Harry Potter 01 - Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone

of these,’ he said. ‘Anything. What’s the matter?’
    ‘Nothing,’ said Harry. He felt very strange. Who had sent the Cloak? Had it really once belonged to his father?
    Before he could say or think anything else, the dormitory door was flung open and Fred and George Weasley bounded in. Harry stuffed the Cloak quickly out of sight. He didn’t feel like sharing it with anyone else yet.
    ‘Merry Christmas!’
    ‘Hey, look – Harry’s got a Weasley jumper, too!’
    Fred and George were wearing blue jumpers, one with a large yellow F on it, the other with a large yellow G.
    ‘Harry’s is better than ours, though,’ said Fred, holding up Harry’s jumper. ‘She obviously makes more of an effort if you’re not family.’
    ‘Why aren’t you wearing yours, Ron?’ George demanded. ‘Come on, get it on, they’re lovely and warm.’
    ‘I hate maroon,’ Ron moaned half-heartedly as he pulled it over his head.
    ‘You haven’t got a letter on yours,’ George observed. ‘I suppose she thinks you don’t forget your name. But we’re not stupid – we know we’re called Gred and Forge.’
    ‘What’s all this noise?’
    Percy Weasley stuck his head through the door, looking disapproving. He had clearly come halfway through unwrapping his presents as he, too, carried a lumpy jumper over his arm, which Fred seized.
    ‘P for prefect! Get it on, Percy, come on, we’re all wearing ours, even Harry got one.’
    ‘I – don’t – want –’ said Percy thickly, as the twins forced the jumper over his head, knocking his glasses askew.
    ‘And you’re not sitting with the Prefects today, either,’ said George. ‘Christmas is a time for family.’
    They frog-marched Percy from the room, his arms pinned to his sides by his jumper.
    *
    Harry had never in all his life had such a Christmas dinner. A hundred fat, roast turkeys, mountains of roast and boiled potatoes, platters of fat chipolatas, tureens of buttered peas, silver boats of thick, rich gravy and cranberry sauce – and stacks of wizard crackers every few feet along the table. These fantastic crackers were nothing like the feeble Muggle ones the Dursleys usually bought, with their little plastic toys and their flimsy paper hats. Harry pulled a wizard cracker with Fred and it didn’t just bang, it went off with a blast like a cannon and engulfed them all in a cloud of blue smoke, while from the inside exploded a rear-admiral’s hat and several live, white mice. Up on the High Table, Dumbledore had swapped his pointed wizard’s hat for a flowered bonnet and was chuckling merrily at a joke Professor Flitwick had just read him.
    Flaming Christmas puddings followed the turkey. Percy nearly broke his teeth on a silver Sickle embedded in his slice. Harry watched Hagrid getting redder and redder in the face as he called for more wine, finally kissing Professor McGonagall on the cheek, who, to Harry’s amazement, giggled and blushed, her top hat lop-sided.
    When Harry finally left the table, he was laden down with a stack of things out of the crackers, including a pack of non-explodable, luminous balloons, a grow-your-own-warts kit and his own new wizard chess set. The white mice had disappeared and Harry had a nasty feeling they were going to end up as Mrs Norris’ Christmas dinner.
    Harry and the Weasleys spent a happy afternoon having a furious snowball fight in the grounds. Then, cold, wet and gasping for breath, they returned to the fire in the Gryffindor common room, where Harry broke in his new chess set by losing spectacularly to Ron. He suspected he wouldn’t have lost so badly if Percy hadn’t tried to help him so much.
    After a tea of turkey sandwiches, crumpets, trifle, and Christmas cake, everyone felt too full and sleepy to do much before bed except sit and watch Percy chase Fred and George all over Gryffindor Tower because they’d stolen his prefect badge.
    It had been Harry’s best Christmas day ever. Yet something had been nagging at the back of his mind all day. Not until he climbed into bed was he free to think about it: the Invisibility Cloak and whoever had sent it.
    Ron, full of turkey and cake and with nothing mysterious to bother him, fell asleep almost as soon as he’d drawn the curtains of his four-poster. Harry leant over the side of his own bed and pulled the Cloak out from under it.
    His father’s … this had been his father’s. He let the material flow over his hands, smoother than silk, light as air. Use it well,