Chapter 18
That little girl.
Gabin gave a quiet mental chuckle. He understood exactly what Hermione meant by giving him *The Dragonkin Chronicles*.
But the entire *Philosopher's Stone* plot was already clear in his mind. He knew far more about Snape's true situation than they did—and that the one they kept overlooking, Quirrell, was the real threat, carrying Voldemort's soul on the back of his head.
So he simply set the book aside without much reaction.
By the end of the school year, Hermione would understand. Until then, he didn't mind putting up with a twelve-year-old's temper.
"Hey, Gray—look at this. My mum sent one for you too."
Ron's voice suddenly broke through.
Gabin looked over. Ron was holding up a thick, hand-knitted jumper in bright sky blue, accompanied by a large box of homemade fudge.
Harry was already wearing his own—vivid green—from the same sender, also clutching a box of fudge.
"Mum read about you in the paper," Ron explained. "You know—when you first came to Hogwarts there was quite a fuss. Harry got one too."
Ron's own jumper was a deep maroon.
Gabin took the jumper in his hands. It felt wonderfully soft—like cotton—and looked incredibly warm.
"Tell your mum thank you," he wrote with floating words. "She's really kind."
He slipped the jumper on immediately. Sure enough, it was perfectly cozy—he could probably roll around in the snow outside and still feel warm.
"Yeah, Mrs. Weasley is brilliant," Harry agreed from the side. He'd never received anything so thoughtful before. All his previous clothes had been Dudley's hand-me-downs—too big, worn-out, and smelling faintly of grease.
This year the Dursleys had at least sent him a fifty-pence coin.
"You like it? Good," Ron said, cheeks turning a little pink but clearly pleased.
By now most of their gifts had been opened. Only one small, light parcel remained for Harry.
He picked it up. It weighed almost nothing—like holding air.
Gabin's gaze shifted toward it. If memory served, this was the most valuable item in the entire haul—one of the supreme artifacts of the wizarding world.
The Deathly Hallows. The Invisibility Cloak.
Harry unwrapped the paper. A shimmering, silvery-gray fabric—like liquid moonlight—slid out and pooled on the floor in a gleaming heap.
Gabin opened his magical perspective.
Nothing.
Not a single magical circuit. Not even ambient magic. It looked exactly like ordinary cloth.
Ron sucked in a sharp breath beside him—he clearly recognized what it was.
Harry glanced at him questioningly.
Ron leaned in and whispered so only the three of them could hear:
"I've heard of these. If I'm right… this is an Invisibility Cloak. They're incredibly rare. Really valuable."
Gabin stayed silent. Ron was thinking of ordinary invisibility cloaks. This one couldn't be described with words like "rare" or "valuable."
There was only one like it in the entire world. A gift from Death itself.
Harry lifted the silvery material. It flowed like water between his fingers—he had to grip carefully to keep it from slipping away again.
"Try it on," Gabin wrote, eyes fixed unblinkingly on the cloak.
Indeed—no circuits at all. Not even the faintest trace of magic. Through the fabric he could clearly see the life circuit in Harry's hand.
Harry draped the cloak over himself. Only his head remained visible—like someone wearing an Arabian headscarf.
Ron let out a startled yelp. Gabin's gaze sharpened.
Gone.
Harry's body had vanished completely. Only his head floated in mid-air.
And in Gabin's magical vision, the moment the cloak enveloped him, Harry's life circuit disappeared too—as though that space was utterly empty.
"Walk around a bit," Gabin wrote.
Harry did. He paced across the dormitory floor. The sight was eerie—a disembodied head drifting through the room like some flying predator searching for prey.
Gabin stared intently at the empty space where Harry's body should be. His eyes grew deeper, taking on a faint silvery sheen—like moonlight reflecting in still water.
"Gray? What's wrong?" Harry asked.
Gabin's stare was unnervingly sharp—almost like Snape's when he was trying to bore straight into someone's soul.
"Nothing," Gabin replied after closing his eyes for a moment and taking a slow breath. When he opened them again, the glow was gone.
"Why don't you cover your head too? It's kind of creepy like that."
"Oh—right." Harry glanced down at his invisible lower half and nodded in agreement.
He pulled the cloak up over his head, letting the fabric fall completely around him.
Now Harry was gone entirely.
The dormitory fell silent. Only Gabin and Ron remained visible. The atmosphere shifted subtly.
"Harry? You still there?" Ron called softly, glancing around nervously.
Gabin, however, slowly turned his head—tracking something invisible as it moved.
"Right here."
Harry's voice came from right beside Ron. A moment later arms wrapped around him from the side—Harry tackled Ron in a playful hug, and both boys tumbled to the floor laughing.
Gabin stepped back smoothly to avoid the rolling pair.
"I knew it—you just wanted to scare me! That's evil, Harry!" Ron protested, but he was grinning as they wrestled.
Gabin shook his head with a small smile, then bent to pick up the fallen cloak.
It really did feel slippery—like holding a live eel coated in water. When he draped it over his own hand, his entire right arm vanished.
But he could still see the magical circuits around it.
When the cloak covered his hand, though, the life circuit disappeared completely.
His right arm ceased to exist in both normal and magical vision.
"What's up, Gray? Something wrong?" Harry asked as he and Ron disentangled themselves and stood up.
"Nothing—just curious." Gabin pulled a folded note from inside the cloak and passed it to Harry.
Harry unfolded it. The writing was tall and spidery, full of loops:
*Your father left this in my possession before he died.*
*It is time it was returned to you.*
*Use it well.*
*With deepest wishes for a Merry Christmas.*
No signature. No other information.
"Who do you think sent it?" Ron asked. "One of your dad's friends?"
"I don't know," Harry said quietly. "I… don't really remember them."
"Oh—sorry," Ron muttered.
Harry shook his head. "It's fine. I'm used to it."
He took the cloak back from Gabin and asked curiously, "Gray—could you see me under the cloak just now? You kept staring right at where I was—that's how I knew to sneak up on Ron."
Gabin shook his head and pointed with a smile at the chaotic pile of torn wrapping paper, ribbons, and boxes scattered across the floor.
Harry looked down and suddenly understood.
The cloak's hem had brushed the debris as Harry moved—leaving a visible trail that revealed his position.
But that wasn't how Gabin had tracked him.
He had simply *seen* Harry move—cloak or no cloak.