Harry is quietly pensive as he settles in the common room, curled up in one of the high-backed, winged armchairs by the fire. It’s actually quite cool in the Slytherin common room, as a rule – the dorms are enchanted, he thinks, to be pleasantly toasty, but the corridors and the common room are warmed only by the fireplaces, and he, Afifa and Gerald Philips (the sad fourth year) are all in the same place.
He thinks about a dozen things – who had destroyed the Ravenclaw stands and why, what that grubby little package from the Gringotts vault was, why it must be stored on the third floor corridor, when lunch is-
“What time is it?”
“Twenty past ten. Lunch is at twelve thirty,” Harry huffs. For Christmas Eve in a magical school, nothing much is happening. He's bored.
“No homework?”
“Done it.” Afifa looks up from her book, and regards him with obvious amusement on her regal features.
“It’s three days into the holiday.”
“Everyone’s gone home,” Harry supplies by way of explanation, and Afifa laughs at him; it’s strange, really, that she can look so smug and superior even while laughing. She then says,
“Right, you know where the Hufflepuff common room is?”
“It's by the kitchens,” Harry supplies automatically.
“Have you been into the kitchens?” Harry shakes his head, and Afifa nods her own. “You know that painting with all the fruit? Go up to it and tickle the pear.”
“Tickle it?” Harry repeats sceptically, and Afifa nods her head. Harry doesn’t need telling a third time – he’s bored, and he really does want something to do. He grabs at his wand and pulls on his boots, and then he moves down the corridor, Slytherin scarf thrown around his neck to stave off the even icier cool of the dungeons as a whole.
He finds the painting, and he peers at it, interested. He then reaches out and tickles the pear – it giggles, wriggling under his finger on the canvas, and then it morphs into a door knob of the same speckled green. Harry grins at it, and he turns the handle, peering cautiously inside.
The room is huge. The ceiling is obscenely high, and Harry steps inside, he notes the five large tables – the room looks about the same as the Great Hall, and all the tables are identical as well, with the four houses and the staff table at the top. He’s fascinated as he peers around, looking at all the stovetops and counters around the edges of the room and, wearing what appeared to be teatowels, dozens and dozens of weird little people.
“A student!” comes an excited whisper, and a few of them rush forwards, ushering Harry to sit on a little stool directly in front of the fire: there are hundreds of them, there must be, and each of them has leathery skin and big, wide ears and eyes. Harry sits down, obediently, and he peers at them.
They peer back.
“Is there something sir needs, sir?” One little person talks in a high, squeaky voice, and Harry replies, a little awkwardly,
“Er- one of my prefects sent me here. 'Cause I was bored. This is the kitchens, right?”
“This is being the Hogwarts kitchens, sir!”
“And we is the Hogwarts house elves, sir!”
“Oh, you guys are house elves!” Recognition passes across Harry's features as he looks at the little wrinkly people, taking in the way they're, er, dressed. Sort of. His book had detailed what house elves were, but there had been no pictures and he’d not made the connection – they were all ever so small. Sensing his apparent excitement, there are titters amongst the elves that linger with him – about a half dozen or so – as the others go off to continue working.
“Are those your uniforms, then?” he asks; he'd read that house elves didn't wear clothes, and that giving them clothes was a way to dismiss them. Harry knows better than to talk about house elves with his house mates: a lot of them have them in their homes, and he's not entirely comfortable with the whole arrangement. Hogwarts has more house elves than anywhere else, though, and they all look well-treated.
“Yes, sir! These is being tea towels, sir, and they’s very nice!” One of them gives a little twirl and shows off their tea towel, and Harry grins at them.
“Does sir want some food?”
“Or something to drink?”
Harry hesitates – Afifa had sent him, but he doesn’t want to ruin his lunch. “Could I just have a cup of tea, please?”
The assent comes swiftly, and two of them bustle off, returning with a cup of tea and a digestive on the side of the saucer. Harry thanks them gratefully, and then he begins to ask questions, which one of the elves dutifully answers as the others go back to work: Hogwarts traditionally offers home to all sorts of elves, who are born into a Hogwarts line or who are dismissed from other places, and they make all the food and clean all the rooms.
Harry listens with fascination, and when it’s time for him to go they all say goodbye excitedly and readily assure him he’s welcome to come back – they’ve very nice, house elves. They're all so earnest and pleasant and nice.
“Oh, look at this, Forge!”
“I know, Gred: it’s little Harry Potter!”
“I knew you two were dull, but I didn’t realize you forgot your own names.” Fred and George laugh as they lean against each other – Harry can’t help but be glad, for a moment, that they’re built more stockily than Percy is, as they’re not nearly so tall as they could be. He's not really all that intimidated by the twins, but he imagines he'd be a bit more so, if they were tall.
“And what were you doing in the kitchens, hmm?”
“Prefect Lanjwani sent me.”
“She the pretty Indian girl?” George asks, and Harry arches an eyebrow.
“She’s Pakistani.”
“And what did she send you for?” Fred’s smirk is disturbingly wide, and Harry glances between him and George, who looks about as ready for mischief.
“I was bored.”
“We could alleviate some of that boredom, Potter.”
“We could. Maybe we could-”
“Play a little-”
“Game.”
Ordinarily, Harry would just walk away, but he is bored. The twins are difficult to work out, most of the time, but they don't really aim any of their mischief at him, so he's just fine with them for the time being.
“Alright. But remember that I write your mum regularly.”
“Ah, but-”
“And I wrote Charlie last week about dragons for History of Magic.”
“You sneaky little sod,” Fred says, voice full of admiration and, Harry suspects, a little bit of pride. Their parents are in Romania at the moment, visiting Charlie, who happens to be a dragon tamer – it’s not true, of course. Harry’s never sent a letter to Charlie Weasley in his life, but they don’t know that, and Harry knows it’s best to lie than to let Fred and George have free rein.
“I wish we’d got you,” George says despairingly, shaking his head, and Harry grins at him. “The damage we could have done!” He and Fred share sighs and little, upset moues, and then Fred moves back to business.
“What sort of game?”
“Snap?” George suggests.
“Gobstones?”
“Chess?” Harry regards the both of them sceptically as they swap back and forth, but there's no point playing a normal game with the twins.
“You could take me up to your common room.”
“Doesn’t sound like much of a game.”
“Slytherins really don't play games, do they, Gred?”
“The game would be sneaking me past your brothers.” Fred and George share a look, and then they give each other twin smirks. He's got them interested now: Fred and George appreciate chaos, and Harry's all too happy to allow himself to be involved, if it'll get Ron and Percy's feathers in ruffles.
“That does sound like fun.”
“But what’s the prize?”
“If I get caught before lunch, I’ll give you whatever.” Fred and George raise their eyebrows as one, and look pleased. Harry already owes them one favour, but that one’s not official, and Harry’s certain they like the idea of having a Slytherin in their debt, even if he’s only a first year.
“And if we go down to lunch and no one’s noticed?” Harry goes quiet for a few seconds, trying to think – what would he want that the Weasley twins have? They’re third year, pranksters-- He doesn’t just want a list of spells, because he can get those anywhere.
“I want you to tell me three shortcuts – actual portrait passages or secret ways around school, not just quick ways to go.” Fred and George share a thoughtful look, apparently considering the wager, and then they give a nod. They actually seem to really approve of his price, judging by the appraising expressions they exchange when they think Harry's not looking.
Harry folds the collar of his outer robe inward to hide the green lining and quickly combs his hair down, shoving his tie into his pocket and hanging his glasses on the inside of his inner robe. His vision's terrible, but he'll be able to make out the stuff closest to him if he squints. With that, he follows the twins upstairs, and they settle right by the fire, beginning to play Exploding Snap together.
Across the room, Percy Weasley concentrates on the book on his lap, and concentrates on that rather than the chess game he has between him and Ron. Ron is complaining, Harry can hear, about having no one else in the dorm with him, and Harry feels a pang of sympathy, feeling a twin loss with Draco gone home for the holidays, but he can’t feel too sorry for him.
---
“What sort of head boy are you, Percival!?” Fred demands as George guffaws, grasping at his own belly and doubling over.
“Ten points from Gryffindor, and five from Slytherin for being out of bounds!” Harry laughs at Percy’s bright red face and ears as they walk down to the Great Hall – he’d nudged Percy in the side just as they’d stepped out of the portrait hole together, and Percy is now positively apoplectic as he realizes who the boy sat with his brothers had been.
“Here, Potter, we’re sitting with the Ravenclaws - were you in the kitchens all that time?” Afifa asks.
“I was in the Gryffindor common room. Just won three secret portrait passwords for it, actually.”
“Five points to Slytherin for creative thinking.”
“Prefect Lanjwani!” snaps Percy Weasley furiously, and he glares at her, positively purple with rage, and Harry has to stifle a laugh against his sleeve.
“I just took those points off him!”
“And?” Afifa's tone is icy, her gaze even icier. Afifa and Percy stand head to head, Percy only a little bit taller than she is, Percy flustered and red in the face and stuttering, and Afifa with an impassive expression on her pretty face. And with that, he turns and stomps to the Gryffindor table, leaving Harry to sit down and look pleased with himself.
Poor Percy: he almost feels bad.
Lunch is a tremendously good affair – Harry isn’t fond of roasted meat, as it’s a little too similar to the meals at the Dursleys, but there’s all sorts of stuff to eat at the table, and he ends up settling with a festively decorated chicken pie. Magical Christmas crackers are tremendous as well – he ends up with a wizarding chess set, a green bonnet and some snake cufflinks he swapped from a Ravenclaw for a book of Christmas poetry.
The rest of the day is uneventful, really, and by the time Harry goes to bed he’s exhausted, and sleeps very well.
Of course, when he wakes up, it’s a little sluggishly, and he sleepily moves to get dressed. It’s only once he is dressed and he’s rifling through his trunk for a book that he looks up.
“Merlin’s BEARD, Potter. You’re popular!”
“Afifa?” She points to the heap of what must be three dozen packages packed in front of his tree, and Harry stares, his green eyes wide behind the glass of his spectacles.
“Oh my God. Are they all for me!?” He hadn't noticed them. He hadn't even looked at the tree, it hadn't even occurred to him that there'd be anything there except whatever Hermione and his house mates had given him.
“Well, they’re not for Salazar Slytherin, are they? Leave them, for now – we’ve got breakfast.”
And Harry does follow her down, but not before counting the packages and realizing, with a mix of grim satisfaction and a bit of guilt (what ever had he done to deserve all that?) that he has thirty nine presents under the tree.
He’ll have to make sure to let Dudley know.