Eve.
The Christmas tree in the corner of the dimly lit room sparkled softly, casting an almost ghostly glow over the gifts scattered across the floor. Harry sat alone in the shadows, his cold, calculating gaze flicking between the presents. The others had long since gone, leaving him in his solitude as he methodically sorted through the packages. He didn’t need their attention, didn’t need their affection. It was simply a matter of appearance, of playing along with the charade.
His fingers brushed against the first package, a plain, unremarkable box wrapped in gold paper. Fred and George. Inside was a set of enchanted chocolates that promised to change flavor with every bite. A smile tugged at Harry’s lips, though it was a shadow of emotion, a mere reflex. He wasn’t particularly moved by the gift, but he knew it was an attempt at humor, an attempt to provoke a response from him. He didn’t let them see what they wanted, though—he never did.
Next, Ron’s gift. An uncomfortably thick woolen scarf, knitted by his mother. He unfurled it, fingers running over the coarse threads, the red and gold glaringly bright against the otherwise muted surroundings. Harry draped it over his neck and allowed himself to feel the warmth—practical, if not endearing. He wouldn’t wear it for long, of course. It wasn’t his style, but it was expected. And so, he played the part.
Hermione’s gift was a collection of books on magical creatures—well-researched, well-intentioned. She always thought in terms of knowledge. Harry’s hand lingered over the spine of one on Hippogriffs. She knew he would appreciate the gesture, the effort she had put into understanding him. It wasn’t lost on him. The thought of it didn’t stir anything inside him, though. He wasn’t interested in what she thought of him. He never had been.
Luna’s gift was… odd. A small glass ornament shaped like a lion, its mane silver and glimmering. A ‘gift of courage,’ the note had read. Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly as he examined it. Luna’s gifts were always cryptic, always a reflection of her strange, ethereal view of the world. But she had chosen well. It was a gift of strength, whether or not she realized it. He placed it gently on the edge of the table, a temporary possession.
Draco’s gift, as expected, was practical, if a little impersonal. A fine leather journal, with a note scrawled across the inside: *For all your secrets*. Harry flipped through the pages briefly, noting the smoothness of the leather. There were no personal touches, no affection in the offering. But that was Draco. He didn’t do affection, not in the way that the others did.
Pansy’s gift was subtle—a vial of perfume, floral and crisp. Pansy had always been about appearances, about elegance. He didn’t need such things, but he accepted it. It didn’t matter. Blasé had contributed a cleaning charm for his clothes, a gift so practical it bordered on the mundane, though it did amuse him slightly. He set it aside.
Dobby’s gift was different—simpler, more genuine. A hand-knit sock in green and gold. Harry hadn’t expected it, but he appreciated it. Dobby’s kindness was straightforward, unburdened by the games the others played. He held the sock for a moment, allowing himself to feel the weight of it, before setting it carefully to the side. It was just a sock, but it was something he hadn’t asked for. That made it rare.
Lupin’s gift was a small pouch of enchanted chocolate frogs, each one promising to show a different magical creature. There was a note attached: *For when you need a break*. Harry almost scoffed. He didn’t need breaks. But Lupin had always been different—he understood Harry’s need for space, for distance. It was a small comfort.
Hagrid’s gift was more in line with his eccentric nature—a large box of magical treats for creatures, all preserved magically. A simple gesture, though perhaps meant to remind Harry of the bond they had over the care of magical creatures. Harry didn’t care about the treats. He didn’t care about Hagrid’s gestures. But he didn’t throw them away either. He was a Slytherin, after all. He understood the value of maintaining connections, even if those connections weren’t important to him.
Lastly, there was the box from an unknown source, the small, plain package wrapped in brown paper. Harry hesitated before opening it, but the curiosity gnawed at him. Inside, he found two photographs. The first was of his parents—Lily and James Potter—smiling at him, youthful and bright, as though they could see him through the years. The second photograph was of his parents holding him as a baby. It was intimate, personal, in a way that Harry wasn’t used to. A pang of something twisted in his chest, but he masked it quickly. He couldn’t afford weakness. Not here. Not with these people. He closed the box, setting it aside with a carefully neutral expression.
He stood, eyes scanning the room. The gifts were nothing more than tokens of affection, something to keep up appearances. He didn’t need them. They didn’t change anything. He was alone, as he always would be. He wouldn’t let them see what lay beneath his cool, detached exterior.
Harry Potter, Slytherin, the boy who had learned that there was nothing to be gained by caring. Not anymore.