, they let the warm glow of the wood-burning stove envelop them. Dancing shadows flickered across the dormitory walls as the fire crackled softly, its comforting pops and hisses harmonizing with the snowfall outside.

Both were lost in thought.

Harry finally broke the silence.

“D'you… want to talk about what you saw?”

Neville looked down and shrugged.

“I don’t know.” His voice was a whisper, as if he was still deciding.

“Sorry if the mirror bothered you,” Harry murmured, swallowing hard. “I thought… I thought you’d see my parents.”

Neville sighed, his eyes reflecting the light of the fire. “I thought I’d see yours too. But, when I saw mine... I felt…”

“Happy?” Harry ventured, noticing the hesitation on Neville's face.

Neville sighed deeper.

“Yeah, I think so. But now… I don’t know. It was a lie and... my dream will never be able to come true.” He paused, his eyes lost in the fire. “But it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know.”

Harry frowned, curiosity growing. “Can I ask you something? If you don’t want to answer, that’s fine.”

Neville looked at him and nodded, forcing a smile. “Go ahead.”

“Why d'you think you’d see your parents in the mirror? I mean, I know why I saw mine, but... if it’s personal…” he asked with a distant look.

Neville gazed into the flames, his expression thoughtful. “It's personal, but... your reasons should matter too. You ought to have the right to keep parts of your life private, but instead there are even children's books about you... You deserved to choose whether you wanted any of that.”

Harry had never seen Neville speak so deeply. He couldn’t tell if it was the mirror affecting his friend, or if, by himself, with the right topics, Neville acted like this—more mature than he had been.

“Besides, you’re one of the few people I’d really trust to talk about it.” Neville took a deep breath, seeming to weigh his words.

Harry waited patiently. It was clear that Neville needed to speak.

“You weren’t the only one who felt the effects of the war,” Neville began, his voice low. “My parents, they fought too. Just like yours.”

Harry looked at him, surprised. “Your parents are veterans too?”

Neville nodded slowly.

“They are. But unlike yours, who... died,” he added respectfully, “mine were captured after the war ended.”

“And what happened to them?” Harry asked softly, feeling a lump form in his throat.

Neville took a deep breath, his voice trembling slightly.

“They were tortured—when they were at home, defenceless—because some remaining Death Eaters thought You-Know-Who might still be alive, and they might know something... so they used the Cruciatus Curse.”

Harry shuddered at the sound of that.

He remembered the horrible description of the curse in the book he had read a few days ago. It was the only thing he had really avoided reading more details about, so hideous and painful was that Dark spell.

Neville clenched his fists in the blanket, looking away in anger.

“It wasn’t just one who did it. There were four Death Eaters—Bartemius Crouch Jr., Bellatrix, Rodolphus Lestrange, and his brother, Rabastan Lestrange. They… they tortured them until… until there was nothing left. Until they didn’t even remember who I was.”

Neville sniffed, holding back his tears, but one slipped down his cheek, shining in the firelight and falling into his lap.

Harry breathed deeply, feeling a wave of both sadness and anger at the pain his friend was enduring at the same time.

“I’m sorry, Nev,” he said, his voice hoarse with sincerity.

Neville nodded sadly, but grateful for Harry’s understanding.

“Thanks, I’m… I’m sorry about your parents too,” he murmured. “I… actually—I think I should’ve talked about this with you earlier. Sometimes I think you’re the only one who’d understand…”

After a moment, Neville continued, his words stumbling out.

“When you’re tortured for so long with the Cruciatus… you lose your sanity. And both of them… both of them lost it completely.” His voice faltered, and he blinked rapidly to keep the tears at bay. “So, they’re still alive, in a ward at St. Mungo’s, but they don’t recognise anyone. That’s why I was raised by my grandmother.”

Harry felt his throat tighten. He saw Neville trying to stay strong, with a lion’s determination, but his eyes shone, more tears threatening to fall.

Neville sniffed, staring fixedly at the fire. “So when I saw them in that mirror, so healthy, smiling at me… I felt happy, because—because they knew who I was... loving me anyway, the way I am.”

Harry didn’t know what to say.

Words seemed useless in the face of his friend’s pain, who was sitting beside him but appeared lost in a much darker place.

Harry breathed deeply, trying to understand what would be harder. Never knowing his parents, like him? Or seeing them, knowing they were alive, but completely broken, not even recognising him?

Harry looked at the fire, thinking about how their pains were similar, despite being so different. He knew now that Neville had his own traumas, quietly hidden in a chest at the bottom of his own ocean, as difficult as his.

Their pain bound them, more than anything else. In silence, he extended his hand and gave Neville’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Whatever it is, Nev. Just know I’m here for whatever you need,” Harry said, offering support, speaking softly.

Neville gave a small, weak smile. “You too... for whatever you need.”

Neither of them said anything else. The fire crackled softly, casting shadows over them, while the weight of their words still hung in the air between them.

The new year arrived and passed relatively calmly, without much fanfare.

As in every year, there was a celebration in the Great Hall, where everyone gathered to celebrate the turning of the year. Afterwards, the students and professors watched the fireworks display lighting up the night sky from the Great Lake, visible through the large windows behind the staff table.

The sound of the colourful explosions echoed through the night as everyone celebrated both the year that had passed and the one about to begin.

Harry and Neville enjoyed the rest of their winter holiday in a relaxed manner, just as they had in the past few days. Often, they spent their time in the Gryffindor common room, throwing old bits of newspaper into the fire just to watch them writhe and burn in the flames. At other times, they entertained themselves with a levitation spell contest. Each one tried to keep control of an object suspended in the air while the other tried to knock it down with their own spell. Harry won most of the time, but his victories were often balanced out by his defeats on the wizard’s chessboard.

In an attempt to mix things up, the two even tried playing hide-and-seek using Harry's Invisibility Cloak. However, the game ended in frustration when Harry spent over thirty minutes searching for Neville without success. In the end, he found his friend casually sitting on a bench in the corner of the common room, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter as he watched Harry's frustration.

As winter firmly set in, the snow piled up in thick layers across the castle grounds, covering everything with a gleaming white blanket. Harry and Neville, on a few occasions, paid visits to Hagrid's hut, where they spent pleasant hours by the warmth of the fire. The gamekeeper entertained them with stories about magical creatures, as always, while the boys told him how they were spending the holiday. Hagrid offered cups of tea and slices of his rock cakes.

Harry and Neville had learned to always say they'd already eaten beforehand.

Harry, noticing when Neville was absorbed in a Herbology book that he found interesting, took advantage of these opportunities to fly on his broomstick whenever the weather was less harsh and freezing.

With his new gloves, his flights became much more comfortable, no longer feeling as though his hands were blocks of ice.

On one of these flights, he spotted Cedric, the Hufflepuff fourth-year Seeker. Cedric, who was quite popular among the members of his house and even some from other houses because of his charismatic nature.

He was also flying over the castle, admiring the village of Hogsmeade in the distance and the snow-covered mountains. As they approached, they exchanged a few friendly words while floating on their broomsticks.

Cedric, unlike Terrence Higgs, was kind and friendly, and their brief conversation about Quidditch and playful banter about the upcoming match was pleasant.

Harry was impressed by the difference in attitude between the two.

In February, Harry had high expectations for the Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff match, as Cedric seemed to be quite a challenge.

However, not all days were peaceful.

Though Peeves, in some way, had left Harry alone during the holiday, there was one notable exception.

One evening, while Harry and Neville were heading back from dinner to the common room, they were surprised by an attack of sticky paste and chicken feathers. Peeves, floating merrily down the corridor, laughed hysterically at the sight of them covered in feathers, singing for anyone to hear that he had found “the chickens of Gryffindor”.

Harry, furious, shouted a string of insults at the poltergeist, while Neville, stunned, tried to shake the feathers out of his hair.

As the end of the holiday approached, the days that had once been calm began to be disturbed by nightmares.

In his dreams, Harry saw his parents—their faces alarmed, their muffled screams—disappearing in a flash of blinding green light. And in the background, a cruel and icy laugh reverberated, echoing in his mind like a dark curse he could not shake off.

He wished he could forget these nightmares, but he felt they would not be going away anytime soon.

At least Hermione and Ron would be back soon, and the castle would regain its usual lively buzz.

Harry could almost hear their laughter echoing through the stone corridors already—see Hermione bent over her homework with that familiar look of concentration, Ron grumbling about assignments while stuffing his face with ginger biscuits, and Neville banging his head against his Potions textbook as he struggled through his essays. Together, the four of them would face their studies, their mischief, and whatever other adventures the new term had in store.

If the first term had been this eventful, Harry suspected what lay ahead might be even more extraordinary. The thought made him smile as he watched the last snowflakes dance outside the window.

What secrets did the future hold? What new challenges and discoveries awaited behind Hogwarts' oak doors?

Well, one thing was certain—he'd have to wait to find out.

And for the first time in ages, Harry found that the waiting itself might be just as thrilling as the revelation.