Christmas was coming. One morning in mid-December, Hogwarts woke to find itself covered in several f
eet of snow. The lake froze solid and the Weasley twins were punished for bewitching several snowbal
is so that they followed Quirrell around, bouncing off the back of his turban. The few owls that man
aged to battle their way through the stormy sky to deliver mail had to be nursed back to health by H
agrid before they could fly off again.
No one could wait for the holidays to start. While the Gryffindor common room and the Great Hall had
roaring fires, the drafty corridors had become icy and a bitter wind rattled the windows in the cla
ssrooms. Worst of all were Professor Snape's classes down in the dungeons, where their breath rose i
n a mist before them and they kept as close as possible to their hot cauldrons.
“I do feel so sorry,” said Draco Malfoy, one Potions class, “for all those people who have to stay a
t Hogwarts for Christmas because they're not wanted at home.”
He was looking over at Harry as he spoke. Crabbe and Goyle chuckled. Harry, who was measuring out po
wdered spine of lionfish, ignored them. Malfoy had been even more unpleasant than usual since the Qu
idditch match. Disgusted that the Slytherins had lost, he had tried to get everyone laughing at how
a wide-mouthed tree frog would be replacing Harry as Seeker next. Then he'd realized that nobody fou
nd this funny, because they were all so impressed at the way Harry had managed to stay on his buckin
g broomstick. So Malfoy, jealous and angry, had gone back to taunting Harry about having no proper f
amily.
It was true that Harry wasn't going back to Privet Drive for Christmas. Professor McGonagall had com
e around the week before, making a list of students who would be staying for the holidays, and Harry
had signed up at once. He didn't feel sorry for himself at all; this would probably be the best Chr
istmas he'd ever had. Ron and his brothers were staying, too, because Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were goin
g to Romania to visit Charlie.
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.
“Hi, Hagrid, want any help?” Ron asked, sticking his head through the branches.
“Nah, I'm all right, thanks, Ron.”
“Would you mind moving out of the way?” came Malfoy's cold drawl from behind them. “Are you trying t
o earn some extra money, Weasley? Hoping to be gamekeeper yourself when you leave Hogwarts, I suppos
e — that hut of Hagrid's must seem like a palace compared to what your family's used to.”
Ron dived at Malfoy just as Snape came up the stairs.
“WEASLEY!”
Ron let go of the front of Malfoy's robes.
“He was provoked, Professor Snape,” said Hagrid, sticking his huge hairy face out from behind the tr
ee. “Malfoy was insultin’ his family.”
“Be that as it may, fighting is against Hogwarts rules, Hagrid,” said Snape silkily. “Five points fr
om Gryffindor, Weasley, and be grateful it isn't more. Move along, all of you.”
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle pushed roughly past the tree, scattering needles everywhere and smirking.
“I'll get him,” said Ron, grinding his teeth at Malfoy's back, “one of these days, I'll get him—”
“I hate them both,” said Harry, “Malfoy and Snape.”
“Come on, cheer up, it's nearly Christmas,” said Hagrid. “Tell yeh what, come with me an’ see the Gr
eat Hall, looks a treat.”
So the three of them followed Hagrid and his tree off to the Great Hall, where Professor McGonagall
and Professor Flitwick were busy with the Christmas decorations.
“Ah, Hagrid, the last tree — put it in the far corner, would you?”
The hall looked spectacular. Festoons of holly and mistletoe hung all around the walls, and no less
than twelve towering Christmas trees stood around the room, some sparkling with tiny icicles, some g
littering with hundreds of candles.
“How many days you got left until yer holidays?” Hagrid asked.
“Just one,” said Hermione. “And that reminds me — Harry, Ron, we've got half an hour before lunch, w
e should be in the library.”
“Oh yeah, you're right,” said Ron, tearing his eyes away from Professor Flitwick, who had golden bub
bles blossoming out of his wand and was trailing them over the branches of the new tree.
“The library?” said Hagrid, following them out of the hall. “Just before the holidays? Bit keen, are
n't yeh?”
“Oh, we're not working,” Harry told him brightly. “Ever since you mentioned Nicolas Flamel we've bee
n trying to find out who he is.”
“You what ?” Hagrid looked shocked. “Listen here — I've told yeh — drop it. It's nothin’ to you what
that dog's guardin'.”
“We just want to know who Nicolas Flamel is, that's all,” said Hermione.
“Unless you'd like to tell us and save us the trouble?” Harry added. “We must've been through hundre
ds of books already and we can't find him anywhere — just give us a hint — I know I've read his name
somewhere.”
“I'm sayin’ nothin', said Hagrid flatly.
“Just have to find out for ourselves, then,” said Ron, and they left Hagrid looking disgruntled and
hurried off to the library.
They had indeed been searching books for Flamel's name ever since Hagrid had let it slip, because ho
w else were they going to find out what Snape was trying to steal? The trouble was, it was very hard
to know where to begin, not knowing what Flamel might have done to get himself into a book. He wasn
't in Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century, or Notable Magical Names of Our Time ; he was missing,
too, from Important Modern Magical Discoveries, and A Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry. And
then, of course, there was the sheer size of the library; tens of thousands of books; thousands of
shelves; hundreds of narrow rows.
Hermione took out a list of subjects and titles she had decided to search while Ron strode off down
a row of books and started pulling them off the shelves at random. Harry wandered over to the Restri
cted Section. He had been wondering for a while if Flamel wasn't somewhere in there. Unfortunately,
you needed a specially signed note from one of the teachers to look in any of the restricted books,
and he knew he'd never get one. These were the books containing powerful Dark Magic never taught at
Hogwarts, and only read by older students studying advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts.
“What are you looking for, boy?”
“Nothing,” said Harry.
Madam Pince the librarian brandished a feather duster at him.
“You'd better get out, then. Go on — out!”
Wishing he'd been a bit quicker at thinking up some story, Harry left the library. He, Ron, and Herm
ione had already agreed they'd better not ask Madam Pince where they could find Flamel. They were su
re she'd be able to tell them, but they couldn't risk Snape hearing what they were up to.
Harry waited outside in the corridor to see if the other two had found anything, but he wasn't very
hopeful. They had been looking for two weeks, after A, but as they only had odd moments between less
ons it wasn't surprising they'd found nothing. What they really needed was a nice long search withou
t Madam Pince breathing down their necks.
Five minutes later, Ron and Hermione joined him, shaking their heads. They went off to lunch.
“You will keep looking while I'm away, won't you?” said Hermione. “And send me an owl if you find an
ything.”
“And you could ask your parents if they know who Flamel is,” said Ron. “It'd be safe to ask them.”
“Very safe, as they're both dentists,” said Hermione.
Once the holidays had started, Ron and Harry were having too good a time to think much about Flamel.
They had the dormitory to themselves and the common room was far emptier than usual, so they were a
ble to get the good armchairs by the fire. They sat by the hour eating anything they could spear on
a toasting fork — bread, English muffins, marshmallows — and plotting ways of getting Malfoy expelle
d, which were fun to talk about even if they wouldn't work.
Ron also started teaching Harry wizard chess. This was exactly like Muggle chess except that the fig
ures were alive, which made it a lot like directing troops in battle. Ron's set was very old and bat
tered. Like everything else he owned, it had once belonged to someone else in his family — in this c
ase, his grandfather. However, old chessmen weren't a drawback at all. Ron knew them so well he neve
r had trouble getting them to do what he wanted.
Harry played with chessmen Seamus Finnigan had lent him, and they didn't trust him at all. He wasn't
a very good player yet and they kept shouting different bits of advice at him, which was confusing.
“Don't send me there, can't you see his knight? Send him, we can afford to lose him.”
On Christmas Eve, Harry went to bed looking forward to the next day for the food and the fun, but no
t 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 scrambled out of bed and pulled on his bathrobe.
“You, too,” said Harry. “Will you look at this? I've got some presents!”
“What did you expect, turnips?” said Ron, turning to his own pile, which was a lot bigger than Harry
's.
Harry picked up the top parcel. It was wrapped in thick brown paper and scrawled across it was To Ha
rry, from Hagrid. Inside was a roughly cut wooden flute. Hagrid had obviously whittled it himself. H
arry blew it — it sounded a bit like an owl.
A second, very small parcel contained a note.
We received your message and enclose your Christmas present. From Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. Tap
ed to the note was a fifty-pence piece.
“That's friendly,” said Harry.
Ron was fascinated by the fifty pence.
“Weird!” he said, “What a shape! This is money ?”
“You can keep it,” said Harry, laughing at how pleased Ron was. “Hagrid and my aunt and uncle — so w
ho sent these?”
“I think I know who that one's from,” said Ron, turning a bit pink and pointing to a very lumpy parc
el. “My mom. I told her you didn't expect any presents and — oh, no,” he groaned, “she's made you a
Weasley sweater.”
Harry had torn open the parcel to find a thick, hand-knitted sweater in emerald green and a large bo
x of homemade fudge.
“Every year she makes us a sweater,” said Ron, unwrapping his own, “and mine's always maroon.”
“That's really nice of her,” said Harry, trying the fudge, which was very tasty.
His next present also contained candy — a large box of Chocolate Frogs from Hermione.
This only left one parcel. Harry picked it up and felt it. It was very light. He unwrapped it.
Something fluid and silvery gray went slithering to the floor where it lay in gleaming folds. Ron ga
sped.
“I've heard of those,” he said in a hushed voice, dropping the box of Every Flavor Beans he'd gotten
from Hermione. “If that's what I think it is — they're really rare, and really valuable.”
“What is it?”
Harry picked the shining, silvery cloth off the floor. It was strange to the touch, like water woven
into material.
“It's an invisibility cloak,” said Ron, a look of awe on his face. “I'm sure it is — try it on.”
Harry threw the cloak around his shoulders and Ron gave a yell.
“It is! Look down!”
Harry looked down at his feet, but they were gone. He dashed to the mirror. Sure enough, his reflect
ion looked back at him, just his head suspended in midair, his body completely invisible. He pulled
the cloak over his head and his reflection vanished completely.
“There's a note!” said Ron suddenly. “A note fell out of it!”
Harry pulled off the cloak and seized the letter. Written in narrow, loopy writing he had never seen
before were the following words:
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.
There was no signature. Harry stared at the note. Ron was admiring the cloak.