Predictably, Mr. Dawima would spend the rest of his existence as a Flobberworm in this world.
Harry didn’t think he was being cruel. Compared to what the wanted posters described about the fates of Dawima’s victims, this was already an extraordinarily rciful punishnt.
As he passed by, Harry accidentally stepped on the Flobberworm.
***
Back in the Leaky Cauldron’s restroom, Harry waited for the Aging Potion to wear off, then changed back into his regular clothes and returned to the table where Ron was waiting. Ron, finally noticing him, looked up.
“Hey, mate,” Ron greeted him. “What took you so long?”
“Stomachache,” Harry replied. “I think we should head back. Mr. Granger might be waiting outside and getting worried.”
“Alright,” Ron said, reluctantly pocketing his cherished wand.
As they left the Leaky Cauldron, Harry spotted Mr. Granger, looking quite pleased with himself.
“Uncle Granger!” Harry and Ron greeted him in unison.
“Hello, boys!” Mr. Granger spread his arms wide and gave each of them a warm hug. “Let’s go. We’ll stop by Harrods to pick up a few things, and then we’ll head ho.”
It was clear that Mr. Granger was in a particularly good mood. Harry and Ron each received a doughnut from a popular Arican chain, a gesture impossible to decline.
Unable to resist Mr. Granger’s enthusiasm, Harry and Ron decided to spend another night at the Granger residence.
Uncle Granger promised to drive them back early the next morning.
Ron, eager to test out his new wand, suggested a duel with Hermione, but as underage wizards weren’t allowed to perform magic outside school, he could only imagine it.
“It’s ridiculous. We don’t have such rules at ho,” Ron muttered.
“That’s because we’re in a Muggle neighborhood,” Hermione pointed out. “Think about it: the mont you cast a spell, the Ministry of Magic will pinpoint us imdiately. They won’t even have to check who it was. They’ll just know—‘Oh, it’s Hermione!’”
---
After spending another cozy evening at the Grangers’, Mr. Granger drove them to the Leaky Cauldron early the next morning.
The two boys caught the Hogwarts Express back to school. Since it was still the holidays, the castle was quieter than usual, with only a few students scattered around the Great Hall reading.
Their dormitory was nearly empty, save for the two of them. The room was already overflowing with Christmas gifts.
“Look, this is the sweater my mum knitted,” Ron said, pulling out his gift—a sweater with a large “R” stitched on the front.
“She knits one for every year. Percy, Fred, and George have theirs. You and Hermione have one too,” Ron explained. “Yours and Hermione’s both have an ‘H.’ Hers is slightly bigger since it’s for a girl, and yours is smaller.”
Girls tended to develop earlier than boys, and Hermione, being a year older, was no exception.
Harry didn’t hesitate, taking the gift from Ron and slipping on the blue sweater.
“It’s so warm,” Harry said with a grin. “I really like it.”
As he stretched, Harry noticed a thin package among his gifts.
“It’s from my Aunt Petunia,” he said to Ron.
“What is it?” Ron asked, leaning in curiously.
Harry shrugged. “No idea.”
Opening the package, Harry found several photographs.
“It’s my mum,” Harry exclaid, holding up one of the pictures. “There are five of them—all of my mum.”
Ron peered at the photos and sincerely remarked, “Your mum was really pretty.”
“Wasn’t she?” Harry replied, flipping through the photos, a smile spreading across his face. He ntally decided on a gift for his aunt—a set of beauty potions, to show his gratitude for the photos.
Suddenly, Ron pointed to one of the pictures and gasped. “Wait, doesn’t this guy look familiar?”
Harry glanced at the photo. In it, a young girl—his mother—was smiling warmly, her arm linked with a boy’s. The boy’s dark hair, greasy and unkempt, and his oversized black robes gave him away instantly.
“It’s Professor Snape,” Harry said confidently. “See? I told you he was friends with my parents. I think I know what to give Professor Snape as a gift.”
“What’s that?” Ron asked.
“This photo,” Harry replied with a shrug. He grabbed an envelope from his desk and slipped the picture inside.
“Hedwig,” Harry called, “could you deliver this to Professor Snape for ?”
After sending Hedwig off, Harry continued opening his gifts. Hagrid had sent him a flute, Fred and George gave him a box of biscuits, and Miss Fawley gifted him so invigorating potion and magical ingredients. Hermione’s gift was a large box of horseshoe-shaped chocolates.
Among the gifts, Harry found a shimring, silvery fabric—an item that seed to ripple like liquid in his hands.
“Wow, this is... an Invisibility Cloak?” Harry marveled, raising an eyebrow.
He had seen such cloaks before—Cassandra owned one.
“Look, there’s a note,” Ron pointed out.
Harry set the cloak aside and picked up the note.
Written in a thin, looping script, the note read:
“Your father left this with before his death. It’s ti it returned to you. Use it well. Wishing you a very rry Christmas.”
“Who sent it?” Harry wondered aloud, flipping the note over, but there was no signature.
“Probably one of your dad’s friends,” Ron said, gazing enviously at the cloak. “I’d trade all my gifts for sothing like that.”
Harry studied the handwriting, feeling that it looked familiar, though he couldn’t place it.
***
anwhile, at Malfoy Manor, Draco Malfoy also received his share of Christmas gifts.
As always, life as a young master was plain yet extravagant. True to his boasts, his father bought him only the finest, and his Christmas gifts were the best among his peers.
But unlike Dudley Dursley, Draco wasn’t obsessed with gifts. He spent the afternoon sorting them and placing them in a small study across the hall—a room he had never entered before, said to have belonged to an ancestor.
After putting away the gifts, Draco heard a soft plop.
Sothing had fallen behind him—a notebook.
Draco picked it up and examined it.
The notebook looked old but not outdated. Its cover glead under the light, as if freshly made, exuding an unusual allure.
Draco instantly liked the notebook. He summoned a house-elf to bring him a quill and ink, then sat at the desk, ready to write his na on the first page.
“Draco Malfoy.”
Strangely, the ink began to seep into the paper.
“What’s going on?” Draco muttered, scratching his head in confusion.
The ink was absorbed into the notebook, disappearing completely. In its place, a delicate script appeared:
“Hello, I am Cassandra Malfoy.”
---
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