Flurries of blinding white snow fell to the ground. Even through the frost-laced window, Harry could feel the chill seep in, freezing his fingers and the side of his face, where it rested against the glass.

Almost everyone else had gone home for the holidays. Ron hadn't, but Hermione had. She'd made her regrets, of course, but he could see the buoyancy in her step as she lugged her trunk away. She was happy to be going home. She wanted to go home. Then again, she had a home to go to, Harry thought, slightly bitterly.

Even with Ron...Ron might have stayed at Hogwarts, but in a way, he'd brought his home to him, considering his brothers were staying at school with him. He moaned and complained about them all the time, but Harry had a feeling that if anything ever happened to them, Ron would be devastated.

He drew curlicues through the frost aimlessly, watching them melt together into a meaningless jumble. Would he be devastated if the Dursleys died? He considered it carefully. He'd certainly be sad. No matter how badly they always treated him, there was a certain melancholy in knowing that someone you knew was dead. Would he grieve, though? He couldn't answer. Harry's shoulders slumped and he turned away from the window, throwing himself onto his bed with a more melodramatic than usual thump.

What sort of terrible person was he? Then again, it's not like the Dursleys ever treated him kindly, did they? He was always in shock when Mr. and Mrs. Weasley didn't yell at Ron or thump him over the head or make him weed outside for hours in the blazing sun. When Hermione wasn't stuffed into a cupboard for breathing too loudly or having the temerity to, well, exist. For years, he'd thought the way he was treated was normal, and it was a painful shock to discover it wasn't.

It hurt in other ways, too, Harry thought glumly, punching his pillow. What was wrong with him? The Dursleys called him a freak. When he'd discovered that magic was real, he thought that was why, but what if it wasn't? What if there was something about Harry-just Harry-that made him different? That meant he deserved to be locked in the cupboard under the stairs, fed on table scraps, and in general, treated lower than a family pet? What if, for someone like Harry, that was normal?

It was a terribly unpleasant thought, and one that made Harry feel quite sick to his stomach. When Ron came up to bed an hour later, still flustered-looking and arguing fiercely to himself about some trick the twins had pulled, Harry could barely muster up a sympathetic smile.

"Well, anyway, good night," Ron finally said when he noticed that Harry wasn't really paying attention. Harry flushed in shame and murmured good night, before hiding under his blankets and curling up in the tightest ball he could. What was wrong with him? At this rate, he'd lose his best friend, too.

The night passed fitfully, and more than once, Harry startled up, breathing heavily as the tail end of his nightmares fled. He had never been so relieved to hear Ron's snores in the next bed.

Finally, Christmas morning dawned, and Harry yawned, sat up, and froze in shock at the sight of the small pile of wrapped presents on the end of his bed.

"Ron?" he asked cautiously. "Are these yours?"

"What?" Ron said sleepily, rubbing his eyes and rolling over. "They're your presents. Don't tell me you never got presents!"

Harry grinned in a sheepish sort of way, not wanting to admit the truth and instead turning to the pile of gifts.

Later, he supposed that his favourite present should probably be the invisibility cloak. And it was amazing, he couldn't deny that. But his real favourite, though he wouldn't tell a soul, was the sweater Molly Weasley had knitted him. It might be slightly too big, and rather warm and lumpy, even for December.

But it made him think that maybe, just maybe, he could belong to a family.