The castle was eerily quiet.
For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, the once-bustling hallways, filled with students laughing and hurrying between classes, had fallen into silence.
Snow fell steadily outside, blanketing the grounds in white, and most of the students had already left for the holidays. Only a handful remained, scattered throughout the vast castle.
In the Ravenclaw common room, the once-crowded hearth was now sparsely populated, with only a few older students lounging in high-backed chairs or quietly reading.
The enormous windows that overlooked the snowy grounds were slightly frosted, casting a pale glow across the room.
Harry sat at a corner table with Hermione, the two having spent most of their time in the library or tucked away in the common room since the holiday began.
Neville had left to visit his grandmother, leaving the two of them without their usual trio. Despite the absence, Harry found himself strangely content.
The two had quickly fallen into a routine.
Mornings were spent in the library, pouring over magical theory and practicing wand movements in abandoned classrooms. Afternoons were spent exploring the castle's many forgotten corridors, Hermione often reminding Harry that their curiosity would eventually get them caught. Evenings found them back in the common room, studying in companionable silence.
Still, a quiet ache lingered within Harry. It had been growing since the students left.
Harry awoke on Christmas morning to the pale blue light filtering through the dormitory windows. The room was unusually cold, and for a brief, disoriented moment, Harry forgot where he was. His hand groped along the edge of his bed, half-expecting the sharp, cold floor of the cupboard beneath the stairs.
But then the warmth of his four-poster bed met his touch, and the familiar smell of the castle reassured him.
He sat up, startled to see a small pile of presents at the foot of his bed. His breath caught.
Presents?
He hesitated before reaching out, brushing his hand over the first wrapped package. Carefully, he tore into it, revealing a soft leather-bound photo album. His brow furrowed until he spotted the note tucked inside the front cover.
Thought you might like to have this. Dug it up from some old friends of your parents. Merry Christmas, Harry. — Hagrid
His hands shook as he opened the album. The first photo was of his mother, cradling him in her arms, her hair a brilliant cascade of red as she smiled warmly. His father stood behind her, grinning mischievously, his arm slung around Lily's shoulders. The photo moved, his father ruffling Harry's hair, his mother laughing.
Harry swallowed hard. Page after page was filled with images of his parents: dancing at their wedding, holding him as a baby, waving at the camera during a trip.
He had no memory of these moments, but the love in their eyes struck him hard.
He gently closed the album and set it aside, his throat tight.
Another package lay beneath it unmarked except for his name written in a neat, elegant script. His fingers trembled as he opened it, revealing a folded letter.
Meet me after the holiday feast. I believe we have much to discuss.
There was no signature. No indication of who sent it. But something about the handwriting felt oddly familiar... precise, cold, deliberate.
He folded it carefully, a thousand possibilities turning in his head.
The last gift caught his attention. It was a shimmering silver cloth that pooled like liquid when he touched it. His heart hammered.
Carefully, he lifted it, watching his hand vanish beneath the fabric. A note attached read-only:
Use it well.
An Invisibility Cloak.
Harry's mind raced. Who had sent it? Why now? His fingers curled around the fabric, and for the first time in days, excitement and apprehension warred in his chest.
The Great Hall felt cavernous without the majority of students. Only a few scattered individuals from each house filled the long tables. Harry and Hermione sat side-by-side at the Ravenclaw table, picking at their Christmas dinner.
"Did you get anything interesting?" Hermione asked, clearly trying to keep the conversation light.
Harry hesitated. "A photo album from Hagrid… and a few other things."
"And you?"
"Oh, just a few books from my parents," Hermione answered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "And some new quills. Nothing as exciting as an album of your family, though." Her voice softened at the end.
Harry forced a smile. "It's… nice to have something of them."
Hermione hesitated, then gently changed the subject.
That night, long after Hermione had returned to the common room, Harry paced the corridor outside their dormitory. The cloak burned in his hands.
Curiosity clawed at him. Whoever had sent the letter wanted to meet him, and the cloak was undeniably useful. After a brief internal struggle, Harry swung it over himself, watching in amazement as his body vanished.
Testing his steps, he crept down the staircase and slipped through the halls. The castle was unnerving at night. Shadows loomed, and the absence of sound made the walls feel as though they were watching.
He had no real destination in mind. He just needed something. Something to stop the gnawing hollowness the album had stirred.
Eventually, he stumbled into an abandoned classroom and froze.
There, standing in the center of the room, was a mirror, unlike anything he'd ever seen. Its gilded frame stretched high toward the ceiling, and along the top were carved the words:
Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.
Frowning, Harry stepped closer. His reflection stared back at him, but not alone.
Behind him stood his parents. James grinned broadly, one arm slung around Lily's shoulders. She smiled gently, her green eyes, the same eyes Harry had, shining with warmth.
His heart stopped.
"Mum?"
His voice cracked.
His reflection didn't answer, but his mother's hand moved to his shoulder, squeezing gently. His father ruffled his hair. They looked so proud.
He didn't know how long he stood there mesmerized until a soft voice broke his trance.
"Harry? I've been looking for you for ages... You never came back to the common room."
Hermione was standing in the doorway, clutching her robe tightly.
Harry swallowed hard, wiping his eyes. "I— I didn't mean to worry you."
"What is that?" she asked softly, approaching. She hesitated before stepping beside him, and when she looked into the mirror, she froze.
Her own reflection appeared, but not as she was now. Older, radiant, surrounded by books and adoring fans. She stood on a grand stage, delivering a lecture, clearly a celebrated witch.
Hermione's breath caught. "…I'm famous."
The two were silent for a long moment.
"…This isn't real, is it?" Hermione finally said.
Harry's throat tightened. "No, I don't think so. It looks like says I show not your face but your heart's desire if you read it backward."
Hermione tore her gaze away with visible effort. "…We should leave."
Harry lingered only a moment longer, committing his parents' faces to memory before forcing himself to turn away. The ache in his chest burned deeper than ever.
As they walked away, the mirror stood silent reflecting nothing but a boy who longed for family and a girl who longed for greatness.
The next night, Harry kept his appointment.
The letter burned in his pocket as he stepped into the dim corridor after the holiday feast. Clutching his cloak, he slipped toward the dungeons.
A figure waited in the shadows. Tall, robed, and with a hooked nose.
"Potter."
Harry's stomach dropped. Snape.
"…You sent the letter."
Snape's cold gaze lingered on him for a long, uncomfortable moment. "…We will talk. But not here. Follow me."
And with that, Snape turned sharply, his black robes billowing behind him.
Heart hammering, Harry followed.