Once Severus had calmed Potter down from his fright from his nightmare, he sat with the boy for a while, watching him go back to sleep. He knew the boy wasn't getting enough rest, because of nightmares and the fear of attack hanging constantly over his head. Quietly, he told Potter that their upcoming training might help him fend off nightmares better, as it had once done for Severus himself. He was pleased to see the information calmed Potter a bit more, even eliciting a wan smile from the boy.

In the days that followed, before the start of Christmas break, Harry decided to return to an activity he had once found some relief in doing, while living with the Dursleys: drawing. The cupboard walls, from the time he was perhaps three years old, until he was eleven, had been his canvass in addition to being his prison. Inside his cupboard, he had few diversions from staring at the walls or listening to the Dursleys talking, moving about, and otherwise living their lives on the other side of that locked door, where he was not permitted to be, nor even wanted. So he drew to make the walls around him more interesting. More like a home.

The first thing he had ever drawn was with a bit of green crayon, no larger than his pinky finger, which he'd found behind the radiator while scrubbing the kitchen floor. He'd written "HARYS ROOM" in block letters to the left of the door inside the cupboard, then colored in every other letter. He'd left the others empty till he could find another color to fill them, wanting, even at age three or so, for the sign to be aesthetically pleasing. Once he had started day school and learned the correct way to spell his name, he had been mortified at his jarring mistake, and he'd drawn a new sign on the underside of a stair, with fancier blocking this time, as well as an apostrophe. But his first effort would always be there, all the same.

At first Harry had used broken crayons, then pencil nubs or ballpoint pens when he could get them, to draw anything he liked on the dark underside of the stairs and the unpainted walls of his "room." After all, what his aunt or uncle could not see could not get him in trouble, and they had never bothered to go into his cupboard, into the freak's room. Why would they? When he was very young, he had started with stick figures, but they had odd, misshapen heads. Still, he drew them in scenes he knew intimately, such as weeding the garden, cooking at the stove, or painting the shed.

Only in his drawings was he safe to dream of other places, of being somewhere or someone else. Only on those walls was he allowed to pretend that his life was different than what the Dursleys dictated for him. Flowers in his imagined garden were allowed fantastical colors, and the shed he had drawn when he was almost five was striped fantastically, like a rainbow, even though it was proportionally perfect. As he got older and gained access to them, Harry favored pencils over crayons, for the control they gave him, and also for the ability to add depth to his work through shading and contours and stuff. He had never had the chance to use ink until he had come to Hogwarts, though, and so, when he decided to do some drawing in late December, to give his hands something to do while his mind relaxed, he experimented with the form.

It was not until the day before Christmas that he decided to give one of his new creations to Professor Snape. After he'd done a quick sketch of Snape at a cauldron yesterday, Harry had been experimenting with perspective, using the professor's office and its rows of bottles and jars to practice backgrounds. Looking at the sketch now, he frowned briefly. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed with the curtains closed, the sketchpad -- which he had sent away for, via Hedwig, several weeks ago -- balanced on his knees. A bottle of ink rested against his bare toes. Only a couple other Slytherins were staying for the winter holidays, and they were upper years, so he didn't have to worry about being interrupted in his dorm, but he liked the feel of the curtains around him when he was drawing. They kept him away from prying eyes, just like the safety of his old cupboard.

No, he decided, Professor Snape's eyes were all wrong. Using another sheet of parchment, he sketched several sets of eyes until he had some that were the right shape. For another hour, he worked on highlights and shading of that pair until he could see how he wanted them to look in his drawing. On the inside walls of his cupboard, he tried to group sets of detail work together -- eyes, hands, mouths and such -- so he could work on particular issues he had with drawing until he liked how they came out, and could compare and contrast them with each other.

Now, working carefully, he eased the details of the eyes into his sketch of the professor, smoothing out rough patches or cleaning the parchment with a scraper only when absolutely necessary. He had been drawing for years now, and rarely needed to go over work like that, but ink was still a new medium for him, and he made more mistakes now than he had for quite some time with pencils, even colored ones. It was after eleven at night on Christmas Eve when the sketch was done to his satisfaction.

Once he'd put away his drawing supplies, he wrapped the sketch cautiously with thin paper he had learned to charm into different colors. Millie had suggested the charm after they had been talking about Christmas presents a week ago, bemoaning the fact that neither of them had much spare pocket money to purchase gift wrap. Millie even told him the title of the book he could find the spell in: Lyman Lemarda's Festive Spells for All Occasions. Her mother had given her a copy when she got her acceptance letter to Hogwarts, and she loaned the book to Harry for winter break.

While flipping through the book for the coloring charm, Harry came across a Shrinking Spell, designed to make it easier to carry multiple items, or to tuck large packages into smaller pockets or bags. Harry skimmed the informational notes on the page opposite the spell. Each spell or charm had a story on its origins, a combination of legends, old wives tales and Lemarda's own research, and as Harry read further, he found that Lemarda claimed this version of the Shrinking Spell had actually been created by Saint Nicholas, who had once delivered tons of toys to children every Christmas. Harry wasn't sure about that -- but then, he'd stopped believing in Santa Claus long before he'd learned that magic was real . . . not that he'd ever received any gifts from him either way. Still, he grinned internally at the idea that he was using a spell for his gifts that the "Jolly Old Elf" had used on his own. Harry practiced the spell a few times on plain sheets of parchment before he cast it at the wrapped drawing. When he finished, the package was no larger than the front cover of the book.

Not until he was writing out the tag for the gift did Harry suffer a pang of nerves about whether he should actually give it to the professor or not. From the Dursleys, he knew students sometimes gave gifts to teachers at the holidays, or he knew Muggles did anyway. Dudley had given gifts to his teachers every year, expensive ones purchased by Aunt Petunia, of course, and wrapped up fancily to make the best impression. Harry had figured they were more bribes than anything, like maybe if the teachers liked Ol' Dudders' presents enough, they wouldn't fail him. Too bad it had never worked.

Harry didn't know, though, what the tradition was here at Hogwarts. None of his Housemates had mentioned anything about giving gifts to any of the professors, never mind to Professor Snape. And Professor Snape seemed to like his privacy, too; would he be annoyed that Harry gave him something? Or maybe he'd be embarrassed, thinking that Harry was trying to turn him into a father figure or something stupid like that. Harry knew that could never happen; he didn't even want a new father. But the professor had helped him out of a few pretty bad jams, and they'd shared all that time looking at pictures of his Mum and stuff. But what if he thought Harry was trying to bribe him for a better grade?

With a sigh, Harry crumpled up the tag and threw it in the bin, then stuffed the shrunk, wrapped gift into his trunk. He was new to present giving, altogether, and he didn't want to mess things up with Snape. He had never had friends to give gifts to before, either, and he hoped he had done that right, at least. Earlier this evening, he had sent presents out with Hedwig, to take to both Millie and Teddy's houses by morning. He'd also given a gift to Draco Malfoy before he left for the holiday, since the boy was always bragging about how many protections his manor had, and Harry didn't want Hedwig to get caught in any weird anti-Potter owl wards the Malfoys might have put up on Christmas Day. Draco had not opened the gift -- a pair of professional Quidditch racing gloves done in green leather -- but he had thanked Harry in that almost shy way the blond boy had, whenever he expected someone to be taking the piss, but then they paid him a compliment instead. Also, just before she had left for the train home the other day, Harry had given Hermione a present to take with her, since he wasn't sure how her Muggle parents would react to owl post at Christmas, and didn't want them to have kittens on what was supposed to be a festive day. Tomorrow at dinner, he would give Hagrid the drawing he had made of Fang snoozing in front of the hearth, done with pen and ink just like the one he had drawn of the professor. He didn't feel too shy about giving Hagrid a gift; after all, the big man had given Hedwig to him, so he figured he could give a present back without trouble.

Still undecided about his gift for the Potions professor, Harry bunked down for the night. To keep the worst of his nightmares at bay, he ran through one of the simple meditation exercises Snape had taught him over the last couple weeks. He certainly didn't want Snape to have to rouse him from bad dreams on Christmas Eve. He had not dreamed about being attacked by Avery much lately, and he was just as glad to put all of what bastard had done to him out of his mind for good. Instead, however, he kept having dreams of Quirrell -- or was it Voldemort? -- looming over him in what felt like cavernous, dark places, his snake-slit eyes the color of blood. In the darkness, Quirrell-mort hissed threats towards Harry in Parseltongue, the sound making the boy's hair stand on end and his heart clench painfully, while he scrabbled frantically for some way to escape. He didn't have the dreams every night, but often enough.

Tonight, though, was Christmas Eve, and Harry finally fell asleep, looking forward to the next day and the food and the fun, but not expecting any presents at all for himself. When he woke early in the morning, however, the first thing he saw was a small pile of packages at the foot of his bed.

He had to rub the sleep out of his eyes twice before he could believe what he was seeing. Presents! For him! He scrambled out from under his quilts and gaped again at the pile before he snatched up one of the packages as if it might disappear if he wasn't fast enough.

The tag read: To Harry, From Your One-time Secret Friend, Hermione

Ha! She'd finally signed her name to something, he thought with a snicker, then ripped off the wrapping as he had seen Dudley do so many times before, on Christmas and birthdays and bunches of other occasions. More chocolate frogs! Harry tore one open and shoved the treat into his mouth before he could stop himself. His first real Christmas present ever! It tasted great. While the chocolate dissolved in his mouth, he took a look at the card and saw the picture of Albus Dumbledore. With a frown, he tossed the card onto his bedside table and reached for another present. He already had plenty of that card.

This package was from Millie. He laughed when he opened the package of new Quidditch gloves, almost the exact same ones as he had gotten for Draco. The next parcel was wrapped in thick brown paper, and scrawled across it was To Harry, from Hagrid. Inside was a roughly cut wooden flute. Hagrid had obviously whittled it himself. Harry blew into it -- it sounded a bit like an owl. He smiled softly to himself, hoping Hedwig was okay, and reached for the next one, a very small parcel which contained a note: We received your message and enclose your Christmas present. From Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia.

Taped to the note was a fifty-pence piece. "Nice," Harry drawled. Still, it was better than a used tissue or a bent coat hanger. Maybe next summer, he could get a lemonade at the drug store, at his aunt and uncle's expense. The next present was from Teddy, a book on Charms, and then there was another book shaped object, and Harry stared at the card for a long moment before he could put it down. It read: To aid your future studies. Happy Christmas, Harry. From S. S.

It could only be Professor Snape. Severus Snape, as Harry had heard him referred to by the Bloody Baron. The professor had given him a present. He had given Harry a present.

Surely that meant he would accept a present from Harry, too, didn't it? Harry jumped from bed and yanked the wrapped package out of his trunk faster than you could say Jack Frost. He quickly penned a tag to attach to the present, which he'd give the professor just as soon as . . .

He stopped a half moment later, realizing he hadn't even opened the professor's gift! Shaking his head, he sat back on his bed, holding the book-like shape close to his chest -- which was aching strangely, as if the space were hollow -- for another few heartbeats, feeling like something was clogging up his throat. Not like it was choking him, not quite. But almost. Letting out a tense breath, Harry peeled the paper away to find Oscar Keating's The Occluded Mind. A quick look through the table of contents let him know the book was one of a series done by this guy Keating, about such mind magic as Occlumency and Legilimency, the former of which Harry was supposed to start learning soon.

Feeling utterly warmed by this last present, he almost missed the one remaining package, but noticed it just as he was about to get off his bed again. Harry picked it up and felt it. It was very light. He unwrapped the parcel, and something fluid and silvery gray went slithering to the floor where it lay in gleaming folds. A note fluttered down on top of it, and Harry seized the note to read, without touching the material; he wasn't stupid.

Written in narrow, loopy writing he had never seen before were the following words: Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well. A Very Merry Christmas to you.

There was no signature.

Harry stared at the note, then back at the shiny material. He knew what Teddy would say, and furthermore, what Snape would say. Thus, he spent the next little while casting various hex and curse detection spells at the thing, and nothing appeared wrong with it. Finally, hesitantly, Harry lifted the shining, silvery cloth off the floor. It was strange to the touch, like water woven into material. As he picked it up, he realized the cloth formed a cloak of sorts, and when he drew the cloak around his shoulders and looked down at his feet, they were gone!

No way!

He jumped off his bed and dashed to the mirror. Sure enough, his reflection looked back at him, just his head suspended in midair, but his body was completely invisible. He pulled the cloak over his head and his reflection vanished completely.

Awesome!

He could not wait to show Professor Snape!

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

After drinking some hot cocoa and thanking Professor Snape for his gift, Harry started to leave Snape's quarters. At the door, he pulled a small, flat package from the frontispiece of the book and pressed it into the professor's hands. Biting his lip briefly, Harry said, "You've got to enlarge it first. Sorry; it's not much. Happy Christmas, Professor." Then he fled back to his dorm so he could get properly dressed before spending some quality time with his new things, especially the book from the professor, since the man had hinted that he should at least check out the index and chapter one before lessons tomorrow.

When he opened Keating's book, however, he was sidetracked by another discovery: Snape had left two pictures of Harry's Mum tucked into the index. Two pictures of his very own, that he could look at whenever he wanted. Whenever he needed to. He felt that odd, clogged-throat sensation again, and had to swallow hard a few times to make it go away. Meanwhile, in one of the photographs, Lily sat on a bench below a hawthorn tree, and watched him with her bright green eyes, waving to him with a somewhat wistful smile.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Harry had never in all his life had such a Christmas dinner. A hundred fat, roast turkeys; mountains of roast and boiled potatoes; platters of chipolatas; tureens of buttered peas, silver boats of thick, rich gravy and cranberry sauce -- and stacks of wizard crackers every few feet along the table. These fantastic party favors were nothing like the feeble Muggle ones the Dursleys usually bought, with their little plastic toys and their flimsy paper hats inside. Harry pulled a wizard cracker with a Fourth Year from Hufflepuff, and it didn't just bang, it went off with a blast like a cannon and engulfed them all in a cloud of blue smoke, while from the inside exploded a rear admiral's hat and several live, white mice. Up at the High Table, Dumbledore had swapped his pointed wizard's hat for a flowered bonnet, and was chuckling merrily at a joke Professor Flitwick had just read him.

Flaming Christmas puddings followed the turkey. One of the Weasleys nearly broke his teeth on a silver sickle embedded in his slice. All of the Weasleys had stayed at Hogwarts this holiday, and Harry had heard it was because their Mum and Dad were visiting an older brother of theirs in Romania, one who worked with dragons.

During dinner, Harry tried to talk to Ron Weasley a couple times, seeing as how they were the youngest ones at school right now. He figured that, for the next two weeks at least, maybe they could hang out a bit, without any need for posturing for their Housemates. He had liked the redhead alright when they'd ridden the Hogwarts Express together, and though Weasley had been a bit of a prat to him after he'd been sorted into Slytherin, Harry was willing to let bygones be bygones. Finally, Ron agreed to pull a cracker with him, and this one spat out a wizard chess set as well as a goldfish in a bowl. Laughing as Harry tried to catch the fishbowl without spilling any water -- or fish -- Ron had asked him if he'd like to play a game of wizard chess later on, and Harry had happily agreed.

When Harry finally left the table, he was laden down with a stack of things out of the crackers, including a pack of non-explodable, luminous balloons, a Grow-Your-Own-Warts kit, and his new wizard chess set. The white mice had disappeared and Harry had a nasty feeling they were going to end up as Mrs. Norris's Christmas dinner.

Harry, the Hufflepuff and all the Weasleys -- except the one who was a Prefect -- spent a happy afternoon having a furious snowball fight on the grounds. Then, cold, wet, and gasping for breath, they returned to the Great Hall and sat near the large hearth with its warm, crackling fire, where Harry broke in his new chess set by losing spectacularly to Ron.

The worst part of the match, though, was when Professor Snape had come up behind Harry while they were playing, and then Snape and Ron had exchanged barbs, with Gryffindor losing a bunch of points as a result. Harry had been mortified by the whole thing, and after Ron had stomped off, he stared at the chessboard for another few minutes, letting the silence of the Great Hall wash over him. He rubbed his hands over his face and sighed again.

Thanks a lot, Snape, he thought.

But that wasn't really fair. Harry himself, at the start of the confrontation between the two, had been astounded that Snape would take up Harry's side against Weasley's taunting. Maybe the professor had wanted to be . . . kind? No, not kind, but . . . loyal? Perhaps, and maybe Snape didn't know quite how to go about it without raising the other person's ire. Of course, Ron's ire was pretty easily raised by all accounts. Even George and Fred Weasley had said so, during the snowball fight earlier. They'd insisted that Harry and Ron be on the same team, so Ron wouldn't accuse Harry of cheating or anything and they could build a sense of camaraderie. The twins seemed to think it would be good for both boys if they were friends.

Too bad they couldn't have come to Ron's rescue in here.

After another few minutes, Harry put his chess pieces away and set off for the Slytherin dorms. Maybe Snape could teach him how to play wizard's chess better, so he could play against Ron without having to listen to insults at the same time.

And maybe pigs would fly over Hagrid's hut on the next full moon.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Despite the scene in the Great Hall, it had been Harry's best Christmas day ever. Yet something had been nagging at the back of his mind all day. Not until he climbed into bed was he free to think about it: the invisibility cloak and whoever had sent it.

Harry leaned over the side of his own bed and pulled the cloak out from under it. His father's, the note had said . . . this had been his father's. James Potter had probably worn it, right here in this school! He let the material flow over his hands, smoother than silk, light as air. Use it well, the note had instructed him. But who had sent this cloak? And why give it to him now? Why not when he had first arrived at Hogwarts? Or years ago, after his father had died? He would have loved to have something of his father's during the last ten years, something to remind him that once upon a time, he had been someone's son.

Remembering that morning, Harry recalled the odd look he'd caught in Snape's eyes when the professor had seen him wearing the cloak. Obviously, Snape had seen it before, probably in James Potter's possession, and those memories were not fond ones. Maybe Harry's father had used the cloak to play pranks on Snape. That would make sense, given Snape's instructions to not be foolish with it.

Harry slipped out of bed and wrapped the cloak around himself. Looking down at his legs, he saw only moonlight and shadows. It was a very funny feeling.

Use it well.

He wished he could go exploring now, just put on the cloak and go around Hogwarts without worrying about anyone seeing him or getting in his way. Without anyone ambushing him in the halls. If only Snape didn't have the dorms alarmed to tell him if Slytherins went out after curfew, Harry could do so right now. He could --

"I was wondering when he would give that cloak to you, Harry Potter."

Harry shot several feet into the air and spun around to see the Bloody Baron floating beside the door to the lavatory. "Merlin! I didn't see you!"

The ghost inclined his head a smidgen. "I know."

Harry huffed a laugh despite himself, then said, "Do you know, then? Who sent this to me, I mean?"

"I do."

"Well?"

"Well . . ."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Well, who sent it?"

"The man your father gave it to before he was murdered."

Harry frowned. The Bloody Baron could sometimes be bloody annoying, but he wasn't usually so blatantly obtuse. "Is it a secret? Or are you unable to tell me?"

A pleased look entered the ghost's eyes. "Very good, Harry Potter. It is the latter."

With a short nod, Harry ran through the various suspects, and came up with a very short list. "If I guess the name, can you tell me if I guess right?"

Another glimmer of pride, and Harry could not help but stand straighter under the ghost's regard. "Yes."

"It was Dumbledore, right?"

The Baron inclined his head minutely.

"But, why wouldn't the Headmaster want me to know he sent it?" Harry bundled up the cloak and tucked it into his trunk so he wouldn't be tempted to leave the dorms, even when he knew Snape would be angry if he did it. Tucking the slippery material under his spare socks, so it wouldn't be seen easily by anyone who happened to open his trunk, Harry peered over his shoulder at the ghost, who had moved farther into the room and was inspecting his box of frogs, which was already almost half empty. "Or is it that he didn't want me to know that my father left it with him?"

"The latter," the ghost said again.

"Weird," Harry muttered, and wondered why Dumbledore might want to keep such a secret. For just a moment, he had the odd thought that Dumbledore would rather have kept the cloak and not given it up, but then had been required to, by someone . . . or something. An oath, perhaps? He shook his head, pushing thoughts like that aside. No matter what life the Headmaster may have condemned Harry to with the Dursleys, he did not strike Harry as a common thief, to steal from the dead. Frowning still, Harry sat on his bed again, pulling the book by Keating into his lap. "What do you think he meant by, 'Use it well'? He told me to use the cloak well, in the note he left with it."

"I cannot answer that question for you," the Bloody Baron said in an oddly strained voice. "He wishes you to discover that for yourself as well."

"Yeah, and get myself strung up by the toes by my Head of House." Harry shivered and leaned back against his pillows. "No, thanks."

The Bloody Baron floated to the bedside and looked at the book in Harry's hands. "A gift from Severus Snape?"

Unable to hold in a grin, Harry nodded. "Yeah. For Christmas. We have our first Occlumency lesson tomorrow. I figured to read the first chapter tonight; he said it would help."

"I am sure it will."

"Do you know anything about Occlumency?"

The ghost looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head slowly. "Not through personal experience."

"But you know people who've learned it?" Harry pushed.

"Besides your Professor Snape?" the Baron asked with a raised brow.

"Well, yeah." Harry turned to the table of contents and read through it again, then opened to the introduction and started reading.

It had been quiet for long enough that Harry had nearly forgotten that the Bloody Baron was in his room, never mind that he had asked a question. Thus, he was surprised enough to startle when the ghost said, in a low, weighty tone, "I do, child. Both Albus Dumbledore and Tom Riddle learned the magic necessary to protect their minds against intrusion, but more importantly, they both mastered the magic that allows them to enter others' minds, to prey upon your mind, to seek the truth in your thoughts and to mine your memories for information."

As he spoke, the ghost had floated closer to Harry's bed, and then straight into it, so his glowing body was actually split by the bed. A shimmering mist surrounded the Baron, and in the suddenly freezing air, hoarfrost rippled out from the ghost's translucent to form feathery patterns across the bedclothes. Crystals of ice sparkled in the cloth. The Baron's haunted silver eyes were mere inches away from Harry's now, and were so filled with torment and horror that Harry's heart lurched in his chest.

"T-tom Riddle?" Harry whispered, unable to tear his eyes away from the Baron's terrible gaze, unable, almost, to breathe. His throat stung with cold, and goose bumps had risen on his arms. Shivering hard, he hugged his arms around his middle.

The ghost's mouth was so close, Harry could have counted his teeth, and he would swear he could feel the Baron's frigid breath on his cheeks as the ghost intoned, "Tom Riddle is one of the greatest wizards of all time, Harry Potter, and one of the most terrible. A Slytherin of great cunning and cruelty, and even greater ambition. He would cheat death, if he could, and destroy any who got in his way."

"Voldemort," Harry guessed, knowing he was right.

The ghost's eyes bored into him. "You must guard your mind against him, and against the dreams he awakens inside you. You must."

Harry clutched the book on Occlumency to his chest and forced himself to draw a lungful of painfully freezing air. "I will. I swear."

A bright flash of light made Harry squeeze his eyes shut, and when he opened them a moment later, the Bloody Baron was gone. Usually the Baron floated away, through a door or wall, although every once in a while, he would do a slow fade into nothingness. Harry had never before seen him disappear instantly like that. Even worse, though, was the realization that the Baron was obviously nervous about something, perhaps even afraid of Voldemort . . . or rather, Tom Riddle. Considering Voldemort had murdered at least two people -- and probably lots more, to hear Draco's occasional stories -- he was obviously dangerous and probably a psychopath. But that did not explain why a ghost would fear him.

With trembling hands, Harry opened his book again and studied intensely for several hours before falling asleep.