Disclaimer: *Sigh* I don't own anything but the ideas infected with my personal brand of insanity.

AN: Thanks you guys, for reading and reviewing! I really love to hear your thoughts, and it makes me unbelievably happy when it sounds like you're enjoying my story.

Chapter 10: Of Mirrors and Mirages

Harry lay awake, a cold December morning – too cold to stay in his nightclothes, and too weary to rise from his bed and change. He had not been sleeping well, of late. At first, his lack of sleep was due to guilt; his semi-revelation about his parents' deaths had weighed heavily on his mind, before he realized he was mistaken in his conclusion – he had been a baby at the time, he hadn't exactly committed a crime by merely existing, had he? And then Neville's words returned to his mind – his parents weren't victims, they were brave. They had protected him, by choice; he had to honour him, not blame himself for their deaths. Admittedly, this path of enlightenment was not of his own making, as Jean had spent several hours ranting some sense into him when he had explained how he came to the conclusion that his parents' deaths were his fault, but still, he felt quite proud of himself when his guilt was alleviated. If only he could have gotten some decent sleep then.

When he began to actually sleep again, not merely lay awake musing sombrely to himself, he found that his sleeps were no longer peaceful. Jean thought that the gift of oneiromancy was developing in him; Harry thought some higher deity was getting off screwing with his beauty sleep. In the end, it didn't matter – he simply wasn't sleeping well. He'd stay awake late every night, perfecting the muffliato charm as he chatted with Jean, reading his 'Guide to Awesomeness.' He had also taken up Les Propheties of late (and was of the private opinion that Nostradamus was a nutcase). His head would hit the pillow before midnight, and he would sleep peacefully for a few hours – until the dreams started; at first, it was only an uneasy feeling, and then it was only a snippet or two. But slowly, every night for the last month, they would get longer and longer, until they completed a repetitive sequence – one minute, he would be standing in front of an old house on a cold, stormy night, and then everything would flash green, and then black; and then he was staring at himself in a circle of flames, until the flames engulfed him, searing his skin off…and then he was drenched in rain, staring at the old house again. It was disconcerting, the whole thing. And he would always wake up, ere long, with the bloody bird tapping on the window.

As it was once again, but he didn't have the strength to shoo it away. He opened his mouth, voice cracking as he sang in hopes of lulling himself to sleep,

"I wonder what tomorrow has in mind for me
Or am I even in its mind at all
Perhaps I'll get a chance to look ahead and see
Soon as I find myself a crystal ball…."

Unfortunately, he already had a crystal ball, and it hadn't been showing him anything useful lately. His voice faded into silence, just as he heard Terry burst out of the bathroom.

"Oi, Harry, you up yet?"

Terry had been the only first year Ravenclaw to stay at the castle with Harry over Christmas break. He had said that his parents had plans to travel to Prague during the holidays, and that, in the end, he'd rather stay with Harry at Hogwarts – because Harry was 'more entertaining than stuffy business meetings and house-elf nannies.' Unfortunately, the boy did not seem to understand the concept of sleeping in during the holidays.

"Oi, mate, let's get breakfast before it's all gone."

Harry scowled at his curtains. "That one doesn't work when the school's practically empty."

"Ha! So you are awake!"

Harry grimaced, slightly horrified; he had just been tricked – by Terry Boot. His lack of sleep really was getting to him.

"If you don't get up, soon, I'll lay siege on your bed!"

Harry groaned. "I'm up, I'm up! Just let me get changed."

It was Christmas holidays, so Harry was pleased that he no longer had to wear the stuffy uniform all the time – he slipped on the Led Zeppelin t-shirt and some jeans, along with some woolly socks to keep him warm. He shoved the royal blue curtains away, jamming his feet into his sneakers.

"Wow…somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed."

Harry glared at him.

They both managed to make it down to the Great Hall alive – that is, without Harry strangling Terry – finding a sugary-looking breakfast on the table, and the hall even more cluttered with glimmering, flamboyant Christmas decorations than it had been the day before. The decorations adorning the tree, an enormous, full evergreen, were all put up – ribbons that rained glitter and changed colours, ornaments that floated and glowed, bobbing up and down as charmed angel figurines darted about the tree.

Harry glared at the Christmas tree. "I wonder if angels really exist," he said flatly as he sat down, immediately stuffing a chocolate-filled pastry in his mouth.

Terry shrugged, piling some gingerbread and jelly onto his plate. "It would be nice if they did."

Harry sneered. "Well they've sure done a splendid job of bestowing good-will upon men and all that rot."

Terry frowned at him. "What's up with you?"

Harry frowned back. "Huh?"

"You're all…you're sort of being a bit of a bastard, really."

"I'm always like this."

"I know that, it's just…it's Christmas, mate! Cheer up!"

Harry blanched. "Why?"

"Decorations, snow, sweets, and presents! Aren't you excited for Christmas? For what your relatives will send you?"

"Christmas dinner will be nice, but my relatives won't be sending me anything, that's for sure."

Terry looked very confused. "But it's Christmas, won't they want to send you at least a card or something?"

"They never have, and they never will," Harry shrugged.

"But why?" Terry looked outraged.

"Because they hate me."

"I'm sure they don't –"

"They do. And I hate them too. We've sort of got this whole, mutual-symbiotic-hatred thing going on. It works."

Terry appeared to be at a complete loss. "But why?"

"Because they hated my parents, and they hate magic, and they just hate me. They always have, stupid muggles. And I don't really care."

"But Harry, they're your family!"

Harry looked at him sharply. "No, they're not. There's more to family than blood. You're more of a family to me than they'll ever be."

Tears filled Terry's wide, brown eyes. "Really? You mean it?"

Harry grimaced. "Of course. I may have issues, but I'm not a pathological liar." Well, about that…

Terry threw himself at Harry, embracing him tightly. "Oh, Harry, it's like we're brothers! That's so sweet! You're such a great friend."

Harry squirmed violently under him. "I didn't say that...Get off, Terry! Now! Get! Off! You're causing a scene!"

Terry drew back, wiping the tears from his eyes and glancing about the Great Hall, finding all eyes on them – well, except the Weasley twins, who were laughing so hard their eyes were pinched shut. He blushed. "Oops. Sorry."

Harry shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

Terry looked at him. "So, since you're family…er, relatives aren't sending you anything for Christmas, I suppose I'll have to get you something, yeah?"

Harry shook his head. "Don't bother, I don't really need anything."

"But do you want anything?"

Harry tapped his chin thoughtfully, tilting his head like Jean often did. "I suppose…I suppose, what I'd really like is for Professor Snape to take me on as his apprentice of dark snarkiness. I'd really like to learn how to intimidate people as thoroughly as he does…"

Terry grimaced. "Umm… I think I'll just find you a good book on spell-crafting theory, or something like that…"

"That would be good too."

Suddenly, they were interrupted by the sound of a throat clearing behind them, and they both turned to find a sheepish looking Ron Weasley standing behind them.

"I, er… Fred and George and I were planning on having a snowball war outside. Cedric Diggory and another Hufflepuff are coming too. We…we were wondering if you two wanted to come?" he said, his voice squeaking slightly.

Harry looked over at Terry's wickedly gleeful face, raising an eyebrow as he began bouncing in his seat, and said, "Terry would love to. I can't, though."

Terry looked over at him, a dumbstruck look on his face. "But Harry…snowballs…war…"

"I know, but I have something I need to do," he said regretfully, and seeing Terry's puzzled look, he added, "Privately."

Terry sighed and nodded. "Right. Come on, Weasley, let's leave Harry to go off and plot bloody murder or whatever he's up to."

After the two boys had left, along with several others from the other tables, Harry rose from his own spot. After he had gone up to Ravenclaw Tower to fetch his jacket and scarf, he slipped out of the castle onto a snow-covered dirt path. The path led from the outdoor courtyard of the castle to a small stone hut just at the edge of the Forbidden Forest – Harry, after making some inquiries, had discovered it to be the home of the gamekeeper, one Rubeus Hagrid, the friendly half-giant who had first escorted the first years into Hogwarts. If Draco Malfoy was to be believed, Hagrid was also a barbaric oaf, but Harry had long since learnt to take the blonde haired boy's words with a grain of salt (and pepper, if necessary).

Reaching toward the wooden door, which didn't look all that well insulated, Harry rapped on it three times, stepping back when the enormous man answered.

"Well, well, who's this 'ere? 'S a bit chilly fer a mornin' walk, ain't it?"

"I suppose it is...I'm Harry Potter, sir."

"Blimey! 'Arry Potter, is it? You sure grown since I last saw yeh, didn't yeh?"

"Er…we've met?"

"Course we have! Yeh were just a little 'un then, but I held yeh 'n everything!"

Harry smiled softly.

"Oh! Where are my manners! Come in, 'Arry, come in!"

At the invitation, Harry stepped into the hut, sitting down on the fur-covered chair offered to him.

"Now, 'Arry, whas' brought yeh all the way down 'ere on such a cold day?"

"I was wondering, sir…"

"No, no, none o' that 'sir' stuff! Call me Hagrid!"

"Right, well, Hagrid, since you're the gamekeeper, you know about all the magical creatures on the Hogwarts grounds, yeah?"

Hagrid smiled proudly. "Yeh bet I do! Take good care of 'em all, too. Yeh see, Harry, most of 'em magical creatures, they're just misunderstood, is all – they just need a bit of love 'n care."

Harry nodded slowly, eyebrows raised. "Right, then you'd know about a certain Cerberus in a closet down the third floor corridor?"

"Of course I do! I –" Hagrid stopped short, frowning, "Now, what were yeh doing up there, 's forbidden!"

"Well yes, I realized why after I ran into the hellhound."

"Fluffy."

"I beg your pardon?"

"'Is name is Fluffy. Named 'im myself."

Harry gaped. "You've got a hellhound, and you named him Fluffy? Not Bane, or Lord Chaos, or Gore the Destroyer? Fluffy?"

"Well he is!"

"…among other things."

Hagrid nodded in acquiescence. "Well, jus' make sure yeh don' go up there again."

"Don't worry, I don't plan to. I'm not stupid, after all. But there was this one thing, Hagrid, I couldn't help but notice that…Fluffy was asleep atop a trap door – as though he was guarding something…"

"Now see here," Hagrid began sternly, "That, that's between Headmaster Dumbledore and Nicholas Flamel -" He paused. "Oops…I shouldn't have said that."

"Flamel?" Harry exclaimed, eyes wide.

"I shouldn't have said that! Now, see 'ere, Harry, yeh can't tell anyone about this, and yeh can't go pokin' around on the third floor corridor, yeh hear?"

Harry nodded. "I understand Hagrid, don't worry – I won't tell anyone barring any extreme circumstances."

Hagrid nodded gratefully, relieved. "Thas' good. Now, would yeh like some rock cakes? Just made 'em!"

Nursing his teeth (which he had been sure had been cracked by Hagrid's cakes) on the way back to the castle, Harry had considered Hagrid's words; Nicholas Flamel – known even by muggles, a renowned French alchemist famous for his work on the Philosopher's Stone…who lived during the 1300 and 1400s. It was impossible for him to still be alive – unless his work was successful, and he had created a Philosopher's Stone, which was fabled to be able to produce the elixir of life. Was it possible…? Harry had tried to find some more information in the library, but had found nothing of interest, or that he didn't already know.

Which led him to Christmas morning. Of course, he hadn't exactly had a pleasant sleep, but he was quite enjoying having the morning to revel in the softness of the sheets – he had been up late the previous night, researching more about the Philosopher's Stone. Unfortunately, the cool quiet of the morning did not last long…he should have known better.

"Get up, Harry! Get up!"

Harry groaned. "Go away, Terry," he mumbled.

"It's Christmas, Harry! We've got presents to open! I'm going downstairs now – if you're not down in five, I'll come up and drag you down!" The dorm room door slammed open and shut.

Harry sighed, tumbling out of bed, throwing the clothes he had worn the day before on, looking around and spotting his hoodie splayed over his trunk – but as he picked it up, a myriad of cards spilled out, tumbling to the floor. Eyes wide, he dropped the hoodie and bent over, shocked to find them all face up in the disorganized pile – except one. He reached down to pick the one hidden card up, holding it in front of him, taking in a sharp breath when he saw which of the Major Arcana it was: Death.

Taking a deep breath, he swiftly gathered up all the cards, throwing his hoodie on, walking quickly across the room toward the door; but then he stopped, for he thought that, in the corner of his eye, he had seen something move in the mirror on the far wall of the dorm, something besides him. Biting his lip and holding his breath, Harry turned back toward the mirror, shocked by what he found.

Standing behind him, in the mirror, was the image of a tall, thin elderly man; the man had a long nose and was gaunt, almost skeletal, yet impossibly regal, with an almost amused look in his dark eyes. He was dressed in a tidy black suit, long dark hair only peppered with grey sleeked back smoothly. Harry tried to move, tried to cry out or breathe, but found that he could not – he could only watch as the man placed an intangible hand on his shoulder, raising the other, revealing a dark crimson coloured stone. The man closed his fingers around the stone, clenching his fist, and then opening them, letting a blood-red dust waft through them, disappearing into the air. As the man looked pointedly at Harry through the mirror, Harry suddenly found that he could move again, and panting desperately, spun around, but found no one there.

Frantically, Harry darted over to the chest beside his bed, hissing the password and immediately pulling Jean's portrait out.

"Hey brat, Merry –"

"Jean, Jean, I think I'm going crazy! You've got to help me!" Harry whispered furiously.

"Woah! Calm down kid, that's right, take a deep breath. Now what's this about?"

"I'm seeing things, Jean – I'm seeing people in the mirror! And not just any people, scary old men with super strength!"

"You – wait, what? Super strength? Never mind…Harry, don't you remember? There's a kind of divination you can perform through mirrors and windows and stuff – scrying. You know, what you've been practicing in the crystal ball; it can be used for clairvoyance, too. Someone might be trying to contact you, or you accidentally contacted them…"

"But Jean, this was different – I couldn't move! I couldn't even breathe! He just looked at me, and suddenly I couldn't do anything! Do you know how long it's been, Jean? How long it's been since I felt helpless like that? Not bloody long enough! I haven't been scared in years, Jean, but I'm terrified right now…"

Jean looked alarmed at that. "It must have been someone powerful…did you see anything else? Anything to indicate who it was?"

"No! He didn't say anything, he…oh no, wait, I…just before, my Tarot cards spilled on the ground."

"And?"

"There was only one faced down – Death."

Jean whitened – Harry didn't even know portraits could pale – and he swallowed. "Besides look at you, what did…he do?"

"I…he…there was a red stone in his hand, and he – he just destroyed it."

"Wait, you don't mean…hey, weren't you researching some special stone last night? The, er…"

"Philosopher's Stone. A legendary alchemical substance that…"

"Yeah, can create gold from anything and can make eternal life in a bottle, gotcha."

"You don't think he wants me to…destroy it…do you?"

"I'd say it's likely –"

Suddenly, three loud knocks sounded on the door, Terry's voice crying, "It's been five minutes, I'm coming in now!"

Harry hurriedly stuffed the portrait and the cards in the chest, standing up to greet Terry, who just burst through the door.

He frowned. "What're you doing?"

Harry shrugged. "Admiring your face."

Terry scowled and grabbed his hand. "Come one, we've got presents, both of us!"

With wide eyes, Harry let Terry drag him down into the empty Ravenclaw common room, sitting him down in front of the humbly but tastefully decorated Christmas tree near the hearth.

"I sorted them while you were upstairs," Terry said, shoving a small pile toward Harry, "Happy Christmas, Harry!"

Harry blinked, his face blank, before a happy smile formed on his face, and he looked over at his friend, "Happy Christmas, Terry."

Both boys immediately went for the gifts on top, tearing the packaging open.

Terry spoke first. "Aw! You actually got me something!" He held up the book. "1001 Non-Fatal Curses and Hexes! This is great, Harry! Now we can practice together, yeah?"

Harry looked up from his new book, Crafting the Invisible: the Art of Spell Weaving, smiling; it had taken some time to decide on a good book to order from Flourish and Blotts - he figured that since Terry would be spending his holidays with him, it was only fair that he bought him a gift. "Of course, we just need to find a place where we can duel without getting caught. I know a lot of the counter-curses, so it should be pretty safe. Thanks for this, by the way, it looks brilliant. I might have to read it a few times to get the gist though…"

"What about your other package? You got another one, you know."

Harry blinked and looked down at the second wrapped package, as Terry went on to open the things from his parents.

The wrapping was simple and inconspicuous, and on top, Harry found a note that said:

'Your father left this in my possession before he died.
It is time it was returned to you.
Use it well.

A Very Happy Christmas to you.'

Harry's heart jumped into his mouth – his father? Whatever was in the package belonged to his father? Hands shaking slightly, he tore open the packaging, finding a folded length of shimmering, smooth material in it. Harry drew the material out, running his hands through it slowly, musingly, until…

"What on earth…?"

Terry looked up from his new robe from his parents, eyes wide. "Blimey! That's an invisibility cloak! Go on, try it on!"

Harry stood up, wrapping the cloak around him and watching with amusement as his lower body disappeared. "Brilliant," he whispered.

"It is. Who's it from?"

Harry shook his head. "There was no name on the note – it only said that this used to belong to my father."

Terry's eyebrows rose. "That's quite the heirloom – invisibility cloaks are extremely rare!"

"Well, yes, imagine if everyone had one – a whole bunch of invisible people, bumping into each other all the time…"

Terry laughed, reaching over to brush his fingers against the soft material of the cloak, flipping it over to look at the inside. "It's gorgeous, though – well made, and it looks old, too – which is a surprise, because usually they don't last long."

Harry grinned. "We'll be able to put this to good use, for sure."

"Oh yes."

"In fact, it'd be perfect for sneaking into the restricted section."

"Oh yeah! But let's wait until Michael gets back..."

"Of course. He'd be pissed if we went off without him."

Terry paused in thought. "But you should put it in that charmed trunk of yours – it's real valuable, you wouldn't want it to get stolen or lost."

Harry nodded. "I'll put it up there now, and then we can be off to breakfast."

"Right, don't take too long! I'm starving!"

Harry ran back up to the dorm, hissing the password to his trunk and throwing the cloak in. On his way out, he dared to glance in the mirror, relieved to see nothing as he went back down to meet Terry.

Upon entering the Great Hall, the two boys heard their names being called,

"Oi, Potter, Boot, come sit with us!" It was the Weasley twins, who, along with their two brothers, were the only Gryffindors left in the school – all of them were wearing fuzzy jumpers with the first letters of their names knitted on. Only Percy seemed to react to how itchy they looked, constantly tugging on his.

As the two Ravenclaws sat down at the Gryffindor table, Harry remarked curiously. "George, why are you wearing Fred's jumper? And Fred, why are you wearing George's jumper?"

Both of the twins gaped at him, asking simultaneously, "How did you know who's who?"

Percy and Ron also looked surprised – whether it was because they had been fooled as well, or that they were surprised Harry had not been fooled, or both, Harry didn't know.

Meanwhile, he shrugged. "I'm a Ravenclaw. I'm just awesome like that."

The twins looked at each other and grinned darkly,

"You better watch out, mate," Fred began.

"'Cause we'll figure out your secret eventually," continued George.

"And then –"

"We'll fix it -"

"And no one will be able to tell us apart –"

"Ever again."

"I can see how that would be useful," Harry smirked, "I've always wanted an evil twin…"

Terry cleared his throat slightly. "If you had a twin, wouldn't you be the evil one?"

Harry titled his head thoughtfully. "I suppose I would…"

"Indeed," Percy sniffed disapprovingly, "Professor McGonagall often comments on your disruptive behaviour in class."

Harry smiled sweetly. "That's only because she secretly loves me and wishes she could adopt me."

Ron started choking on his pumpkin juice.

"What? I'm a lovable guy."

Terry patted him on the arm. "Of course you are. All hugs, loves, and kisses, you are."

Harry scowled at him. "And you're a git."

"Hey!"

"Now, now boys," George interrupted.

"Don't fight," Fred continued, and they both finished together, "Save it for later."

Ron perked up at that. "Yeah, we're going to have another snow ball war later! You should both come!"

Terry fixed Harry with an intense stare.

Harry smirked. "You sure? That's awfully brave of you. Or maybe stupid. But then again, you are Gryffindors…"

In the end, Team Godzilla (Harry and Fred), had dominated the Hogwarts courtyard theatre of the Second Snowball War. As per their win, Harry and Fred both demanded to be called 'my Lord,' or 'Your Snowballiness' for the rest of the day (hexing anyone who didn't pay proper homage), while chanting 'We Will Rock You,' Harry's favourite Queen song which he had happily taught to Fred, down the Hogwarts corridors. It was silently agreed among the others that Harry and Fred should be kept apart for all future events involving competitiveness.

After Christmas Day, Harry and Terry had taken to practicing their new curses and hexes from their books in the empty common room. As it turned out, Harry had very good aim, and was quite creative and ingenious in a duel – ironically, Terry, who was renowned among the other Ravenclaws for his short attention span, showed a talent for learning curses related to warding and security spells. Together, they thought, they made an excellent team.

Meanwhile, Harry was looking forward to when all the other students would return – though he enjoyed having the entire castle to him and Terry, he was missing the excitement and ordinary chaos that the bustling student body brought with it. The silence was also beginning to disturb him – when he woke from his dreams at night, he missed the chorus of breaths and snores that came from the other beds. His only comfort was that he had not seen the mysterious man in the mirror since Christmas Day. The thought of Death visiting him in his dorm room was a disconcerting one, and in an attempt to avoid all future visits, he promised himself every night that he would find a way to steal the Philosopher's Stone and destroy it.

Little did he know, the night before his classmates would return, that a pale man with a gaunt face watched him from the mirror as he slept, the man's dark eyes alight with anticipation and amusement.

"You really are my favourite."

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