Chapter 19
It was actually quite simple.
As one of the Deathly Hallows, the Invisibility Cloak was indeed extraordinarily powerful. It carried no magic of its own—no circuits, no ambient glow—and when draped over something, it could even mask the magical circuits of whatever lay beneath.
But there was one small catch.
When the cloak made an object invisible, it had to take on the *shape* of that object. It was no longer just a thin, flat sheet of fabric.
And the moment it moved, it displaced the air around it—creating a subtle, protruding "cavity" in the surrounding space.
Gabin couldn't see air itself moving, of course.
But he *could* see magic.
Whenever Harry walked while wearing the cloak, the normally slow, dust-like drift of ambient magic particles suddenly shifted—pushed aside as though something solid had passed through.
Because the magic was forced against the cloak's invisible "shape," it became denser along the surface—brighter, more noticeable in his magical vision.
That was how Gabin had tracked Harry earlier: not by looking at the cloak, but by watching the effect it had on the magic around it.
There was no need to explain any of this to Harry and Ron.
Once the gifts were fully unwrapped, the three of them headed down to the Great Hall for a quick, casual breakfast. Afterward, they wandered aimlessly through the castle.
Gabin gave himself the day off—no Room of Requirement, no library. He simply followed Harry and Ron as they roamed the corridors with no real destination or purpose.
Just walking—pointless, carefree walking—and it felt surprisingly good. Light. Relaxed.
Hermione's assignment to hunt for Nicolas Flamel had long since been forgotten. Right now, their only thought was the Christmas feast that evening.
By mid-afternoon, tired from wandering, they returned to the Gryffindor common room. The fire in the hearth burned steadily, filling the space with warmth. They settled in for some lazy downtime.
Harry and Ron set up a wizard chess board. Gabin picked up a light adventure novel and began reading nearby.
Ron's chess set was old and battered, but the pieces were lively and talkative—always offering advice, mostly to Ron.
Harry's set—borrowed from Gabin—was brand new and perfectly obedient, but eerily silent. The pieces only spoke once, in low, grave tones, right before being taken:
"That was a mistake."
"This move is unwise."
"I hope my death serves a purpose."
Then they accepted capture without drama—no theatrical screams, no final pleas—just calm acceptance as they were dragged off the board.
That very calmness unnerved Harry. It made him feel like a real king sending loyal soldiers to certain death. If he lost, their sacrifice would have been for nothing.
Ron, on the other hand, was completely at ease—even chatting with Gabin while he played.
"So, Gray—when are you and Hermione going to make up? You've been on the outs for almost a month now," Ron said casually.
"She's the one mad at me," Gabin replied without looking up. His left hand rested on his wand; glowing words appeared in the air.
"But we *saw* Snape cursing Harry's broom! We saw it with our own eyes!" Ron's voice rose.
Gabin glanced at him briefly, then looked back down at his book.
"What you see isn't always the truth. Remember what your History of Magic essay was about?"
Harry spoke quietly, cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Mine was about the importance of hygiene… not washing properly can lead to infectious diseases."
Ron, by contrast, answered with surprising confidence. "Mine was about communication. If they'd just talked things out clearly, none of it would've happened."
Gabin shook his head helplessly.
A thousand readers, a thousand different Hamlets.
But the core lesson of the Yelth Empire essay wasn't hygiene or communication—it was not to be deceived by surface appearances, or disastrous misjudgments would follow.
That was why Gabin had earned an A+, Hermione an A, Ron a B, and poor Harry a C.
"I don't think that's why Hermione's mad at you," Harry said suddenly.
Gabin looked over.
"She's upset because… you didn't believe her. You're supposed to be good friends. You even saved her life. You should be on the same side."
"She thinks you should trust her no matter what. But you didn't—so she got angry."
"Yeah," Ron added, "and we *saw* Snape cursing Harry. He's definitely bad. My dad told me he used to follow You-Know-Who."
Gabin stared at the open page in front of him, but his eyes weren't focused on the words.
He suddenly felt as though he'd missed something important.
Without warning, he stood up. With a flick of his wand, one of Harry's pieces lifted and dropped back into place—dodging a trap Ron had set.
"A very clever move," the piece remarked approvingly.
But Gabin was already heading toward the dormitory stairs, walking faster than usual.
"What's up with him?" Harry asked, puzzled.
"No idea," Ron shrugged, moving his knight forward again and boxing Harry in once more.
Harry refused to give up and began a desperate counterattack. The board erupted into quiet, orderly violence.
Inside the dormitory, Gabin tossed the novel onto his bed and rifled through the neatly stacked books until he found the one Hermione had given him.
He should have realized it sooner.
He'd been so focused on teaching her a lesson that he'd completely missed what she was actually trying to tell him.
He opened *The Dragonkin Chronicles* and flipped straight to the final chapters.
By this point in the story, the human and dragon had reached the endgame.
The kingdom of Rhayne had invaded the kingdom of Parsis. The Parsis king, desperate to protect his people, decided to summon the power of a demon god.
But doing so would tear open a gateway to the demon realm—plunging the entire world into ruin.
The human and dragon's final mission was to stop the king from completing the ritual array—and to kill him. A seed of demonic power had already taken root inside him; he had become a living coordinate for the invasion.
It was an impossible task—not just because the king was powerful, but because he was a good man. He only wanted to save his people from conquest.
Yet to save the world, he had to die.
"You shouldn't come with me," the human told the dragon. "This isn't a righteous cause."
His heart ached, but he had no choice.
"Oh, I'm so hurt," the dragon replied. "Aren't we friends? I don't care whether this is right or wrong. I only know you're my friend—and friends stand together."
"Even if I'm wrong? Even if what I'm doing is evil?"
"Yes. Right and wrong don't matter. As long as we're together, that's enough. If you told me to leave, I'd be the one who got angry."
And so the human and dragon carried out their unjust mission. They killed the Parsis king.
In the final battle that followed, they gave their own lives defending what remained of Parsis—ensuring the kingdom would not fall completely.
The end.
Gabin closed the book.
Now he understood.
Hermione hadn't been angry because he believed Snape.
She was angry because he hadn't stood on her side.
Even if she was wrong—even if what she believed was mistaken—she wanted him to be wrong *with* her.
Not against her.
Because they were friends.