The manor was unsurprisingly empty on Christmas morning. Harry picked at the kitchen counter with his fingernail. Boredom surrounded him like a deep fog. His breathing hung heavy in the bright room and even the soft humming of the house elves from the other room did not provide comfort to the boy. He ignored the presents that sat under the tree. He chose to disregard the large pies and scones and cinnamon rolls that sat on the dining room table. He even refused to acknowledge the 'hot' apple cider which had been placed in front of him an hour beforehand. He stared into the amber liquid, lazily flicking the half drowned cinnamon stick that sat inside. Eventually, after some time had passed (although no one could tell you exactly how much time) Harry slid off the tall stool and walked over to the large bay window nearby only to restart the ritual. His nose pressed heavily on the glass. His lungs huffing loudly for all to hear. His fingers tapping on his bouncing leg. Even the appearance of a large dog, which Harry could swear was not there before did nothing to stir the lad. He was insistent on maintaining his presence and when Lawrence had suggested about a hundred activities for the boy, one including riding a real live wooly mammoth through the snow outside, Harry merely sighed harder and insisted on staying bored. After all, Credence would not feel half as bad for not being home Christmas morning if he came back to see Harry actually enjoying himself. So Harry would sit. Bored. Waiting.
