When Snape awoke, it was in pitch-black darkness. This did not frighten Snape, who was used to the absence of light in his chosen abode. He lit his wand, and gazed about his bedchamber. He could not see what had awoken him. Everything was in its place, none of his possessions had been disturbed, including the clock on the wall, which showed that the time was three minutes to one.

Snape refused to ponder upon Lucius’ predictions, determined as he was to think of the ghost as a product of his hallucinations. A visit by three spirits, indeed! As if Lucius, laziest man in the world, would have come back from whatever afterlife resort he had retired to, simply to warn him!

Never, thought Snape. He must have dreamed the entire episode. Indeed, his sleep had been disturbed of late; perhaps he was coming down with a touch of the flu. Potter must have given it to him, no doubt. The confounded young fool was always sniffling with some unholy cold he had picked up from his brood at home.

“Nothing that cannot be cured by a good night’s sleep,” Snape announced, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “A glass of Old Ogden’s as a nightcap wouldn’t come amiss, either.”

“Certainly, sir,” squeaked a voice close by, and Snape nearly fell off the bed with fright.

“What – who?”

“It is coming right up, sir,” continued the voice. “Don’t you fret, sir, it is coming right up!”

It was then that the hand of the clock swung to the full hour. A loud *crack* echoed through the chamber, and Snape turned to see his first unearthly visitor, close enough so that it could have reached out and touched his arm.

It was a house elf, yet not of the usual ragged appearance that marks its kind. It wore a maroon jumper, several tea cozies as hats, and frayed gray socks. It was carrying a candle whose wax seemed to melt seamlessly into his hand, and indeed, Snape was not quite sure if the wick was not planted inside one of its bony, out-stretched fingers. The flickering flame danced across its features, distorting them for fractures of seconds so that they appeared to be changing constantly.

“Dobby has your whisky, Master Snape,” the apparition said in a wheezy voice. “Dobby has it here, sir.”

And it sent a sphere of pure light towards Snape, which quickly assumed the form of a whisky glass before it dissolved into thin air.

Snape found the candle quite dazzling to look at, and turned his head away. “Are you – are you the spirit whose coming was predicted to me?”

“Dobby is being the spirit, sir, indeed, yes.”

“You are a house elf who died in the war.”

“I was,” the ghost said. “I was indeed, sir, but I am being an elf no longer.”

“Then what are you?”

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past, Master Snape, sir.”

“Long past?” Snape asked.

“Your past, sir!”

“My past?” Snape’s eyes were drawn to the candle on their own accord. “Can’t you dim that light, pray?”

“Oh , sir!” cried the ghost. “Don’t ask me to darken the light I bring! Ah, Master Snape, so many wizards would extinguish my candle with a stroke of their wands, but they cannot escape the shadow it casts, oh no!”

Snape held up a hand to block out the bright glare, and inquired upon the apparition what business it had disturbing him in his bedchamber at night.

“Dobby is being very sorry to disturb Master Snape, sir. It is Master Snape’s own welfare, and the greater good, that has brought Dobby to your chamber, sir!”

“The greater good?” Snape repeated suspiciously, but the ghost did not seem inclined to elaborate on the matter. He swung the candle around, making shadows flit wildly across the curtains around Snape’s bed, and thrust it into the air like a victory torch.

“Come with me, sir, and I will show you!”

It seemed that death had not robbed the ghost of its elfish magic. It touched Snape’s sleeve and upon the instant, he found himself spirited away in a swirl of light and colors such as it is hard to imagine for the worldly-minded.

They found themselves standing on snowy ground in cold air, in sight of a town outlined against the darkening sky. A very tall and thin chimney was prominent between the cowering houses. Close by, a river meandered across the plain and disappeared between the dismal buildings, some of which almost touched it, so close were their foundations to its banks. The black water carried chunks of ice that had broken away from greater floes further up the stream.

Snape sneered. “Please tell me we are not headed there.”

“Master Snape recognizes the place?”

“Recognize it! I could walk the way to town blindfold, not that I’d want to!”

“Sir must come with Dobby, or Dobby shall have to punish himself!” Upon saying this, the ghost brought one of its hands closer to the candle flame, its fingers trembling. “Oh, most grievously shall he have to burn himself-”

“Ghosts cannot suffer injury,” Snape replied, but relented at the sight of tears on the round face. “Fine, fine, lead the way then.”

They walked the road to town, Snape recognizing every bush, every lantern, every road sign. Indeed, there was the playground where he used to come, all those years ago! The abandoned house and garden where he had been treasure-hunting! And there were children, a jolly band in warm winter clothes and with freshly baked biscuits in their hands.

“Tony Spencer,” Snape whispered. “He lived two houses down the road. And there-”

A girl in a green coat and with red, flowing hair, laughing as she went arm in arm with her sister.

“Master Snape is knowing her?” Dobby asked softly.

Snape nodded. “I did.”

“These are but shadows of things that have been,” the ghost said in a kind voice. “They cannot see us.”

“They used to go caroling on Christmas Eve,” Snape said, his eyes still upon the girl. “All the neighborhood children…”

“Not all,” Dobby said sadly. “Not all was going, Master Snape.”

Snape knew it. They had reached the house, and he walked up to its door recognizing every broken tile, every dirty window. The old plant beds that he used to weed, helping his mother as she tended her little vegetable garden, now blanketed in snow and soot. The door’s brass knob, old and dull even in the fading light of the evening.

Dobby touched it with his candle and the door swung open, revealing a narrow corridor that led into a neglected kitchen. A little boy, no older than five, was sitting at the kitchen table. He wore a shirt that may have belonged to a grown man once, its sleeves folded back many times, and a pair of patched old trousers. On the table in front of him stood a plate with a single slice of gingerbread.

“Mum, why can’t I go?” the boy asked of a woman, who stood at the sink with her back to him. His mother; no one who saw their dark features and prominent noses would have claimed otherwise.

“I don’t want you out there catching your death,” the woman said. “It’s too cold.”

“But all the other kids are going!”

“Well, and you’re not!” The woman had turned around, her stern frown making her features seem even harsher. “I don’t care what the other children are doing. They’re Muggles, anyway.”

“Then I want to be a Muggle, too!”

The woman came to the table and shook him by the shoulder. “I don’t want to hear you say that ever again! Be proud of what you are! It’s a thousand times better than singing stupid songs and eating a few cheap sweets!”

Tears trickled down the boy’s cheeks. “Why can’t we have Christmas, Mum?”

“We do. Here,” she pushed the plate towards him. “From the welfare basket. I’m keeping the rest for your father.”

The boy reached for the gingerbread, but he seemed to get no enjoyment out of it. Outside, the group of children passed by the house again, chasing each other and throwing snowballs.

Snape turned away from the scene. “Enough,” he said. “That is enough.”

The ghost raised his candle. “Dobby has another Christmas to show you, sir.”

He touched Snape’s sleeve, and again the colors dissolved in a wild swirl, taking with them the little boy, his mother and the dismal old kitchen.

They found themselves in a corridor of the school in which Snape still taught. The windows were framed with snow, and someone had wound holly and ivy around the halters of the torches. Many of the portraits had mistletoe pinned to the top of their frames, and waved gaily at the passing students. Everyone went about merry and bright-cheeked, the girls wearing their best dresses, the boys decked out in their finest robes. A door stood open at the end of the hallway, and lively music sounded from within.

“Slughorn’s Christmas party!” Snape exclaimed despite himself. “It was the year…”

“… the year in which Miss Lily asked Master Snape to accompany her, yes,” Dobby finished. “Dobby knows.”

And they came running around the corner, a beautiful young girl whose red hair fell in soft curls about her face, and a boy of fifteen, tall, thin, by no means handsome but of a certain dark elegance he had endeavoured to emphasize by wearing the darkest of dress robes.

“Come on, Sev, we’ll be late!”

She tugged him along, past a group of giggling girls and towards the brightly lit room at the end of the corridor. A very fat old gentleman stood by the door, suited in a garish waistcoat and a jauntily cocked wizard’s hat with a sprig of holly pinned to the brim.

“Dearest Lily!” he cried, holding out his arms. “And this is your young man, I take it.”

The blushing youth attempted a clumsy bow, and was rewarded with a hearty gale of laughter from the old gentleman. “Now now, no need to be so formal, my boy. Any friend of Lily’s is a friend of mine. Come in, come in.”

In they went, into a room brightly lit by hundreds of floating candles. Tables had been set out along the walls, laden with such delicacies as to tempt any healthy wizard: roasts, lamb chops, turkey with all the trimmings, potatoes in all their varieties, glistening heaps of carrots, beans and peas. And the desserts – let us not forget the desserts! Mince pies, apple pies, treacle tarts, syrup tarts, trifles, ice cream, and of course Christmas puddings, each one larger than a Hippogriff’s head, my friends! The room itself had been bedecked with the finest of decorations, and there were bowls full of Christmas crackers which produced the most extraordinary objects when cracked – white mice, a ship in a bottle, even a fire-breathing dragon the size of a parrot!

Young Severus stood to one side as the young people milled about, laughing and dancing. Soon Lily came over, her cheeks red and her curls flying about her face.

“Come on, Sev, let’s dance!”

He shook his head. “No, you go ahead.”

“I’m not going to dance on my own, Sev! Come on, don’t be a spoilsport!”

The youth glanced to a tall boy inmidst the group of dancers, a boy with dark unruly hair and a pair of round spectacles on his nose. He was the merriest of the lot, twirling around a blond girl who shrieked with delight. His friends laughed and clapped their hands.

Severus’ face hardened at the sight. “Why don’t you dance with Potter then, if I’m such a bore!”

“I never said you were a bore, Sev!” She had her hands on her hips, the picture of impatience. “Why do you have to be like that?”

“What’s going on?” Another boy had sauntered over, leaving the dancers behind. “Snivellus bothering you, Lils?”

“You shut up, Black!” Her ire had turned upon the newcomer now. “And don’t call him that!”

Black smiled. “Why didn’t you come with James when he asked you? You didn’t have to go with old Snivellus here!”

Young Severus drew his wand, causing a gasp among the bystanders. “Shut your face, Black.”

The other boy had his wand out just as quickly. “Or what, Snivelly?”

“Or I’m going to-” Though what he had intended to do to his enemy, the onlookers never learned. A quick thrust of Black’s wand, and young Snape was hanging upside down in the air, his dress robes falling down and revealing a most undignified sight, which shall not be elaborated on in consideration of you, gentle reader, should you belong to the fairer sex. Suffice it to say that certain sartorial items in the young gentleman’s possession had perhaps not been given the hygienic consideration one should bestow upon such intimate commodities.

Lily cried out and made a grab for Black’s wand, which caused the boy to laugh and snatch the item in question out of her reach. “Get back, Lils!”

“Leave him alone!” she shouted. “What has he ever done to you?”

“Other than the fact that he’s a snivelling coward who needs a girl to stick up for him?”

“I – don’t – need – her – help!” Young Severus was nearly unable to speak, his face reddening with rage, humiliation and the blood that was rushing into his head. “I – don’t – need  help – from a  - filthy Mudblood!”

Snape, the older Snape who had been watching the scene unfold in silent terror, turned away. “Do not show me any more, ghost! I know what I did, what I said. She was lost to me forever, and it was my doing. Are you happy now?”

Dobby’s eyes were large and sad. “Dobby is not being happy, Master Snape. But there is one more Christmas you is needing to see.”

He lifted his candle, and the light grew brighter, until it had engulfed the merry dancers, the laden tables and the little group of quarrelers. Snape felt the ghost’s fingers on his sleeve once again, carrying him away to wherever he was destined to go next.

It was with no small amount of trepidation that Snape beheld their new surroundings. It was a living room, not the shabby and dismal one he remembered from his boyhood days, but a clean and well-furnished place, though with a somewhat grandiose air about it. In the corner stood a Christmas tree, under which were many gaudily wrapped presents.

“I have never been in this place before,” Snape said to the ghost.

“You shall see,” was the elf’s simple reply.

The door opened, and a boy slowly crept into the room. Poor child – he seemed afraid to even set his foot upon the plushy carpet. It was a very small boy, with black, tousled hair, green eyes and a pair of mended spectacles. His clothes were ill-fitting, as if they had been chosen for a much more sizable child than himself.

As his eyes fell upon the tree, his little mouth grew round with astonishment. So many glittering lights and ornaments! And the presents – there must be more than thirty and six! Perhaps – perhaps – this year there would be one for him! Oh, how the boy wished it – if you can remember, gentle reader, how such wishes can fill a childish heart until it seems fit to burst, you will know what young Harry felt when he beheld the wondrous sight of the light-bedecked tree.

“It is her boy, isn’t it?” Snape asked, quite unnecessarily, for he had recognized the child at once.

“Harry Potter, yes, sir,” the ghost said. “The boy born to Miss Lily and Master James, who was sent to live with his relatives after they died.”

Died! – the word touched Snape’s heart like an icy finger. One more death upon his conscience, and a little boy who had been sent away to live with his aunt, a hardened, bitter creature who would shun and torment those she deemed unnatural!

The door opened once again, startling the little boy.

“Harry!” Mrs. Petunia Dursley came hurrying in. “What are you doing in here?”

“Nothing,” the boy said quickly. “I was just lookin’, Aunt.”

“You had better not be touching Dudley’s presents,” she threatened. “If I find that any of them are missing or broken…”

“I was just lookin’,” the boy assured her again. “Did Father Christmas bring all those presents?”

“I suppose,” was her curt answer.

The hopeful look flitted once more across the boy’s face. “Did he – did he bring one for me, maybe? Just one?”

“For you?” She laughed, but it was not a kind sound. “I should think not! Father Christmas brings presents to good boys and girls, not little freaks like you! Now go to your cupboard – go!”

The boy ran quickly out of the room, but not quickly enough to hide his tears. The tree had lost its magic, had become just another gaudy trinket set out for his cousin. There was no Christmas, not for him!

“Why show me this, ghost?” Snape demanded harshly of the apparition. “What has it to do with me?”

The elf gazed sadly upon him. “Is it not the boy who could have been yours? Or the boy to whom you could have been a second father, had you not trod upon the dark path that led you astray?”

“Take me back!” said Snape. “Take me back, and show me no more!”

“Dobby is being very sorry, Master Snape.”

“Then take me back!” shouted Snape. “And no more of this infernal candle – no more!”

He ripped the candle from the ghost’s grip, finding it quite substantial, and flung it down, stepping upon the wick. “There – no more!”

The candle dissolved, as did the ghost, as did the room and the tree – Snape observed another swirl of colors before he found himself, quite suddenly, in his bedchamber. There was no ghost, and no candle. He was quite alone.

“Merlin’s beard.”

He was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and, further, of being in his own bedroom. He clenched his hand on his wand, determined not to release it, come what may, and had barely time to reel to bed before he sank into a heavy sleep.