Snow blanketed the Tonks home in soft white silence, the world outside muffled as if nature itself had decided to rest. Inside, laughter echoed down the halls as the trio lounged in the living room. Wrapping paper littered the floor, enchanted ornaments twinkled on the tree, and the fire crackled merrily as the holiday morning stretched on.
Iris was happily cradling a collection of magical novels she'd been gifted, while Hadrian fiddled with a pocket watch that could supposedly "predict fortuitous timing." Dora, half-buried in the couch, proudly wore a set of fingerless gloves charmed to never be cold.
Then Andromeda reentered the room with Ted behind her, both holding a rectangular, wrapped box between them.
"Now," said Andromeda, her voice thick with something like nostalgia, "we have one more gift. For the both of you."
Ted nodded. "This one… isn't from us. But we were asked to hold onto it, and give it to you when the time felt right."
Hadrian sat up straighter. Iris blinked.
"Who's it from?" she asked, curiosity already bubbling.
Neither adult answered. They simply smiled — a bit sadly, but warmly — and placed the box on the low table between the siblings.
The wrapping was a deep, forest green, tied with a golden cord. No tag. No wax seal. Just elegant, simple presentation.
They looked at each other before reaching out in tandem, peeling away the paper and lifting the lid.
Inside was a soft bundle of silver fabric that shimmered like liquid moonlight.
Their breath caught.
Hadrian reached in and drew it up, the shimmering cloth slipping between his fingers like water, vanishing against his skin. Iris gasped as the space beneath his hand disappeared entirely.
An invisibility cloak.
"A real one," Hadrian whispered.
A small folded note had fallen into the box. Iris picked it up and read aloud:
This belonged to your father. It is now yours. Use it wisely, and together.
They looked up at Andromeda and Ted, wide-eyed. The parents only nodded.
"It was left with us a year ago," Andromeda said softly. "I'd imagine your father would hope it serves you well."
"I thought those were rare," Dora said, now leaning forward and eyeing the cloak with mischief blooming in her grin. "Like, really rare."
"They are," Ted confirmed, "and that's no ordinary one. That's proper artifact level craftsmanship, that."
Hadrian draped the cloak over his shoulders and vanished from view entirely.
"Brilliant," came his voice from nowhere.
Dora and Iris exchanged gleeful, conspiratorial looks.
"Oh no," said Andromeda with mock horror. "What have we done?"
The cloak shimmered as Hadrian pulled it off again, his grin stretching from ear to ear. Iris reached out to run her fingers over it reverently, while Dora bounced excitedly in her seat.
"So many possibilities," Dora said.
"Limitless chaos," Hadrian added.
"A responsibility," Iris offered, then paused. "...But also chaos."
They all laughed.
Later that evening, as the three of them huddled in their room sketching wild plans and whispering ideas beneath the flickering light of enchanted candles, the cloak lay folded in the middle of them like a pact.
Hadrian looked at the girls — his sister and his not-sister-but-might-as-well-be — and knew that this was more than a gift. It was a legacy. And together, they were going to honor it... in style.