Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

Chapter 21. Moonlight and Morning

Compared to the bustling scene of Hogwarts during a school term, the school during the holidays was a strange, almost alien place. Winter had left the corridors cold, and what few students would have been scurrying from class to class had long departed for home on the Hogwarts Express, leaving the halls devoid of life. Even many of the staff had taken their leave to see family and friends elsewhere, with only a few – the Heads of House, the Headmaster, and the Keeper of the Grounds and Keys – remaining due to their responsibilities.

Shinji had of course taken the opportunity to deliver his gift of tea to a delighted Flitwick, who had regaled him with tales of a dueling tournament long ago and checked up to see how he was doing, but aside from that hadn't concerned himself much with others.

For the suspension of classes had other implications too.

What few students remained did not bother with their Hogwarts uniform of plain back work robes and black pointed hat (even though the hat itself was rarely worn by anyone except Minerva McGonagall) or their heavy winter cloaks with silver fastenings, instead wandering around dressed in motley mixes of muggle and magical clothing.

The dull roar of the multitude's steps and background chatter that usually echoed through the hallways was mostly absent as well, with the tapestries inside and snow outside muffling what little incidental sound the castle's current denizens made during their meanderings.

Not that many meandered at all, with most preferring to stay within the comfort of their dormitories or common rooms, given that there was little reason to go outside. There was no need to even go to the Great Hall, as meals could be taken in the dormitories, with a table laden with breads, cheeses, and platters of English muffins, eggs, sausages, mugs of cocoa and marshmallows constantly stocked by default.

Twas something of a shame, given how so much effort had gone into decorating the Hall, with festoons of holly and mistletoe hanging from every wall, and no less than twelve towering Christmas trees stood around the room, some sparkling with tiny icicles, some glittering with hundreds of candles, and some shining with branches laden with tiny golden bubbles.

There was only one major holiday event in the Hall which the students who'd stayed were expected to attend. This was the Christmas Feast, a festive, raucous thing that as Shinji had found out from the House Elves would involve copious quantities of alcohol for the staff, a hundred fattened roast turkeys, mountains of roast and boiled potatoes, platters of chipolatas – a kind of ground-pork sausage seasoned with herbs and spices – wrapped in streaky bacon (which together made up "pigs in blankets", the traditional accompaniment to roast turkey), tureens of buttered peas, silver boats filled to the brim with thick, rich gravy and cranberry sauce, and of course, hundreds of exploding party favors known as wizard crackers.

And after all that would come dessert in the form of hundreds of Christmas puddings, each of which was made of dried fruits held together by egg and suet, moistened with treacle and flavoured with cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, ginger and other spices. These were a specialty, with a batch prepared the Christmas before and aged until the next, until – finally ready to serve, each pudding was doused with brandy and set alight, appearing on the tables like hundreds of speckled cannon-balls, blazing in half of half-a-quarter of ignited brandy and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.

Not for the first time when dealing with the food at Hogwarts, Shinji felt that his grounding in Western culinary traditions had been somewhat…lacking. Or perhaps in this case, that he was a victim of misinformation, given that he, like most people in Japan, believed that Westerners celebrated Christmas with a dinner of fried chicken, cake, and champagne due to a brilliant "Kentucky for Christmas" ad campaign first launched in 1974 (and continuing to this day!). Perhaps because of this, a Christmas Party Barrel of KFC's "Christmas Chicken" (with the top half full of crisp and juicy pieces of chicken, and bottom half sectioned off to hide a complete Christmas sponge cake, complete with fresh strawberries and whipped cream) and a bottle of champagne were considered the go-to choice for a holiday meal – so much so that people usually ordered one months in advance.

Even someone like Matou Shinji remembered waiting in line with his father on Christmas Eve for a bucket of the Colonel's Original Recipe drumsticks when he was very young, before he'd found out that his life was a lie – that he in fact was not the heir – at which point Byakuya had stopped even pretending to care about him.

To find out that his belief that Westerners ate chicken at Christmas was a lie – that they typically preferred ham or turkey – the latter of was fairly uncommon in Japan – was less jarring than he'd thought though, given the emotional roller coaster he'd been on these last few weeks.

The rather traumatizing Seek and Preserve Scenario of Quirrell's, which he'd been pushed to his limits to complete – but hadn't even won – was one source of annoyance. At first, he had thought it would be easy, that it would be a trifling thing to win without revealing too many of his secret skills, but after the ambush and everything that came after, he'd ended up having to use his ofuda in a number of unconventional ways, revealing that he could use them at the same time as his wand – and implicitly, their weakness to fire. And then there'd been the doppelganger he'd faced at the end, an enemy who had nearly beaten him – who he'd only beaten because he hadn't shown all of what he could do.

Was the sight of his dying face a premonition of things to come, since Quirrell had now taken his measure, as the Boy-Who-Lived's scenario had demonstrated full well?

For the first few days of it, Shinji had either roamed the halls or secluded himself in his room, looking into the Ofuda and Origami tome for more information.

He knew now that Quirrell had learned about the weaknesses of ofuda – fire – and had seen that both he and Potter were capable of using ofuda to some degree – as well as how they worked in battle. And while Shinji knew that in his current state, he stood no chance at beating Quirrell without at least the element of surprise, he'd competed in the challenge because the Book of Spells was something he'd wanted to win – to learn from – to use to boost his skill and power, to practice new abilities that might otherwise be risky in his current room.

And based on everything he'd heard from how everyone else did, he had stood a good chance of winning best in his year.

…but in the end, he hadn't won – which honestly upset him to a degree. Not as badly as it could have, since Harry had ended up taking the top prize – and had said he'd share the Book of Spells with the other Stone Cutters, but it still rankled.

Especially since Harry had been avoiding him these first few days of the winter holidays – though Shinji had to admit that he had not actively sought the other boy's company either. He'd been mostly holed up in his room, looking for new combinations of ofuda he could use – or combinations of witchcraft spells and ofuda, new variations that might mitigate the paper's vulnerability to fire.

So far, he hadn't seen anything too promising for combat use. Yes, elemental ofuda or ofuda arrays would theoretically work, and there was probably a charm to freeze flames, disrupt other spells or the like, but all in all, he wondered if it would be enough. He hadn't had the opportunity to really make or try out the new varieties, given that he knew that each type felt different to make, and unless he was able to fully concentrate, it was too easy to slip back into one of the older patterns of flow – making one of his usual sealing, warding, or binding ofuda instead.

He wondered if his time would be better spent delving into the subtle variations of each one yet, as he knew there was more to the warding-type he could probably exploit from using multiple – maybe to create a shield array or something – but the book didn't offer much to go on.

Then again, it was a book of basic principles, and wasn't one designed to teach the use of ofuda in combat, which was part of the reasons he wanted – needed the Book of Spells for an edge.

…not unlike the edge the power of his wand gave him when it came to raw spell power , the wood and core working together in a rather potent combination – albeit one that made precision work a fair bit more difficult, which accounted for some of his difficulties with Transfiguration.

His mother's wand might have been more useful for controlled work, if he'd tried it – but in his current state, it was not something Shinji could use. Not in terms of compatibility, since the ideal owner of a willow wand usually had both insecurity, however well hidden, and great potential – not that Shinji knew that, but in terms of mindset. For years he'd thought of his mother as useless, and receiving her wand had dealt a severe blow to this, as well to his confidence, given how she'd simply…died when Zouken willed it.

He was determined to be different. To be powerful. To shake the foundations of the world itself and make those around him take heed.

That wand had represented everything he'd kept secret – everything he feared – every last crippling moment of self-doubt and self-loathing he'd hidden away, all those things he had never shared with anyone before – couldn't share.

And he knew Sokaris knew this, since she was the only student who'd ever seen him weak, bereft of the masks he wore around pretty much everyone else. That was why he had given her his mother's wand, a visible symbol of how much he trusted her, an admission that he was her friend and would help her as she'd helped him, wherever that led.

He was actually thankful that she'd chosen to stay at Hogwarts over the winter holidays as well, since it was his first Christmas abroad, and the sheer strangeness of it was deeply unsettling. After all, Christmas was not a national holiday to him, nor a time for family to get together – that was usually reserved for the New Year – the most important holiday in Japan, where businesses were shut down for several days in early January, people made their shrine visits, and resolutions mattered.

Not for the first time did he feel like a stranger in a strange land. The routine of classes and meals had mitigated that to an extent, but without all of those distractions, the weight of it hit him like one of those Bludgers he'd seen in Quidditch.

He'd done what he could to keep the worst of it away, dressing in the attire he was used to back at home – though he did note how useful work robes were for concealing things like ofuda and such – and going to the Kitchens for meals, where he'd asked the House Elves to prepare more Japanese-style foods for him instead of the more British spread they usually were tasked with making.

Sometimes he saw Sokaris there, and from there, they'd wander the castle – or its grounds – in near silence, punctuated every so often by a note or observation about their surroundings.

Only once in these last few days had he seen Harry, but the other boy didn't have much to say. Harry didn't look like he'd slept well, with shadows under his eyes and a haunted, almost harried look, but when Shinji asked, the Boy-Who-Lived didn't really want to talk about it, only saying that it had to do with Quirrell and Voldemort.

Shinji hadn't pressed the boy, since the last thing he wanted was for Potter to feel cornered, forced into talking before he was comfortable with it. At least Potter had Sokaris to talk to – or so Shinji suspected, as Sokaris had mentioned no other Slytherins had stayed for the holidays, which he didn't think she noted just from noting activity in the hallways (since there was little enough from any House).

He supposed it might have to do with the fact that his doppelganger had died in Harry's scenario, since the Boy-Who-Lived had a bad case of survivor's guilt, exacerbated by what the entire world recognized him for: surviving. Surviving where everyone else died – only able to survive when everyone else died, and not only being forced to remember it every night, but being praised for it.

…that would traumatize anyone, except perhaps a die-hard magus, which even Shinji was not.

He'd just have to hope that Sokaris would be able to get through to Potter, which made him somewhat uncomfortable, since he didn't like relying on other people. All the same, he would if he had to, and it wasn't like Sokaris was unreliable when she had a goal in mind.

But tonight was Christmas Eve, and for the night, he would put such things out of his mind, given that he was to have a special dinner with Sokaris. Since this was apparently her first Christmas, he wanted to do something nice for her beyond the gift of the wand, and had talked the House Elves into making something special for the evening to be delivered to Ravenclaw Tower.

He'd asked Sokaris earlier to join him in the Common Room tonight for dinner, and to wear what she had the first night they'd met – the all-white ensemble of long skirt, white blouse, white stockings and even boots, with a golden scarf tied in a manner reminiscent of a cravat and gold bracelets on each wrist providing the only splashes of color.

She had stared at him flatly for a few seconds, but had nodded, agreeing to come sometime after sunset, when the sky grew dark and the moon rose.

Which it was now, with Shinji walking down the stairs of Ravenclaw Tower, fresh from the shower in his finest, an all-black ensemble of shirt, slacks, jacket and shoes. In truth, he felt a little nervous – he didn't think Sokaris would be easily impressed, not after she'd simply given him the location of the Room of Hidden Things, but he wanted to share with her something from home.

He only hoped the house elves had done as he asked, as he stepped from the stairwell into the Common Room—and paused, frozen by what he saw.

Sokaris was standing near the window, the light of the silvery moon on her all-white ensemble making her seem ethereal – almost otherworldly – as she looked out over the snow-covered grounds of Hogwarts, and the mountains in the distance, almost glowing in the moonlight.

"While surrounded by darkness, I perceived the oddest dream. Everlasting nightmare, endless -. And yet I rise, to crimson night and cerulean moon," she spoke quietly, in a soft, intimate voice Shinji didn't think he was meant to hear, yet which filled the room at once. "Salvation, misfiction, unfinished dance. A hymn to the stars – and a hymn to the moon." And then she turned, her eyes noticing him as she nodded. "Good evening, Matou Shinji."

Shinji swallowed, but stepped forward into the circular chamber designed for so many more people, a chamber which tonight played host to them and them alone, with most of the other furniture cleared, a table for two set in its middle, and hundreds of candles floating in the air, like flickering stars in the darkness.

"Good evening, Sokaris," he said, bowing deeply to the girl, deciding not to ask about the words she spoke before. "I'm pleased you could join me tonight."

"I admit to a measure of curiosity as to what you have planned," the purple-haired Ravenclaw replied, nodding as she noted the odd set-up. "You requested this of the House Elves?"

"Indeed," Shinji remarked. "Shall we see what they have come up with?" he asked. When she nodded, he walked over to the table and pulled out a chair, gesturing that his companion should sit. "After you, then."

After all, as a boy who had once thought he would be the head of the Matou, an almost noble family, it wouldn't have done not to know at least a bit about etiquette. While such might not have been too useful at most meals at Hogwarts, he was thankful for having studied it now.

"Very well."

Sokaris all but glided over the floor in response to his invitation, settling herself upon the chair he had pulled out with a minimum of fuss.

Once she had done so, Shinji sat across from her and clapped once, with a fig, cheese, and prosciutto plate appearing in the middle of the table and a small bowl of French onion soup appearing before him and his…dining companion, along with an accompanying gougère (a baked savory choux pastry made of choux dough mixed with cheese, filled with delicate mushrooms).

"A French menu?" Sokaris asked, raising a delicate eyebrow. "I was under the impression you wished to show me how Christmas was celebrated in your homeland."

"In Japan, Christmas is a holiday associated with Western prosperity," Shinji noted mildly, "hence…Western foods. "

"Prosperity and not religion. Fascinating," the purple-haired girl observed, as she delicately began to sample the food before her. "I assume other traditions differ as well, aside from the menu selections."

"Christmas isn't a day for family either," he admitted, thinking back to what he knew of the holiday. "It is a day when one spends time with someone special, like a close friend."

That it was also a day spent with lovers in Japan was something that had slipped his mind, as those sorts of things were not what he thought about quite yet.

"I see," the girl acknowledged. "I assume the popularity of the holiday began after World War II, during the occupation?"

"Yes," Shinji said, noting how precise and efficient Sokaris was with all her movements, even eating. "Christmas was a symbol of a prosperous modern lifestyle, when the country was in shambles and many people starved. And even when we had enough, we didn't have sweets."

"Hence the importance of the cake."

"And the main course," Shinji said, as the two finished their appetizers.

"Western as well?" Sokaris asked, head tilting fractionally. "Ham, perhaps?"

"Fried chicken, actually," the Boy-from-the-East noted with a soft smile.

With a single clap of his hands, the plates disappearing and replaced by the main course, which was – appropriately – fried chicken, but with a bit of a french twist, with two sides: a large bowl of sweet corn mixed with butter, cilantro, and fresh lime juice, as well as a dish of wild mushroom macaroni and cheese slathered in rich Fontina and Asiago cheese, with extra dimension of texture from cracker meal bread crumbs mixed into the dish.

As for the meat, the chicken had been first poached, then cooled and coated in a secret "mayonnaise," of raw chicken shavings, chicken stock, and eggnog flavored with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg. The skinless free-range birds had next been dipped into day-old bread crumbs and briefly fried in vegetable oil.

The result…well, was a sublime dish any whose experience with fried chicken was merely a bucket of takeout would weep to experience.

The skin was delicately crisp with an organic, unprocessed texture; the meat was plump and dripping with flavor, and the sharp taste of the Dijon dipping sauce that came with it was to die for. And of course, as an added bonus and true to French form, the bed of pomme purée (mashed potatoes) that the chicken was served with was decadently creamy and buttery, rounding out the satisfyingly refined gustatory experience.

They ate mostly in silence, talking here and there about some of their past experiences in vague intimations and allusions.

Shinji managed to piece together that Sokaris had never eaten a Christmas dinner before, but that she was certainly no stranger to finery, being the heiress of a once-great family herself, and – like him – disliked large crowds. She preferred the solitude of a workshop, where she was free to do research, and see what she could learn, away from prying eyes.

When asked why she didn't mind spending time with him, she'd merely answered: "Because we are alike, Matou Shinji. As you and Potter are alike."

"Speaking of which…how is Harry?" Shinji asked worriedly. "If you've talked to him, that is."

"You are aware of his dreams, Matou?" Sokaris countered, trading a question for a question as she finished a morsel of chicken. When Shinji nodded, she continued. "Then you know why he avoids you."

"I can guess," the boy replied, sighing. "But I would rather you tell me, if you could."

"He is afraid, Matou Shinji," the purple-haired Ravenclaw summed up, her eyes looking not quite at him, but at something distant. "Afraid that those who get close to him will die, and that he, and he alone will be the one who lives."

"Quirrell's scenario," Shinji growled, feeling a sudden rush of anger flow through him. "He did it on purpose, didn't he?"

"One assumes so from the evidence at hand," Sokaris answered grimly. "Our opponent is cunning, after all, and given that the Boy-Who-Lived is the nominal leader of the Stone Cutters – who might oppose him – Quirrell likely focused his efforts on crippling Potter's will to fight through showing him the likely consequences of his actions."

"…I thought those scenarios were just to get a picture of what we could do," Shinji admitted, frowning now. "For him to use them in that way…I never expected something like that."

"Few would," the purple-haired girl filled in for him. "Indeed, Potter's victory – due to his ruthlessness, some say – was likely part of Quirrell's plan as well. For once again, the Boy-Who-Lived survived, and those who only wished to protect him died. Once again, he was alone."

Sokaris closed her eyes for a moment, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath and exhaling, an expression of pain flickering her face, before opening them again.

"I know somewhat of what that is like," she admitted, looking down at her now empty plate as if it held the answers she needed. "But I have a goal I must attain, no matter what it might cost me."

Shinji rather thought she meant the Stone, but didn't ask. Frankly, he didn't want to know, as he didn't want to be responsible for knowing.

"I'll help you," he found himself saying. "You don't have to tell me what it is you're looking for. Just tell me what I can do. You've helped me more than enough."

"You trust me," she said, half matter-of-factly, half…wonderingly?

"More than anyone else I know," Shinji replied. Which admittedly wasn't all that much, but he trusted that she wouldn't intentionally harm him if she could avoid it, just as he would do the same for those he had any feelings for.

"Seemingly a bold admission, but likely not," Sokaris observed, with Shinji grimacing, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Still, trust is a dangerous thing to have for anyone, Matou Shinji, so the gesture is appreciated. As has been this meal. It was…surprisingly agreeable."

"You don't want any cake? That's the best part," Shinji teased, composing himself once more. This had indeed been a fine dinner – the finest he had had at Hogwarts.

"If you insist," the girl in white demurred, clapping her own hands once, as the empty plates and bowls that had housed the main course vanished, with the Christmas cake – the pièce de résistance of the meal – a white strawberries and cream sponge cake, frosted with whipped cream and topped with fresh strawberries. These strawberries had been cut in half, with a dollop of cream separating base from "hat" resembling a face with a chocolate smiley face in each one.

It was remarkably cute, even by Japanese standards.

"And here it is, the cake," Shinji murmured. He hadn't expected the house elves to do something like this. He knew they were capable of beautiful decorations and delicious food, but he usually didn't see the two combined, though he imagined that was because they usually cooked in bulk. "Red and white, like the rising sun. Round, the shape of things usually given as offerings at shrines."

"Such significance in a pastry," Sokaris remarked, raising an eyebrow. "Fascinating."

They dug in, with Shinji cutting his dining companion the first slice, and she a bit for him, alternating until little by little, even this sugary confection was no more.

The end of food did not mark the end of the conversation, however, as the two talked for some time, taking advantage of the fact that no one else was in the dormitories during the holidays.

They talked of class, of expectations, of pranks, and other things – all in the language of intimations and allusions. They said very little compared to most, but what was said had depths of meaning, double meanings, and many things that may or may not have been partly missed.

Still, the important things, the essential things, were understood, for those were not heard with the ears or seen with the eyes – but by the heart, as flawed as the human heart could be.

But soon enough, the evening drew to an end, with them looking out upon the softly glowing world outside, bathed in the light of the watery moon.

"Sokaris…will you join me for Christmas tomorrow?" Shinji worked up the nerve to ask. He didn't want her to just disappear save for meals, to be alone on that day when things were like to be so strange. "To see Potter and the others…"

He trailed off, not knowing quite what to say. Out of the others at Hogwarts, she was the only one who really intimidated him, after all.

Still…

"Perhaps so," she said as she glanced over at the boy. "I, too, would like to assess Potter's condition, and I do not find your company…disagreeable."

With Sokaris, Shinji knew that was about all he could hope for, and that he'd have to wait until tomorrow to see.

"Merry Christmas then, Sokaris."

"And a Merry Christmas to you, Matou Shinji."

The past few days had been rather difficult for the Boy-Who-Lived, as without the distraction of classes, challenges, and meetings of the Stone Cutters, Harry had only his thoughts to dwell on – rather dark thoughts, in fact. He considered himself a failure in many ways, since he knew he wasn't really what people thought him to be.

They thought of him as a hero, but he was only the Boy-Who-Lived, the boy for whom others died that he might live. Quirrell – his enemy – had praised him to the skies for his ruthlessness in the scenario, but the thing was, Harry hadn't wanted the alter-Shinji or alter-Daphne to sacrifice themselves for him. He'd wanted to get through safely, to not have any of his friends hurt.

But…to see his best friend's face grim with resolve as he told him to run – much like his father had; to see his closest ally in Slytherin be overtaken by a curse, telling him to run, to live - how was he supposed to stand that?

He was only 11 years old.

And yet, people already expected great and terrible things from him, all the more so since he'd been sorted into Slytherin, and been proclaimed by the students as Slytherin's Heir. Why, some of the Muggleborns looked at him in fear now, no doubt thinking he would open the Chamber of Secrets and kill them – even though the only person he'd hurt – not even meaning to – was Draco Malfoy, who was about as anti-Muggleborn as one could get.

Even Professor Quirrell thought of him as a monster, praising him for doing what only a monster would do, as if that would mark him as Quirrell's equal or some such.

He shivered, feeling very cold as he curled himself into a tight ball in bed.

Shinji, he knew, didn't see him that way. The boy-from-the-east taught him, talked to him like a normal person, was kind to him even though he was taunted, had been pranked and worse. But that friendliness scared him, scared him all the more because he could see Shinji actually sacrificing himself.

His best friend dying because he couldn't measure up.

Tears welled up in Potter's eyes as he tried to banish the image of that grim, hard expression. He'd seen it before too, seen it in the fight with the Troll, where Matou had showed him just what the eastern art could do.

…but what if it wasn't enough?

And he didn't think it would be, against Quirrell. That had been as much the Defense Professor's message as anything else, that once Harry ran out of tricks, all he would have was his friends. Friends – he'd wanted to have to those, to have people approve of him for so long, but in a way he feared it too, knowing how much it would hurt to lose them. In a way, the mercenary nature of most relationships in Slytherin made sense – Parkinson, for instance, only attached herself to him because she thought it was a winning strategy – since doing what was best for oneself kept people from being hurt too badly.

It was not for nothing that Slytherin was the house of intrigue, of cunning, of ambition – and those who were ambitious rarely let anything stand in their way, not even a claim of friendship.

They wouldn't act against him for now – not with him being both the Boy-Who-Lived and the Heir of Slytherin, not as long as he kept up an appearance of strength and didn't involve himself with the many feuds in the house.

As long as he was seen as above such petty things, they wouldn't bother him. Only Malfoy had done so before anyway, and the blond knew that attacking him would not help his own position.

At the same time, it didn't make him many friends, since they wondered what his game really was – what the ambition of the Slayer of Voldemort could be – and the older students didn't want to get in his way, lest they be trampled over in his quest for eternal glory, power, or some such.

Not that he had any grand ambitions, except to become a hero – the hero everyone wanted him to be – to save everyone in his sight, should Voldemort, or someone like him, return.

But at what cost would that come?

He'd talked about that with Sokaris these last few days, with the two of them sitting in the Slytherin Common Room or the Kitchens. The enigmatic Ravenclaw had been surprisingly helpful to him, but he supposed Quirrell was their common enemy, so it made sense she'd want to help. She'd asked him not what the cost of him becoming a hero would be, but what the cost would be if he did nothing, and yet what he feared – Voldemort's return – came to pass anyway.

…it had been a very chilling question.

She'd even used the Book of Spells to make him relive that hated scenario, only without his involvement. What would have happened had he not been there? Very possibly the same thing, only this time, the Dark Wizard would have won. The two would have died in vain, died for nothing, instead of achieving something.

It scared him a little, how cold Sokaris seemed about death, how analytical she was, how she did not flinch at the sight of Matou – who he thought was her friend – charging to his death, or Greengrass, who she sometimes worked with, dying from a powerful curse, her body eaten away. It looked – sounded – smelled – felt – so real, and yet Sokaris hadn't reacted at all.

He realized in that moment that he knew nothing about her, that he was spilling his soul to a complete stranger. But then, he'd done that to Matou too.

In some ways, the two had a similar aura, something which became more evident when one spent time alone with either of them, as opposed to in the classroom setting. He supposed that was why he felt safe talking to Sokaris about this, since she had no reason to betray him. She knew worse secrets – and had proposed at least one thing that he needed to keep secret as well.

It was a very Slytherin relationship there – obviously the only reason she'd told him about the Philosopher's Stone was because she wanted to keep it from Quirrell and needed the Stone Cutters for it. He knew it, as did she, and within the bounds of that relationship, he felt safe. They both held some of the other's secrets, and so could not betray the other.

But she'd helped him nonetheless, which is more than anyone would have done, even if he still had nightmares. Even if it still hurt, if the pain was still raw and jagged and molten.

Harry sighed as he got up slowly. Once again, he hadn't slept well, and now, it was Christmas Day, a day when everyone would be happy, when the Feast was scheduled to be held. He didn't know if he was up for it – didn't even know if he'd get any presents.

He was very glad that all the Slytherins had gone home, and no one was there to see his secret shame, or they'd think him weak – a target. The Boy-Who-Lived – the Boy-Who-Was-Lonely – or maybe the Boy-Who-Was-Loony – that would be a riot.

Still, when he looked around the room, he spotted something that wasn't there before: a small pile of packages at the foot of his bed.

Presents.

He didn't deserve them, of course, but he couldn't just leave them there. That, too, would be rude, and it wouldn't do to be impolite.

So, Harry picked up the parcel on top of the stack, one wrapped roughly in thick brown paper, with the words "To Harry, from Hagrid" scrawled across it. As he unwrapped it, he found a roughly cut wooden flute, one that he thought Hagrid had probably whittled himself.

The next parcel – slightly larger – was more finely wrapped in glossy blue and bronze paper, with a tag indicating that it was from Robert Hillard, fellow Stone Cutter and Prefect of Ravenclaw. Inside was a set of pure gold Gobstones – a game similar to marbles, save that that the stones would spit at the player if they lost points. Almost every wizarding child had one – and Harry was rather grateful that he had one now – though he felt guilty about not having a gift for Hillard…or anyone else, really.

He thought that the Book of Spells would work well enough as a gift for his fellow Stone Cutters though, enough so they wouldn't complain.

A box of prank goods - from the Weasley Twins, of course – was in the next parcel, containing an assortment of devices, powders, and ingredients with which to cause mischief and mayhem. It was indeed something he should have expected of them, and he thought he might be able to find a use for them.

Pansy had sent him a rather large box of Chocolate Frogs – something fairly impersonal, but safe, since who didn't like candy?

Sokaris had given him three items – a Mokeskin pouch, a Foe-glass and a set of Omnioculars – with a reminder to keep track of both who was coming for him and what was yet to come. As a would-be hero, he would undoubtedly have enemies, but it was important to remember not to get tunnel vision and succumb to paranoia. These were practical gifts, and as he looked into the Foe-Glass, he wasn't surprised that the most distinct figure was he recognized quite well.

After all, he saw Professor Quirrell in class most days of the week.

The next parcel felt very light, almost soft, and when he unwrapped it, something fluid and silvery gray went slithering to the floor where it lay in gleaming folds, its texture like water woven into cloth.

…an invisibility cloak, this. He remembered it well from Quirrell's demonstration as well as his scenario, where he'd seen how useful such things could be – but at the same time, so frighteningly limited, since all it could do was hide someone from sight, not from harm…

And from its folds could be found a note. 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.

Albus Dumbledore

…seeing those words actually made Harry angry. He'd heard from wizard after wizard how Dumbledore was the one wizard Voldemort ever feared, so what need had Dumbledore for an invisibility cloak? The Headmaster was known to always be at Hogwarts, so it wasn't as if the man needed to hide, or that in the case he needed one, he couldn't have just bought one.

It rankled especially as Harry knew that Voldemort had been hunting him and him alone, as his dreams seemed to argue was the case, given that the Dark Wizard therein had offered his mother a chance to step aside instead of just killing her.

So he wondered: would his father – or his mother – still be alive today if they'd had the cloak on the night the Dark Wizard came?

Anger was an interesting thing. It needed a target, whether it was the self or some other – and Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster who would endanger all of Hogwarts by setting a trap for a Dark Wizard in a school, presented a convenient one.

After all, why? Why had the Headmaster had this? Why had he held onto it for so long? Why had he kept it if he knew Harry's parents had been in danger?

And why was the man giving it to him now, almost as if encouraging him to do mischief – or trying to bribe him by giving him something that should be his by right anyway.

It didn't make sense. It didn't make sense at all.

He left the cloak on the ground, not even wanting to look at it, as he turned back to the dwindling pile of gifts, the next of which was…Shinji's. Wondering what his best friend had given him did help settle him a bit, as it was more pleasant to think about than…that night.

The small chest was not wrapped, so opening it was a simple matter. Inside though, were some jewels and galleons, a self-inking quill to make writing easier, and what seemed at first like a ribbon wrapped around nothing, but was really a book on closer inspection.

The Invisible Book of Invisibility, as it turned out once Harry opened the book to the title page. A tome which apparently contained a wealth of information how to conceal of oneself and one's belongings – something which would undoubtedly come in handy in Slytherin – something well worth reading now that he found himself in possession of an invisibility cloak. He needed to know what it could and could not do, after all, since as he'd learned, invisible didn't mean invulnerable.

A bit inconveniently, he'd have to keep the ribbon around the book if he wanted to find it again, since otherwise, it simply vanished when closed. Troubling, that, but most wizards didn't really have much common sense.

Along with those had been a collapsible cauldron and ingredient prep set, with Shinji noting that since Professor Snape was Harry's head of house, it might behoove him to get a little more practice in Potions.

That was the last one in the stack, and Harry had thought that was all, at first. At least until he looked down on the ground, where a last gift lay – the largest of all – a beautiful model of the Milky Way encased in a large glass ball about a meter in diameter, resting on a handsome ebony stand.

Within the sphere, the galaxy turned slowly, a conglomeration of hundreds of billions of stars against the darkness of space. And as he learned by trial and error, if he spoke the name of something he wanted to see, it would zoom in and show him that – and only that – Earth, Mars, the Moon, the Solar System, or some nebulae – or even some feature on Earth, like Hawaii or Timbuktu.

It could tell him where a planet or star would be on a given date – so that he'd never have to worry about Astronomy homework again – and could just enjoy the nights on the Tower. And even more, it could project the illusion of space – or a place he chose – all around him – bringing him a sense of peace as he imagined himself drifting among the stars.

Looking at it, he almost forgot where he was for a second, lost himself in something besides himself for the first time in days.

Eventually, he did end up reading the note affixed to the base, feeling rather…touched when he found out who had sent it and what she had written.

To the Boy-Who-Lived, Heir of Slytherin or maybe just Harry Potter,

I don't know what's been bothering you, but keep your chin up, Potter. I hope this helps you to remember there's a world all around you, and that even in the gloomiest moments of our lives, the stars still shine.

Merry Christmas.

Daphne Greengrass