Harry groaned, gingerly lowering aching body into his favourite squishy armchair.

Today had been a nightmare.

The morning had dawned very bright and cold. The Great Hall was full of the delicious smell of fried sausages and the cheerful chatter of everyone looking forward to a good Quidditch match.

"You've got to eat some breakfast."

"I don't want anything."

"Just a bit of toast," wheedled Hermione.

"I'm not hungry."

Harry felt terrible. No, like actually terrible. It wasn't because in an hour's time he'd be walking onto the field.

Harry just felt terrible. The thought of eating made him feel sick.

"Harry, you need your strength," said Seamus Finnigan. "Seekers are always the ones who get clobbered by the other team."

"Thanks, Seamus," said Harry, watching Seamus pile ketchup on his sausages.

A bowl of food with a pale hand attached was placed in front of him, hot steam carrying an unfamiliar – but stomach growling – scent.

"Egg and Miso soup," Draco said without prompting, a sarcastic and irritated tone colouring his words, "Light, easy and healthy. Now, eat."

Harry winced, knowing he would be getting more than a lecture from the boy about keeping to his eating schedule – the one Harry had made – but he leaned away, nonetheless.

He was familiar with Miso, having had to use it in some recipes Petunia wanted him to make back when she was briefly obsessed with all things healthy – of course, when he said, "back when", Harry had meant fifth year. He thought it helped supply several vitamins and was good to have when with a cold. All he knew definitively was that it did something to aid with digestion – the main reason Petunia had wanted it, for her "precious Dudders."

Harry sneaked a glance at the Slytherin table, where it seemed people were either staring with calculating eyes or looking like they wanted glare at the Malfoy Heir but knowing it would be more trouble than it was worth.

Malfoy, after all, was a prominent name in the Wizarding World. It was certainly how younger Draco had gotten away with all his antics.

Admittedly, the soup did look very appealing, but he still tried to push it away.

"Draco. ." he said when the boy just pushed it back towards his.

"No, we don't want Gryffindors whining that Slytherin only won because our Seeker actually ate breakfast."

Harry smiled weakly but still shook his head. "Can't Draco, don't feel well."

The pale boy's ice grey eyes sharpening in concern, brows pinching ever-so-slightly. Harry was touched but he was fine really. He just didn't feel up to–

"Scared Potter?" Harry took a moment to register what had been said, and then his head whipped towards the boy, mouth gaping wide at the smirk that greeted him. "Scared you'll be no match against our team?"

His housemates bristled. They may have agreed to tolerate the "slimy snake" for the raven's sake, but they were not about to let the insult slide.

They stopped when Harry let out a sharp "Ha!" with an – almost wild – grin.

"You. Wish," he emphasised the two words with a competitive passion that completely contradicted his suddenly elated expression. "You fucking wish."

Ignoring Hermione's scandalised squawk of "language, Harry!", he picked up a spoon and got started, still grinning. Maybe he could stomach a little bit.

As Draco sauntered off smugly, and the Gryffindors decided then and there to never again try to understand how the friendship – or the individuals – function.

It wasn't worth the overworked brain cells.

By eleven o'clock the whole school seemed to be out in the stands around the Quidditch pitch. Many students had binoculars. The seats might be raised high in the air, but it was still difficult to see what was going on sometimes.

Ron and Hermione joined Neville, Seamus, and Dean the West Ham fan up in the top row. As a surprise for Harry, they had painted a large banner on one of the sheets Scabbers had ruined. It said Potter for President, and Dean, who was good at drawing, had done a large Gryffindor lion underneath. Then Hermione had performed a tricky little charm so that the paint flashed different colours.

#

Whatever good mood Harry may have gained from that morning had evaporated well and truly by the end of the game. Harry thought that with his now superior knowledge of how to ride a broom, he'd be able to handle the jinx far better than last time.

Unfortunately, he didn't take into account that the more time Harry didn't spend falling to his death, the more power behind the jinx Voldemort would get Quirrell to put in.

A dumb oversight of his, but Harry was more focused on not dying via gravity rather than beating himself over the head with self-deprecation.

So, as his broom was vibrating, zaps of harsh, biting electricity now shocking him in steadily growing bursts of voltage – that's knew, he thought – Harry prayed for Hermione to hurry up. Well, really, he was wishing for Draco's help, but it wasn't possible. As much as the Slytherins' tolerated their strange friendship, they were still wary; disappearing their stands in the middle of their first game – against Gryffindor nonetheless – for seemingly no reason would not be received well.

The first and second years weren't actually so bad – they'd mostly just tolerate the fact and mostly moved on, occasionally stopping and pausing to glare at Harry only to remember themselves. The main trouble were the older years – the prejudice just ran too long and too deep for them to be any more accepting. It was only really Draco's standing as a Malfoy that kept him on their good side – That, and his considerably wealthy knowledge of how to play them the Slytherin way without them realising.

It was slow going, but necessary.

So, Draco was stuck under the watchful eyes of Slytherin and Harry just had to hold out hope that Hermione would distract Quirrell before his hands become blackened and burnt husks of their former selves. He also had to hope she'd seen Quirrell mumbling to jinx instead of immediately zoning in on Snape

Oh fuck, Harry thought, vision swimming as Fred and George flew up to try and pull him safely onto one of their brooms. They stopped when the broom would jump higher still, and they could see the running flashes of electricity. They dropped lower and circled beneath him, obviously hoping to catch him if he fell. Marcus Flint seized the Quaffle and scored five times without anyone noticing.

Harry must've lost consciousness, or at least blanked out for a moment, because he suddenly the electricity stopped, and he was able to freely move his broom.

Body tingling, hands searing, anger burning in his gut, Harry immediately dove, shooting past an alarmed Fred and George sped toward the ground, only pulling up at the last second and slipping off his broom to land feet first in one perfect, controlled moment. Glaring defiantly up at the crowd, he lifted his hand to his mouth, coughed and something gold fell into his hand.

"Thank you," he shouted bitingly, lowering into a mocking bow, and the game ended in complete confusion.

Fred and George were the first to reach him, having followed his tail the moment he dived. Immediately they frantically – yet gently – grabbed his arms, trying to examine the damage, but Harry pulled away and shook his head.

"No," Harry muttered as they went to protest. "This wasn't some Slytherin cheating tactic, too maliciously. If I go to Madame Pomfrey now, everyone will panic and start pointing blame. I'll go see Hagrid – he probably has something or other in the meantime."

They frowned at him, heavily, but as people started crowding the field, getting closer and closer, they looked at each other and seemed to come to agreement.

heard none of this, though. He was being made a cup of strong tea back in Hagrid's hut, with Draco, Ron, Neville and Hermione.

"You stupid, reckless, idiotic, self-sacrificing, thrill-seeking meathead!" Draco seethed, carefully smearing Hagrid's burn ointment over Harry's hands. "I could kill you. I could kill you and no one would ever find the bloody body Potter, you– you–"

"Well, at least I didn't fall off my broom. That would've been embarrassing." Harry tried to joke weakly. Draco glared at him, and Harry winced.

"Draco," he said as the boy passive-aggressively started to wrap his hands in cloth, "I'm fine. It was just a broom jinx."

"J-just a broom jinx?" Neville repeated with wide eyes, "H-harry, look at your hands!"

Harry aimed – what he hoped was – a reassuring smile at the other boy. "It's fine, I've had worse." Four sets of incredulous eyes stared at him in shock and harry winced.

"Good job, Potter," Draco sniped under his breath as they all started to ask questions, "way to put them at ease."

"Shut up," Harry hissed, then turned to the others, "Guys, don't worry, okay? I was joking. Besides, you're all acting like I was chased by a dragon."

"No, because a jinxed broom that starts to fry your hands when it can't throw you to your death is so much better." Draco drawled, tucking in the ends of the bandages.

"It was Snape," Ron said, "He did it. Hermione, Neville and I saw him. He was cursing Harry's broomstick, muttering, he wouldn't take his eyes off him."

Draco gave Harry a particularly incredulous side-eye; Oh, for fuck sake, there was literally no reason for them to suspect him in the first place, it seemed to say.

Harry bit his lip to restrain a groan; I don't know, maybe if Snape wasn't so bloody suspicious looking, we wouldn't being having this problem?

Draco levelled him in a deadpan manner; maybe if your friends weren't so quick to draw conclusions, we wouldn't being having this problem.

Harry had no comeback.

"Rubbish," said Hagrid, who hadn't heard a word of what had gone on next to him in the stands. "Why would Snape do somethin' like that?"

Neville, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another, obviously wondering what to tell him. Draco decided on damage control.

"Hagrid's right," he told the three first years, much to everyone's visible surprise. He scowled. "What reason would Professor Snape have to try and kill Harry off?"

"I don't know," Hermione said hotly, "But I know what I saw, and what I saw was incredibly suspicious."

"Yeah, but it could've been anyone else too 'Mione." Harry argued. "Maybe Snape was trying to save me – maybe he was muttering a counter-jinx."

Actively defending Snape? Oh, Harry's eleven-year old self would hex him if could see him now.

Ron slapped his hand on his leg, "I bet he let in that three-headed dog on Halloween, like a distraction! Oh! What if he was trying to steal whatever it's guarding!"

Hagrid dropped the teapot.

Draco sighed loudly.

Harry dropped his head on to the table.

"How do you know about Fluffy?" he said.

"Fluffy?"

"Yeah – he's mine; bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub las' year. I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the–"

"Yes?" said Ron eagerly.

"Now, don't ask me anymore," said Hagrid gruffly. "That's top secret, that is."

"But Snape's trying to steal it."

"Rubbish," said Hagrid again. "Snape's a Hogwarts teacher, he'd do nothin' of the sort."

"Besides," Harry argued, "even if the troll was let in as a distraction, it couldn't have been Snape. He had ample opportunity to steal the s– whatever it is while everyone was distracted, and he didn't."

Well, ample opportunity was a little bit of a stretch, especially with Draco's involvement, but that was neither here nor there.

"So why did he just try and kill you Harry?" cried Hermione.

Draco was about seven inches close to strangling the girl. For all his hard work on Halloween, the afternoon's events certainly seemed to have changed her mind about Snape.

"I know a jinx when I see one, Hagrid, I've read all about them! You've got to keep eye contact, and Snape wasn't blinking at all, I saw him!"

"Malfoy an' Harry are right; I'm tellin' yeh, yer wrong!" said Hagrid hotly. "I don' know why Harry's broom acted like that, but Snape wouldn' try an' kill a student! Now, listen to me, all three of yeh – yer meddlin' in things that don' concern yeh. It's dangerous. You forget that dog, an' you forget what it's guardin', that's between Professor Dumbledore an' Nicolas Flamel--"

"Aha!" said Hermione, "so there's someone called Nicolas Flamel involved, is there?"

Hagrid looked furious with himself.

Harry despaired.

"I don't even understand," he whined to Draco later, "how is it, he does nothing suspicious, and they still jump on the Blame-Snape bandwagon? Were we always this bad?"

If only Snape wasn't such a hateable professor; maybe then it wouldn't be so hard to prove that he wasn't trying to kill one of his students.

#

Harry was relieved Christmas was coming.

He loved Hogwarts, he really did, and he loved the people in, trust him, he did. It was just. . . Harry was exhausted.

Perhaps it was because Ron, Neville and Hermione were hell bent on proving Snape guilty or maybe it was the fact Harry and Draco had finally found the potion book with the Animagus instructions, read it eagerly, only to realise the first step is to mandrake leaf in mouth for a month – meaning they'll have to wait until next year during the holidays so they won't draw suspicion. Whatever the reason, Harry had found himself falling flat. Harry. . . he couldn't describe it very well. It was like, one moment he was excited, inspired even and then. . . just, nothing. The excitement had nowhere to go, and therefore burnt out, and no matter what he tried, the inspired sensation wouldn't go away. He'd tried everything, but nothing he did got rid of it, and while in theory, it sounded not so bad, in practice it frustrated him to no end. In a way, it was a strange mix of inspired but unmotivated. He wanted to do something but couldn't find it in himself to do anything.

And now he just felt flat, and he needed to stop, pull himself back from the world, regroup and re-order his thoughts, then come back. A near-empty magic castle at Christmas time sounded like the perfect solution. Maybe he'd be able to get rid of the sluggishness in his mind – and body actually; he'd been feeling quite lethargic as well.

He didn't like it for two reasons:

One; it was unpleasant by principle

Two; it scared him.

There was something so addicting about the sluggishness, and he almost couldn't bring himself to do anything about it.

It was enough to snap him out of it a little bit, but he still couldn't wait for the break.

One morning in mid-December, Hogwarts woke to find itself covered in several feet of snow. The lake froze solid and Fred and George were punished for bewitching several snowballs so that they followed Quirrell around, bouncing off the back of his turban. Harry and Draco had been told off for cackling so hard they had to lean on each other for support, but it was useless. The slightest glimpse of his purple turban was enough to set them off again.

No one could wait for the holidays to start. While the Gryffindor common room and the Great Hall had roaring fires, the draughty corridors had become icy and a bitter wind rattled the windows in the classrooms. Worst of all were the potions classes down in the dungeons, where their breath rose in a mist before them and they kept as close as possible to their hot cauldrons.

"It's such a shame," said Draco, one Potions class, "that I have to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas; my parents are visiting family out of country and can't take me along."

He was pointedly looking away from Harry as he spoke. Harry, who was measuring out powdered spine of lionfish, lit up in excitement. He knew it was just a cover. Draco could be seen being even more attached to Harry than usual since the Quidditch match. While his house was originally disgusted seeing as the Slytherins had lost, he had quickly set them right. "My best friend just had his broom viciously sabotaged and his hands nearly burnt to a crisp during his first ever game of Quidditch by someone they still don't know the identity of; try and stop me from hanging out with him." That had quickly put a stop to everyone laughing at how a wide-mouthed tree frog would be replacing Harry as Seeker next. It helped that they were all so impressed at the way Harry had managed to stay on his bucking broomstick.

Harry had tried not to preen too hard.

Apparently, he was Draco's best friend.

Obviously, Harry wasn't going back to Privet Drive for Christmas. McGonagall had come around the week before, making a list of students who would be staying for the holidays, and had become perplexed when she approached Harry only to find his signature already there. It had cost him a solid week of bafflement and distrustful glances, but it was worth it. He didn't feel sorry for himself at all; when it came to the Dursley's, he'd stopped doing that years ago. With Draco staying behind, Ron and his brothers staying because Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were going to Romania to visit Charlie, this would probably be the one of the best Christmas he'd ever had.

When they left the dungeons at the end of Potions, they found a large fir tree blocking the corridor ahead. Two enormous feet sticking out at the bottom and a loud puffing sound told them that Hagrid was behind it.

Hermione and – holy fuck – Ron spent all of lunch trying to convince Harry to come with them to the library to find out who Nicolas Flamel is, but Harry dodged their every move with the skill of a seeker. Neville was less insistent – he was appropriately scared of the Cerberus – but he too unfortunately wasn't immune to the curiosity and mystery of it all.

"C'mon Harry," he said softly, "just half-an hour?"

"Nope."

The trio had been searching books for Flamel's name ever since Hagrid had let it slip, because how else were they going to find out what Snape was supposedly trying to steal? Harry would indulge them, but he couldn't sit there listening to them speculate the Potion's Master, and nothing he said would change their minds.

He took refuge with Draco more often than not at the Slytherin table – gasp, scandalous – but once the holidays had started and Hermione and Neville were gone, Ron was having too good a time to think much about Flamel. He and Harry had the dormitory to themselves and the common room was far emptier than usual, so they were able to get the good armchairs by the fire. Harry enjoyed just being able to sit in – relative – silence and play wizard chess with one of best mates. It had been a long while since he'd last done so, and he was amused to find that no matter how old he was, Ron was still able to trash him.

Harry was relieved to find that by Christmas Eve, his exhaustion – for lack of a better term – had practically vanished. Harry went to bed looking forward to the next day for the food and the fun, but not expecting any presents at all. 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.

"Merry Christmas," said Ron sleepily as Harry stretched languidly in his bed.

"You, too," said Harry. "Will you look at this? I've got some presents!"

Harry crawled out of his covers, reaching to the end of the bed to pick up the top parcel. It was wrapped in thick brown paper and scrawled across it was To Harry, from Hagrid. Inside was a familiar, roughly cut wooden flute. Harry, grinned. How useful.

This time he hadn't received anything from the Dursley's, and Harry was glad to not get a note with attached a fifty-pence piece.

The second parcel was a small, hand sized box from Neville, containing three sprigs Dittany.

I may have only known you for a few month, Neville's note said, but scarily enough I can already tell that things like the Quidditch match incident won't be an entirely uncommon occurrence. So, I decided to get you some Dittany sprigs; it's really a powerful healing herb and restorative. It makes fresh skin grow over a wound and after application the wound seems like its several days old. Usually it's an ingredient in healing potions, but if eaten raw it can heal shallow to moderate wounds. I thought it might be useful?

Ha ha, sorry, bad joke.

Merry Christmas,

Neville Longbottom.

"Yeah, that's real funny, Neville," said Harry dryly, but still incredibly grateful for the thoughtfulness behind it.

Harry opened the next few presents, getting a Weasley sweater – a thick, hand-knitted sweater in emerald green – and a large box of homemade fudge, a large box of Chocolate Frogs from Hermione.

This only left one parcel. Harry's heart picked up speed. He picked it up and put it under his bed.

He left it unwrapped.

He didn't feel like sharing it with Ron yet.

The dormitory door was flung open and Fred and George Weasley bounded in. Harry grinned as they dragged Percy into the room, then frog-marched him from the room, his arms pinned to his side by the sweater they shoved over his head.

Harry's day was. . . blissful. He spent the majority of it with the Weasley's, finally able to breathe easy around Fred, and when Harry finally left the table at dinner, he was laden down a full stomach and a stack of things out of the crackers, including a pack of non-explodable, luminous balloons, a Grow-Your-Own-Warts kit, and his own new wizard chess set.

He'd even managed to drag Draco and his friends – Crabbe, Goyle and Blaize Zabini – into a furious – but friendly – snowball fight on the grounds with the Weasleys. With an agreement to meet up later, cold, wet, and gasping for breath, Harry and Draco parted ways to return to the fire in their respective common rooms,

After a meal of turkey sandwiches, crumpets, trifle, and Christmas cake, everyone felt too full and sleepy to do much before bed except sit and watch Percy chase Fred and George all over Gryffindor tower because they'd stolen his prefect badge.

It. . . okay, it hadn't been Harry's best Christmas day ever, but it was a near thing.

Ron, full of turkey and cake, fell asleep almost as soon as he'd drawn the curtains of his four-poster. Harry leaned over the side of his own bed and pulled the cloak out from under it.

His father's. . . this had been his father's. Well, actually, it was also one of three mythic Deathly Hallows, but that was strange to think about, so Harry preferred to just not think about it. He let the material flow over his hands, smoother than silk, light as air. Use it well, he remembered the note had said.

Sure can do, Dumbledore, Harry thought sarcastically, slipping out of bed and wrapping the cloak around himself. Looking down at his legs, he saw only moonlight and shadows. The sight was weirdly comforting.

He'd missed his cloak.

And like that, Harry felt wide-awake. The whole of Hogwarts was back open to him with his cloak. Excitement flooded through him as he stood there in the dark and silence. He quietly rummaged through his truck for the small wrapped box he'd ordered weeks ago.

He crept out of the dormitory, down the stairs, across the common room, and climbed through the portrait hole.

"Who's there?" squawked the Fat Lady. Harry said nothing. He walked quickly down the corridor.

Quickly, Harry made his way to the Astronomy Tower, eager to spend a few hours with Draco.

When he got there, he could see Draco standing there, back to Harry, and. . . well, he just couldn't resist.

"And what do we 'ave here, Mrs. Norris? Student out of bed?" he crooned in his best Filch impression – which, he must say, was fairly impressive. Draco whipped around, eyes wide and mouth opening to talk himself out of trouble, only to freeze when he couldn't see Filch – or anyone else.

Harry let the cloak fall off him, and fluid and silvery grey went slithering to the floor where it lay in gleaming folds. Draco relaxed and rolled his eyes.

"Really?" he said sighed, "you just couldn't help yourself, could you?"

"Nope."

Harry picked the shining, silvery cloth off the floor and held it out to the blonde – it was like water woven into material.

"An invisibility cloak," said Draco, a look of barely restrained awe on his face. "I always knew you must have had one – too much many times not being caught sneaking around not to. Bastard." He added as an afterthought, holding the cloak back out for Harry to take.

Harry threw the cloak around his shoulders and Draco grinned.

"Get this," the raven said, handing Draco the note that came with it.

Written in narrow, loopy writing, Harry hadn't even had to open it to know what it said:

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.

"Dumbledore," Draco asked with a raised eyebrow and Harry nodded. "Well, we can hardly ignore an order from our own esteemed Headmaster, now can we?"

Harry grinned wickedly.

They spent the entire night under the cloak, floating about and trying to hush the other's snickers. Harry showed Draco all the hidden rooms and alcoves he'd memorised off the map, and Draco dragged Harry to all his favourite getaways. It wasn't until they came across a corridor with a set of familiar armour, did Harry stop.

"Harry?" whispered Draco hesitantly, noticing the plunging drop of mood.

Harry lightly took hold of Draco's sleeve and slowly tugged him to the door that stood ajar to their left. He remembered it as if it were yesterday. If ignored Draco's soft queries, holding his breath as he pushed open the door, and walked inside the room with a pounding heart. Harry dragged the cloak from his body, revealing Draco as well and slowly walked to stand in the centre of the room, trying to breathe deeply, heart jumping in his throat.

He knew – to Draco – it just looked like an unused classroom. The dark shapes of desks and chairs were piled against the walls, and there was an upturned wastepaper basket – but propped against the wall facing him was something that didn't belonged there, something that someone had put it there to keep it out of the way.

It was just as magnificent as he remembered, as high as the ceiling, with an ornate gold frame, standing on two clawed feet. There inscription carved around the top: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi, which he now knew to be I show not your face but your hearts desire. Harry moved nearer to the mirror, wanting to look but not wanting to see. He stepped in front of it.

He had to clap his hands to his mouth to stop himself from sobbing. He slammed his eyes shut. His heart was pounding far more furiously than in the final battle – this time he didn't see his family. Well, he did, but no longer did he see long lost relatives, but a whole different crowd of people standing right behind him.

There he was, reflected in it, white and scared-looking, and there, reflected behind him, were at least twenty, thirty others. Everyone was there, looking like they did when Harry had left, but cleaner, healthier, happier.All the Weasley's, including Fleur, Hermione, Luna, Neville, Remus, Tonks, even little Teddy. McGonagoll, Flitwick, Sprout; he could see his parents as well, all dark red hair and eyes, and messy black hair and glasses. Draco was there too, the older him, standing there and laughing at something Luna said.

And there, with his hand on Harry shoulder, smiling softly, proudly, at him, was Sirius.

Harry wanted nothing more than to reach up and take his hand, but he knew he'd be met with empty air.

"Harry?" Draco whispered. "What do you see?"

". . . everyone."

". . . you mean. . .?"

". .yeah," Harry replied softly, "my family."

Sirius just looked at him, smiling. And slowly, Harry looked into the faces of the other people in the mirror, and watched them interact, laughing, moving about, telling Fred and George off for something or other – Harry was looking at his family, for the first time a long time.

The Weasley's smiled and waved at Harry and he stared hungrily back at them, his hands clenched tightly against his side. He had a powerful kind of ache inside him, half joy, half terrible sadness.

How long he stood there, he didn't know. The reflections did not fade, and he looked and looked until a distant noise brought him back to his senses. He tore his eyes away from his godfather's face, breathed, "Draco," and stepped aside, beckoning the other forward.

Draco hesitated, but complied. His face went slack, and he swallowed.

"Oh," he whispered. Draco tore his eyes away from the mirror to look wet-eyed at Harry.

"Do you think we can just. . .?"

". . . yeah," Harry agreed softly, "just for a little bit."

". . . I should probably go," said Draco reluctantly

"Yeah, okay."

Draco stood, and went to walk away, but he paused and turned back to a confused Harry. "Here," he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a wrapped present that was should have been way too big to have fit in there. "Merry Christmas."

Harry blinked in surprise and took it, then remembering his own gift.

He tossed it to the boy, who looked just as surprised.

"Merry Christmas to you too."

Draco grinned.

The said goodbye, Draco left, and Harry turned back to the mirror.

There were his collective, mismatch family smiling at him again. Harry sank down to sit on the floor in front of the mirror and Sirius sat down with him. He wasn't going to stay there all night with his family, he knew better than that. But just a few more minutes, before he never saw them again.

Except –

"Good evening, Harry."

Bastard. Absolute fucking bastard.

Harry felt as though his insides had turned to ice. He looked behind him. Sitting on one of the desks by the wall was none other than Dumbledore. Harry could've punched him – why did he choose to reveal himself now? Last time it had been on the third night, so what had made it change? Why couldn't Harry have this?

"Good evening, sir."

"So," said Dumbledore, slipping off the desk to sit on the floor with Harry, "you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised."

"Mirror of Desire, sir."

"Ah, good, I see you've realized by now what it does?"

Harry clenched his fists, hiding them from sight.

"Our deepest desires. Sir."

"Yes, though a little understated," said Dumbledore quietly. "It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts. You, who have never known your blood family, see them standing around you. I do not confess to knowing what young Mr. Malfoy may have seen, but it was obviously incredibly important to him. However, this mirror will give us neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible."

Harry had to fight from glaring at the Headmaster. Why the man thought it was a good idea to bring up Harry's orphan status in his obviously vunrable state, would forever remain a mystery to Harry.

"The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry, and I ask you not to go looking for it again. If you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that. Now, why don't you put that admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?"

Harry stood up, but paused.

"Professor? Can I ask you something?"

"Obviously, you've just done so," Dumbledore smiled. "You may ask me one more thing, however."

"Why did you leave me with the Dursley's?"

"Because, Harry, they were the closest to family as I could've given you."

Harry bit his tongue.

It was only when he was back in bed did Harry let his frustration loose. Shoving Scabbers off his pillow, Harry sat there and shot a dark glared at the offending rat, anger only building at the sight.

Oh, how he had wanted to kill the thing the moment he had seen it. It had taken all of his will power on the train to not pick the pathetic thing up by its ears and throw it out the window.

He and Draco had argued extensively over the matter of Peter Pettigrew.

Harry wanted to kill or turn him in as soon as possible, but Draco kept reminding him they couldn't, not until the end of third year. Even then it was too risky – apparently they needed Pettigrew to find Voldemort and resurrect him, because how else were they supposed to find the bastard and kill him. Sure, they knew how to get all the Horcruxes, and they had plenty time to find and destroy them all, but it was no use if Voldemort remained hidden because his favourite rat of a devotee didn't make sure he was in the right place at the right time – meaning, the graveyard fourth year.

That's when they wanted to make their final move.

Of course, it was risky, and if they were honest, probably not going to work, but they had hope and more backup plans than there were letters in the alphabet. But in order for any of those to work, they still needed Pettigrew

Harry hated the fact Draco was right.

Harry just– . . .the one thing he never really understood was how did Sirius, Remus and his father even become friends with Pettigrew? Of course, Pettigrew being in Gryffindor in the first place wasn't the problem; he had probably highly valued courage and daring, even though he didn't have any himself.

That's what Harry hated the most about Pettigrew. He hated what he did, he hated him for selling his parent out to Voldemort, and but most of all, he hated him for being a coward. At some point, a younger Pettigrew must have had some redeeming qualities for the Marauders to be friends with him. He managed to be a good enough friend that Harry's mother and father him with their lives.

But at heart, Pettigrew was a coward.

Pettigrew never felt loyal to Voldemort, he never felt loyal to the Death Eaters, and he never felt like what they were doing was right. Similarly, he never felt loyal to the Marauders or the Order, or "believed" in the Order's cause. He didn't believe in anything except that he needed to find someone to protect him and, in some ways, provide for him.

It his choice to spy for Voldemort on the Order. He stayed in the Order, hiding in plain sight. Had the opportunity presented itself to Pettigrew to sway the battle irrevocably in favour of the Order, he would have done so, simply because the Wizarding World's gratitude would have kept him safe for life. But that never happened. Instead, he got the opportunity to sway the tide of the war in Voldemort's favour, and he knew that one act would be good enough that he would never be questioned or put in danger again for Voldemort. Voldemort would have his back for eternity, because he delivered the chance to eliminate the prophecy. Pettigrew decided to play both sides of the board in the hopes that he'd be able to ride the glad tidings of the winner. Instead, he managed to earn the contempt and revulsion of both sides.

He was pathetic. He was a twisted, pitiful, meagre person who never really stood for anything in his life, just looked for the shadow of greater men to stand behind. He turned in his best friend and his wife just for power. He left himself be defined only by his own fear. And he's just lucky that people took pity on him and Voldemort found convenient use for him – or, at least, enjoyed having a 'yes' man.

Harry blew out an angry sigh, turned his head to the side and looked at the sliver and green – ha, ha – wrapped present on his beside. Curious, Harry quietly ripped off the paper and was greeted with a black and silver book, the cover reading A Guide to Occlumency. Intrigued, and just a bit anxious, Harry read Draco's note.

Harry,

I know that things have begun to become tense, especially after learning that we wont be able to start the Animagus process until at least the summer break, which is why I've managed to obtain this book from my family's library. I know that your experience with Professor Snape was. . . less than pleasant, but I feel that until we can complete the transformation, learning and practicing Occlumency, could to help order your mind – and also help act as a more long-term solution.

If you're panicking, or feeling unsure about it right now, I can tell you, it helped me. I'll be there to help you with it of course, and I promise that we'll approach it differently to the way Professor Snape did, in a way better suited for you and what we're trying to get out of it.

Anyway, give a thought, maybe a read through?

Let me know what you think

Merry Christmas,

Draco Malfoy

Harry. . . he. . . Draco. . . . .

Oh, he so wanted to read the book before going to sleep, to get a head start, but he knew he was too angry and too tired to even try implementing anything.

First thing in the morning, Harry promised himself.

He fell asleep with a smile on his face.