Breakfast is not so extravagant an affair, but this simplicity came with the promise that later on Christmas lunch and the Christmas dinner would be far more exciting; once more, the three had been settled on the Ravenclaw table with the lingering Ravenclaws.

Harry remains quietly thoughtful as he eats his bacon and eggs, utterly thrown, and when he settles back down in his dormitory, he closes the door, setting about unwrapping each of the gifts he'd been sent. He selects, to begin with, a parcel that is neatly wrapped, but with creased paper and old twine: it turns out, to Harry's surprise, to be from Molly Weasley.

He stares at the contents as he removes them: a thick, green jumper he's certain she must have knitted herself (he didn't even know wizards wore jumpers – most of the time people seemed to just enchant their robes!), and folded inside, a box of home-made fudge. He smiles a little, immediately pulling it on over his head, and sets to the rest.

The first few make sense – various sweets from the other boys in his year, a book about magical political systems from Hermione, a hand-carved flute from Hagrid, a box of candies from Draco… And then the others just astonish him.

It seems like most of the people he sends letters to has sent him one gift or other, and he can't even believe how generous it all is: Augusta Longbottom had sent him a book of Jinxes & Hexes to Shock and Stop, Dedalus Diggle had sent him a Wizard's Guide to Stylish Hats, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had sent him, bizarrely, a candlestick holder, but when he sets it on his bedside table with a candle inside it the silver coils around its base with a soft hiss. It is a snake, Harry realizes, that holds the base of the candle in its mouth, and apparently Vanishes the falling wax as time goes on.

Everyone had sent him things, and Harry feels ridiculously grateful and lucky as he sets the pairs of gloves and hats and scarves he'd received on top of his trunk, the books stacked on his bedside table, and the blanket from Andromeda Tonks folded on his bed. He realizes, as he smiles to himself, that he'd missed just one – a smaller, thinner package. There's barely any weight to it as he picks it up, and he peers at the note with curiosity. The looping handwriting isn't familiar to him, and he frowns at it.

Your father left this in my possession before he died.

Use it well.

He pulls out the package's contents, and the fabric feels wonderful between his fingers, with so little weight to it, tremendously soft against his skin: he throws it over his shoulders, seeing how the cloak falls, and is shocked to realize when he looks down that he can't see himself.

An invisibility cloak – someone had given him an invisibility cloak, that belonged to his father? He folds it immediately and puts it neatly into the bottom of his wardrobe to hide out of the way; with that he opens the door and moves into the common room.

“That looks warm.” Afifa comments lightly, regarding the jumper, but then she advises, “I'd not let Professor Snape see you in it.”

“He won't approve?”

“Like as not. Who sent you all those gifts, then?”

“The people I send letters to, mostly. Then my friends, and my Aunt and Uncle.” Harry mentions the last two with a roll of his eyes and a disapproving tone to his voice, and Afifa frowns a little, tilting her head.

“What did they send you?”

“A fifty pence piece.” She blinks at him, perplexed, and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out the silver coin. She peers at it, utterly befuddled by its shape, size and colour, and then she asks,

“How much is that in real money?” Trying not to laugh at the likely sour expression his Uncle Vernon would take on at hearing someone refer to wizarding currency as “real money”, he answers,

“Not much. I'm not sure about how it'd transfer, but that might buy me a really small chocolate bar and nothing else.” Afifa snorts, amused, and hands it back.

“What else, then?”

“Oh, God, loads of stuff. I didn't mean for anyone to send me anything!”

“That's what you get for sending letters, Potter,” Afifa says, not at all disapproving – she's actually smiling a little, and it seems like she's really happy that Harry's done so well with gifts. “Make sure you send thank-you notes.”

“I'm starting them now.” And Harry does: that's what he does until lunch, neatly penning small letters with excited words of gratitude followed by apologies for not reciprocating: he can't believe it. He's never had real gifts at Christmas, and having so many is just bizarre. He's in such a good mood that he forgets to remove the jumper before going up to the great hall, and Snape stares at him when he enters, black eyes boring holes in Harry's confidence.

“Sir?”

“You match the Weasleys, Potter.” Snape speaks grimly, and he points, irritation plain on his face, at the Weasley boys: Fred and George's bright orange jumpers are emblazoned with an F and a G, though Ron's and Percy's are plain like Harry's own.

“Mrs Weasley sent it, sir.”

“I surmised.”

“I could ask her to make one for you next year, sir. She could knit a black one.” Snape purses his lips, and Harry offers him a hopeful smile. Without saying anything more, Snape pushes him to enter the hall without so much as taking a point off him – perhaps Christmas had put him in a good mood. He reconsiders this estimation when Dumbledore makes him pull a cracker, and Snape's response to winning a bright pink bonnet is to scowl and push it into Flitwick's lap.

Still, though, the rest of the day passes very quickly, and when Harry finally retires to his dorm for the night, he's in a spectacularly good mood. He's not especially tired, though, and he looks to his trunk, considering the invisibility cloak he'd received, the one he'd not told Afifa Lanjwani about.

He could go up to the Third Floor, just to see. Hermione had taught him an unlocking charm, and he could--

Closing his curtains and blowing out his new candle to make it seem like he'd gone to bed, Harry pulls out his the cloak and puts it on. It dwarfs him a little, given that he's so short, but it doesn't matter so much when you can't see it once it's on: he creeps into the Slytherin common room and, after glancing around and seeing neither Afifa nor the sad Slytherin boy are about, he whispers the password (tinselitis) he's certain Snape didn't pick, and steps out into the draughty corridor.

The cloak hides him, but it doesn't mask the sound of his footsteps, and it's too cold for Harry to walk without boots, so he moves slowly and tries not to step too loudly. He makes his way up the stairs, and then to the third floor: the big hall of stairs is dark, all the lamps having been dimmed for the evening, but he still feels like all the portraits on the walls are staring down at him through their closed eyelids.

“Alohomora,” he whispers, and he hears the click of the lock: it sounds obscenely loud, but none of the portraits so much as stir from where they're mostly sleeping in their frames. With that, he reaches out of the cloak and turns the thick, heavy handle, pushing open the door and peering inside.

He stares, mouth open, eyes wide. Directly in front of him, big, brown eyes glaring at him, are three- no, a three-headed, dog. The Cerberus, which had been one of the animals in the book Hagrid had given him a few weeks ago, is huge, and it sniffs the air as it star-

But it can't be staring at him. He's invisible.

Harry doesn't step into the room, not wanting to tempt fate as to whether it'll smell him or hear him, and he looks around – the Cerberus is alone, but its huge paws are on top of a large, oak trapdoor in the stone floor, and Harry makes a note of this.

The grubby package's contents must be underneath it. Harry pulls the door closed, and flinches when he hears a sharp,

“Who's there!?” Oh, God. Snape. Black robes billowing, he begins to make his way down the stairs from the sixth floor, and Harry moves as fast as he can onto a moving staircase, letting it carry him across the way. He watches Snape with horror as he bullets down the stairs, moving with supernatural speed.

Harry runs out into the fourth floor's corridors, and he hisses, desperately, “I like your spinning!” to a portrait of a woman at a spindle, throwing himself into the passage as she opens up. It leads right down to the ground floor, Harry knows – it's the best of the three passages Fred and George had given him – and he moves as swiftly as he can.

He doesn't breathe again until he's safe in his bed, and he breathes heavily as he folds up the cloak and puts it away.

It wouldn't have been worth seeing a dragon if it meant Snape catching him out of bounds at night.