Awaking in the middle of a prodigiously tough snore, Snape sat up in bed. His bedchamber was silent, but he knew that he had been restored to consciousness not by any outer disturbances, but by the wild and strange thoughts flitting through his sleep. He lit his wand and observed the time. It was almost two o’clock. Could only an hour have passed since the strange journey he had undertaken? Perhaps he had slept, and dreamed it all – Lucius – the Ghost of Christmas Past – Lily – Harry –

“No!” Snape spoke aloud in the silent chamber. “It was real – real!“

The hand of the old clock was fast approaching the full hour. Snape watched it like the man of science he deemed himself to be, as if it were an experiment he had undertaken to observe. Closer – closer  still! Did a sliver of fear pierce his cold heart then? Any casual observer may have claimed to the contrary, but we, being allowed a deeper insight into this hard man’s mind, may safely venture to say that Severus Snape was afraid, oh yes! He had seen much in his lifetime, had done much neither you, gentle reader, nor I should ever hope to experience, but never had anything been entirely beyond the control of his actions.

And so, waiting for the clock to strike two, Snape sat clutching his bedclothes, keeping a tight hold on his wand. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the old clockwork. Closer – closer! Now the handle swung towards the topmost digit – the full hour had arrived!

And yet, nothing happened. Now, Snape had been prepared for all manner of phantoms and apparitions, but he had not been prepared for nothing. This, perhaps, was the most frightening of all possibilities – that nothing should happen, that he should be left to wait in the darkness for… what? He did not know.

A strange glow encroached upon the edge of his vision then. The dark rectangle of his door was outlined against it – the light spilled into his dark bedchamber through the cracks between door and frame and suggested that its brilliant source must be in the adjoining room.

This – this must be spirit! Being of a contradictory nature, Snape considered the possibility of remaining in bedchamber and letting the light be light – that should teach whoever had thought up this mad scheme to disturb his well-earned sleep!

It was then that a deep voice called his name, in a manner that would not be disobeyed: “Severus Snape!”

Not a little frightened by this, Snape decided to let compliance be the better part of valor, got out of bed and shuffled to the door in his black slippers.

“Severus Snape!” the voice called again, and the ghostly glow intensified, illuminating every nook and cranny of the gloomy bedchamber. “Severus Snape!”

“Coming,” Snape muttered. As if in response, the door swung open on its own accord. He stood on the threshold in his gray nightshirt, bathed in the most brilliant light the dungeons had ever seen.

It was his own living room. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling had been decorated in gaudy paper chains, although it must be said that many of them had seen better days, their appearance ragged and ripped. Rough wooden tables had been set up throughout the chamber, and upon the wall above the fireplace, someone had mounted an old and rather mouldy hog’s head. Goats bedecked with holly and mistletoe went about between the tables, nibbling on the feeble decorations and bleating morosely as if the paper chains were not at all to their taste.

Inmidst this scene stood an old man with long gray hair and beard, and a less than pleasant expression on his wrinkled countenance. “Finally, Snape. I was wondering if you’d grace me with your presence to-night.”

“Aberforth,” Snape breathed. “You’re Aberforth Dumbledore.”

“I was in life,” replied the ghost. “Now I am-”

“-the Ghost of Christmas Present,” Snape finished for him. “Isn’t it so?”

“I suppose,” said the old man in a rather grumpy tone. “Though why I had to wear this ridiculous thing is beyond me.”

He tugged on his robe. It was a stately garment, heavy in green and red velvet and embroidered with the finest silken threads to show moons, stars and assorted Christmas baubles. Upon the old man’s head, someone had placed a wreath of holly, ivy and mistletoe to match the goats’.

“It does look like the kind of apparel your brother would have chosen,” Snape said. As a naturally suspicious man, he found that this observation did nothing to ease his peace of mind.

“Tell me about it,” the ghost grumbled with a roll of his eyes. “Funny you should mention him, Snape.”

“Why?” Snape asked, his suspicions roused more than ever. “Aberforth-”

The old man lifted the staff he held in one hand. “Enough with the chatting, Snape! We have business to attend to, and I’d rather get it over with! Hold on to my staff!”

Snape obeyed without thinking. Goats, hog’s head, paper chains, all vanished instantly. So did his living room and the nightly hour, and they found themselves standing in Diagon Alley on a cold, crisp winter morning. Snow drifts lined the house fronts, and many a shopkeeper stood ensconced in their warmest frocks, casting Unfreezing Charms at their windows. The baskets in front of the apothecary had been covered with white linen to protect the wares within, and the owls at Eeylops’ Owl Emporium wore tiny jumpers that matched their plumage. Witches and wizards in scarfs, hats, coats and mittens hurried down the street, all with bright and cheery faces despite the cold that reddened their noses.

An old warlock was levitating a huge basket in which chestnuts danced merrily in a magical fire. Children surrounded him, holding out their gloved hands, and the genial old gentleman handed out bags of the steaming treats, refusing the Knuts and Sickles his young customers tried to give him as payment.

“Not to-day, children, not to-day – it’s Yuletide!”

A snowball fight had broken out among a band of jolly adolescents, who tumbled down the street and did their best to take each others’ hats off with their missiles. None of the adults scolded them – no, many laughed, and one sprightly gentleman even joined the battle, being greeted with happy shouts and a torrent of icy projectiles. It was a blithesome scene!

And the public houses! The Leaky Cauldron, Madam Lisey’s Cake Shoppe, and many other worthy establishments – how eagerly the crowd flocked around the rough-hewn tables, and how happily received was each mug of hot chocolate, each glass of foaming butterbeer! And many of the pubgoers sat there in patched cloaks and mended robes, clutching the few Galleons they had saved for this day, but it did not impede upon their merriment. Indeed, I should venture to say that many of those poor folks wore happier smiles on their coldbitten faces than the rich gentleman who hurried down the street towards Gringotts in his furlined coat.

“Christmas morning,” Aberforth stated laconically.

“I can see that,” Snape replied. “Is there any particular reason why I need to see bratty children and the drunken rabble in the pubs?”

“Always the philantropist,” Aberforth said with a raised eyebrow. “Come. There is something you must see.”

He took Snape down one of the side streets and into a small lane. On a wooden sign, the words “Rustic Alley”  proclaimed the name of the place. By no means was it a grandiose street – every single one of its buildings could have fit easily inside the Leaky Cauldron, and left room to spare for the minuscule gardens that graced the house fronts. The inhabitants of this unpretentious little backstreet had done their utmost to greet the Spirit of Yuletide, had carefully swept the pavement free of snow and adorned their windows with modest decorations.

“Who lives here?” Snape asked.

The ghost shook his head. “He’s been your apprentice for three years, and you do not know?”

Indeed – the spirit had conducted Snape to the house of his apprentice, that poor man who toiled for few Galleons and fewer kind words day after day in his gloomy dungeon. Snape had never set eyes upon the man’s dwelling – a little house, one of the smallest in the street – with a green door and stars cut from gaudy paper in the windows.

“Potter lives here?” Snape said. “I thought he had a wife and three children? Isn’t it rather-”

“Rather small for five people?” asked Aberforth. “It is all he can afford on ten Galleons a week.”

He pointed his staff at the green door, which swung open to allow them entrance.

“Wait,” said Snape. “I do not wish to intrude-”

“And you won’t,” the ghost cut across him. “They cannot see you. Now come along, Snape, or do you need a written invitation?”

Snape followed him across the threshold and into the kitchen. It was not much roomier than the one he recalled from his boyhood days, but oh, how different does a house look when blessed with the gift of love and harmony between its occupants!

There was Ginny Potter, her face rounder and more motherly than in her maiden days but beautiful still, supervising two of the young Potters as they set the table. Out came plates, knives, forks, transported carefully in the hands of little Lily. James had undertaken the distinguished task of decorating the table, and a merrier decoration the kitchen had never seen! A poinsettia was placed reverently upon the white table cloth, then the boy proceeded to sprinkle it with little golden stars his mother produced from her wand. Christmas crackers were arranged between the plates, cheap ones that Snape had seen advertised for a Sickle a piece in the cornershop. In between all of this, the boy laid out apples, nuts and a few pieces of Christmas candy, which came out of a jar in the cupboard.

“When’s Daddy coming home, mum?” Lily asked.

“Careful, sweetie, let me get that for you!” Ginny handed her some napkins and tousled her curly red hair. “Daddy took Albus to his appointment at St. Mungo’s, remember? They’ll be back soon, after they’ve picked up the Christmas tree.”

“Are we getting a Christmas tree this year?” James asked excitedly.

His mother smiled. “Yes, Madam Collins had a small one left that she gave me a discount on.”

The news that it was only a small tree his father would be bringing home did not dampen James’ enthusiasm in the slightest. “Can Albus and Lily and I decorate it together?”

“If Albus is not too tired,” was his mother’s reply. “We may have to bundle him off to bed for an hour or two.”

“On Christmas?” James sounded outraged at the suggestion. “Mum, no!”

“We’ll see,” she said. “You know how tired he is after the full moon.”

The boy nodded and protested no more.

“After the full moon?” Snape enquired of the ghost, but Aberforth merely shook his head.

“Watch and learn, Snape.”

The young Potters and their mother continued to bustle about the kitchen and prepare their modest Christmas feast. A small turkey was poked to see if it was ready yet – potatoes were mashed and filled into a bowl – carrots, peas and brussel sprouts sat in warming dishes – bread sauce was lovingly prepared and tasted by the lady of the house. At Lucius’ manor, this dinner could have been served on any day and would have received naught but sneers, but for the young Potters, it was a memorable feast and a welcome break from beans on toast and pasta with tomato sauce.

“There’s Daddy!” cried Lily from her vantage point at the window. “And he has a tree, Mum!”

The door opened, and in came Harry Potter in his threadbare coat, a rather modest tree tucked under his arm and little Albus upon his shoulder. The faces of both father and son shone with cold and happiness, but it shall not be denied that little Albus did not look at all well. Poor child – he was too small and thin for his seven years, and had deep shadows under his vivid green eyes.

His father swung him down, and the boy went over to the table, staring openmouthed at the delicacies arranged upon it. In the meantime, Ginny took the tree from her husband and sent it to a table in the corner with a flick of her wand.

“I’m so glad we managed to get one this year,” Potter said to his wife in a low tone. “The kids would have been so disappointed.”

“How did Albus behave for the Healer?” Ginny wanted to know.

“Good as always,” said Potter. “He helped the nurses decorate the ward while I talked to Healer Smethwyk.”

Ginny smiled, but Snape noticed the strain upon her face when she enquired, “He is adapting well, isn’t he?”

“As well as can be expected,” said Potter. “Only a few bites and scratches this time, and those are healing.”

“I wish we could afford the Wolfsbane Potion more than once a year,” the mother said, and her smile fell for the first time. “It isn’t fair he has to wait for his birthday just to have a month without getting half his skin clawed off!”

The father seemed determined to put on an optimistic air. “The last word hasn’t been spoken, Ginny. Smethwyk said there’s an advanced potion, one that stops the transformation altogether and allows the werewolf to sleep through the full moon in their human form…”

“…and which we’ll never be able to afford! You know that, Harry.”

“I suppose I do,” replied her husband with a sigh. “But I won’t give up hope.”

Ginny touched his cheek with a tender expression. “No, you never do.”

With this, she turned to her children, who had been waiting impatiently for their parents to finish their conversation. “Now, who wants turkey?”

“Me! – me! – me!” cried three voices, and there was a rush for the chairs, though James did pause long enough to help his brother, who walked with a distinct limp. Now, Albus enjoyed riding upon his father’s shoulders as much as any little boy, but it was not for mere fun and games that he had to be carried through the streets, for little Albus had not been able to walk great distances since he was three. A werewolf’s bite will fester for a long time, and had rendered the boy’s left leg all but useless. A Nerve-Restoring Potion could have cured it, but – the old story! It cost more than Potter and his wife earned in a year, and did the brewer give it away for free? Certainly not!

But such gloomy thoughts did not intrude upon the family’s merry feast! The turkey was brought out and exclaimed over, the potatoes were dished out, the vegetables heaped upon plates (though James sneaked the brussel sprouts back when his mother looked the other way), and the Christmas crackers pulled open with cracks like cannon shots. And the pudding! An old recipe handed down from Ginny’s grandmother, and lovingly prepared every Christmas in any Weasley household. It received much praise, and nobody mentioned that it was a rather small pudding for five hungry mouths. Yet an attentive observer such as Snape did not miss that Harry and Ginny took rather modest helpings for themselves, and left the lion’s share for their children.

Finally, not even young James could eat another morsel, and the father stood up to fetch sweetened butterbeer from the pantry, a treat the family enjoyed but once a year. Glasses were filled with the foaming drink, and Lily sat upon her father’s knee as he raised his in a toast:

“Merry Christmas!”

The children echoed this with much enthusiasm, but before they could drink, their father raised a hand.

“Wait! I’d like to propose a toast first.” Potter cleared his throat. “To Professor Snape!”

“Snape!” exclaimed his wife. “Harry, it’s him who charges hundreds of Galleons for a single vial of Wolfsbane, and you know it is because he’s prejudiced, the greasy git!”

“Ginny,” her husband said quietly. “It’s Christmas, and I’m sure he’s all alone. Please.”

“You and your saving people thing,” Ginny sighed, but raised her glass. “Fine, to Professor Snape then! I hope he has a very merry Christmas with his cauldrons and vials of overpriced potions!”

They drank the toast. Potter was the first to finish, setting his goblet down and smiling at his assembled family. “Another year has passed, and we’re all together. Merlin bless us all!”

“Merlin bless us every one,” echoed little Albus, and received smiles from both his parents.

“Aberforth,” said Snape quietly, as if he were afraid to intrude upon the family’s privacy. “Tell me if little Albus will live.”

The ghost raised an eyebrow at him. “I see a vacant seat at the table… a little second-hand broom without an owner, carefully preserved. If these shadows remain unaltered by the future, the child will die.”

“No,” Snape said, with a vehemence he had never felt before. “No, there must be something that can be done!”

“And why would anyone do so, Snape?” asked the ghost. “Is it no longer the custom to lock a werewolf into a cage during his transformation? Are they not kept away from normal people for everyone’s safety? And if he is dying from the injuries and the strain, shouldn’t he better hurry up? If he’s dead, he can’t bite anyone else and pass on the disease!”

Snape hung his head, overcome with penitence. “I didn’t mean…”

“Then hold your tongue in the future!” said Aberforth. “Really, why my brother put up with this for all those years I’ll never understand.”

“Your brother was a good man,” Snape said, defending the man in question for perhaps the first time in his life.

“My brother was and is a meddling old coot! Now, do we have to stay and watch Potter and his brood open their Christmas presents, or did you get the point?”

“Yes,” said Snape hastily, not sure he was up to another display of idyllic domesticity. “Yes, you’ve made yourself quite clear. Please, lead the way.”

But his eyes did linger on little Albus, and there was a pensive expression on his face as he followed the ghost out of the little house and into the snowy street.

When they had arrived there, Aberforth once more held out his staff. “Hold on, Snape. We’re not quite done.”

With an ill feeling, Snape complied, and on they sped - through Diagon Alley, where a band of carollers were singing merrily, through the poorer districts of Wizarding London where families gathered around their modest trees, through shops and public houses and tiny flats and huge ballrooms – and everywhere, everywhere did Snape see glowing and cheerful faces, everywhere did the Wizarding world greet that gentlest of phantoms, the Spirit of Yuletide! You may not be too surprised to hear, gentle reader, that all this did not leave certain chords in Snape’s hardened heart untouched. And he could not help but wonder whether little Albus would live to see another Christmas after this one.

So engaged was Snape in these musings that it was with very much surprise he suddenly found himself in a brightly lit living room. A Christmas tree not much taller than the Potters’ stood in the corner, a merry fire danced in the fireplace and a jolly group of young witches and wizards sat upon chairs and couches around a low table.

“Good one, Goyle,” laughed Snape’s godson, clapping the shoulder of one bulky young gentleman beside him. “You always know the best jokes. That one about the troll and the dragon pup made even Uncle Severus smile!”

“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him smile,” remarked the pretty blond witch who was Draco’s wife. “Does he even have the muscles to do it?”

This was greeted with a merry burst of laughter from the group, until Draco held up a hand. “He is a bit of a misanthrope, granted, but he was always a good Head of House!”

The young witches and wizards, most of whom were former members of Salazar’s worthy House, nodded their assent.

“He never missed a chance to take points from the Gryffindorks,” said Blaise Zabini, a darkly handsome gentleman who prided himself on having been named little Scorpius’ godfather.

“He always wrote us permission slips so we could get the Quidditch field ahead of the other teams,” said Marcus Flint, a tall man whose gaudy robes proclaimed him an admirer of the Ballycastle Bats.

“He didn’t fix Granger’s teeth, that time you hit her with an Engorgement Jinx, Crabbe,” giggled Miss Parkinson, and received a lovestruck look from the gentleman she had addressed.

Draco nodded. “Yes, he takes good care of Slytherin House. I just wish he would get out a little more.”

“Papa?” piped up the little boy who had been sitting on the couch in between Astoria and her husband.

“Yes, Scorpi?”

“Is Uncle Severus going to come visit for the Yule feast?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Draco and tousled his son’s blond hair. “He doesn’t like the Yule feast very much, see.”

“But why not?” Little Scorpius was unable to comprehend that the best time of the year should be ill-favored by anyone. “Doesn’t he like presents and trees and sweets?”

“Humbug!” Blaise barked in a well-executed imitation of his former teacher, and everyone laughed.

“I wish he’d come,” said little Scorpius with a sigh. “I’d show him the picture I drew of me winning the House Cup for Slytherin!”

“Well, he’s missing a very good drawing then,” said his mother. “I do wish he’d taken up your invitation, Draco. It would do him good to see the outside of his dungeons!”

“It would,” said her husband. “He’d never admit it, though. Let’s hope he has a merry Yule feast, all the same!”

The Slytherins and former students raised their goblets of mulled wine, little Scorpius joining them with a mug of hot chocolate. “To Professor Snape! – To Uncle Severus!”

“Well, Snape,” said Aberforth, “I never thought I’d see you become sentimental.”

“I am not,” protested Snape hotly, but he could not quite deny the shine that had crept into his dark eyes, or the flush that had risen into his sallow cheeks. So his loyalty and never-ending toil for Hogwarts’ best House did not pass unnoticed! They remembered him – toasted to him! And they had invited him to celebrate Yuletide with them – only to be rejected. Humbug! Was it not humbug, to sit in front of a fire and share silly stories? Was it not a waste of time, to remember the old days and laugh and reminisce?

“Take me home,” Snape said to the ghost. “I wish to go home, Aberforth.”

“Tell me about it,” the ghost grumbled. “Goats should have been fed an hour ago. Yes, Snape, my time here is over – my work is done. But you won’t be going home so soon.”

And the bright room disappeared – disappeared into the shadow world from whence it had come.

“Aberforth! What is this – where are we?”

“In between,” was the ghost’s less than helpful reply. “I must leave you now, Snape. Brace yourself, for the trial that lies before you may well be the hardest yet! Do not disappoint us – and do not disappoint them!”

“Them?” asked Snape, bewildered. “Who – who are you talking about?”

“More eyes are upon you than you know, Snape. More souls accompany you on this journey than you think.”

“Wait – Aberforth! Aberforth!”

But the ghost was gone, returned to the Invisible World. Snape stood alone, his hand still raised in supplication. There was a rustle of cloaks behind him, and he turned, and lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming like a mist along the ground towards him.