The apparition was terribly familiar to Snape. Hooded and cloaked as it was, he had seen before the bony white hand that protruded under the black robe, had heard before the hissing breath, had felt before the burning pain on his left forearm. The very air around the ghost seemed to blacken, creating the impression of a shadow so dark a mere mortal could not bear to lay eyes upon it for long.

That was all he knew, for the apparition neither moved nor spoke.

“Am I in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come… my Lord?” Snape added the honorific without thinking; too many times had he felt the nerve-wracking pain of the Torture Curse to deny this creature the reverence it demanded, however much he might have come to despise it.

The ghost did not speak, but raised its long-fingered hand and pointed onward.

“You are here to show me shadows of things that will happen in the future, is it not so, my Lord?” Snape pressed on, but received no reply.

Voldemort pointed onward.

“My Lord,” said Snape, “I’m surprised to see you here, conspiring with the forces of Light. Would you have me change my ways, become an insufferable bleeding-heart fool? What could have brought you to this decision?”

At his words, the phantom seemed to shrink on itself, as if cowering under the force of a power greater than his own - the only one he ever feared. The bony hand shook slightly, but no answer was forthcoming.

Voldemort pointed onward.

“Lead on then, my Lord,” said Snape, and the ghost began to move, gliding along like a wisp of dark smoke. The fluttering rags of its garment seemed to grow, seemed to encompass the scene like fog on London’s streets, until all was shrouded in darkness.

And then, quite suddenly, Snape found himself in a very familiar place – so familiar indeed that he believed, for a moment, to have been conducted home by the ghost, and for the nightmarish visions to be over. Then of course, he saw the phantom’s cloak fluttering across the stone floor, and abandoned his hopes of being let off that easily.

They were standing in the Great Hall behind the teacher’s table, but only three of the chairs were occupied; the Headmistress, tiny Professor Flitwick and Professor Sprout sat there, apparently sharing a late-night glass of warm cider. The hall was decked out in familiar splendid decorations of holly, ivy, stars and stately trees, indicating that Yuletide was upon Hogwarts castle.

“Well,” said Professor McGonagall, “this is quite a sad turn-out for a memorial service, I must say.”

Flitwick sighed. “Not unexpected, though, Minerva – not unexpected.”

It was then that Snape noticed the black drapes that had been hung on the wall behind the table – the common custom to commemorate a death among the staff.

“Even Sybil made an excuse – said the stars had told her she wasn’t going to attend.”

Professor Sprout looked solemn as she poured herself more cider. “Well, he was never very kind to her, was he?”

“Was he kind to anyone?” McGonagall’s tone was dry. “The years didn’t mellow him out, that much can be said. I believe he became even more cynical and bitter as he grew older.”

“Now, now,” interrupted kindly little Flitwick. “Of the dead speak no evil. He had a hard life.”

“Many of us had hard lives,” replied McGonagall. “But did we isolate ourselves and lash out at anyone who attempted to get closer? And the way he treated poor Harry-”

The three of them sighed and took another sip from their drinks, as if to rid themselves of the thought.

“Well,” said McGonagall, setting her glass down on the table. “I suppose that was that. I’ll need to find a replacement now, of course. His passing away did come rather as a surprise…”

“If I may make a suggestion…” began Sprout. “I have a cousin who has just got her Master’s degree… maybe she’d be a good candidate? She’s very good with children, too – very kind woman.”

“That would be a change indeed,” said McGonagall. “The students have been afraid to enter the potions classroom for nearly two decades now.”

The three teachers smiled ruefully, emptied their glasses and stood.

“Let’s take these down,” said Flitwick, and pointed his wand at the black drapes. “It’s Christmas tomorrow, and we wouldn’t want to spoil it for the children.”

A flick, and the drapes disappeared – the last reminders of a death that had caused little heartache, sudden as it had been. The Great Hall was ready for its merry occupants now, to celebrate Yuletide as they had done for hundreds of years.

Snape stood in the place where he had eaten so many meals, where he had taken many a house point and glowered down at the assembled student body on the first day of term, affirming their opinion that he was indeed the evil bat of the dungeons. A memorial service! And only three people in attendance, three people who seemed hard-pressed to recall one fond memory of the deceased!

Snape shuddered and turned to the ghost in the corner, who stood motionless. “My Lord, please – show me no more.”

As he had done so often in life, Voldemort ignored Snape’s entreaty and merely raised his hand again, his dark cloak fluttering. The scene dissolved.

They were back in Wizarding London, but not in the jolly, clean street that was Diagon Alley. No, this was a different quarter altogether, one not unfamiliar to Snape, who had wandered these parts many times in the days of his ill-spent youth. The houses were wretched, the lanes foul and narrow. The witches and wizards in this cesspit of our world were not of the kind you and I, gentle reader, would fain want to meet after night has fallen. Clad in ragged clothes – and some, if I may be permitted to be blunt, very few clothes at all, they lingered in doorways, lounged about in the dirty little shops and conducted their shady business in the dark alleways. A crooked sign at the entrance to this infamous den proclaimed its name: Knockturn Alley.

A man was hurrying past shops and obscure displays, brushing off witches and wizards who accosted him to try the dubious wares they had to offer. He was a rather small man, though plump, and wore the kind of robe that appears expensive, yet turns out to have frayed sleeves and ripped pockets when you look closely. Snape knew the man, recalling his name with a notable absence of fondness: Mundungus Fletcher. Fletcher the crook, Fletcher the thief. It was no great surprise to find him in this place, but why should he, Snape, take any interest in the man’s debauched dealings?

Yet Voldemort followed the man on his hurried way, and Snape had no choice but to do the same. Fletcher was smoking a pipe that was clenched between his teeth, and every so often took it out of his mouth to cough and spit something dark into the filthy snow. Even though Snape knew that these were shadows without any earthly substance, he did his utmost to avoid the vile projectiles as he followed in Fletcher’s footsteps.

Finally, their destination – a shop whose name is followed by the worst repute, recalling the Darkest of magic and the foulest of dealings: Borgin and Burkes. This was where Fletcher had been headed, and it was into this worthy establishment that Snape and Voldemort followed the thief. Snape knew the place, but could not suppress a shudder of disgust at the displays, many of which involved human body parts – a withered hand nailed onto a board, skulls in glass tubes, vials of blood lined up on the shelves, a crate full of yellow teeth and human fingernails. Borgin and Burkes – if there is a name in the wizarding world that is stained with Dark sorcery, it is this one!

Fletcher stepped up to the counter and rang a bell, which procured a dry old wizard from the chamber behind the shop. This old wizard, stooped down by many a sycophantic bow he had taken before his customers, came wheezing to the counter, observing Fletcher with bloodshot eyes.

“Dung? You buying or selling?”

“Selling,” said Fletcher and took a tiny box out of his pocket, which he proceeded to set upon the counter. “Here!”

He cast an Enlarging Charm on the object. It was a wooden case into which a gifted carpenter had set many individual containers, each one just large enough to hold a single potion vial. Snape knew the wooden case very well. He had bought it himself, many years ago, to store within the results of the potion experiments that he conducted in his spare time.

“What’s this?” Borgin squinted at the box and touched one vial with a crooked finger. “Bunch of useless old glass bottles?”

Fletcher chuckled. “This, my dear man, is nothin’ more or less than a collection of the rarest potions of the age!”

At this, Borgin’s sunken eyes lit with greedy pleasure, and he proceeded to lift one vial after another out of its container, reading the handwritten labels. “Poison of Merewurt – yes, yes, I heard rumors – Advanced Polyjuice – my, my, what one couldn’t do with that – and Everlasting Wolfsbane! Where did you get this, Dung?”

Fletcher shrugged. “Well, it’s all a matter of timing, innit? First come, first served. I heard he was dead – Apparated to Hogsmeade – made my way up to the castle – paid my respects-”, this was accompanied by quotation marks he formed with his fingers, “- and took ‘em! Who’s gonna miss ‘em, eh, now that he’s gone! Talkin’ of which, who’s gonna miss ‘im?”

The two worthy gentlemen shared a laugh over this.

“Yes, yes, he was a grouchy old bastard,” Fletcher said. “I’d say the students are well shot of ‘im.”

But Borgin had lost any passing interest in the affairs of the deceased man, and bent back over the potions. “So, Dung… I can offer you five Galleons per vial, what do you say?”

“I say it’s a bad joke if I’ve ever ‘eard one… five Galleons? Fifty’s more like it!”

“Fifty?” The old wizard’s oily voice rose to a shrill screech. “For a bunch of mouldy old concoctions?”

“Fine,” said Fletcher, reaching for the box. “I’ll take them to Urquart and Sons, then. Maybe they’ll offer me a fair price…”

“Wait!” Borgin’s face had assumed the look of a dried old lemon, sour with the prospect of losing a decent sum of money to an old thief. “Fine, I’ll say fifteen – but not a Knut more!”

Fletcher raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“Twenty then!” shrieked Borgin, now reddening with anger. “But that is it, Fletcher, it’s more than you’ll get anywhere!”

And Fletcher seemed to agree, for he grinned and nodded, now as amiable as any honest businessman who has just closed a profitable deal. “Who woulda thought that the greasy git would make me a rich man in my old age, just by kickin’ the bucket! Ha ha!”

“My Lord,” said Snape, who had been watching the scene unfold with mounting anger and horror, “my Lord, I understand. I really do. Please, end this and take me back.”

Voldemort in his dark cloak neither moved nor reacted in any other manner. Snape was about to repeat his request with more force – he could not stand there watching his life’s work bartered over by a crook and a Dark dealer – when the room and its vile displays of wares disappeared.

“Merlin!” Snape exclaimed in spite of himself. “My Lord – what is this?”

He was in another room – did he know it? Drapes had been hung over the furniture, but the shapes beneath them seemed familiar… so familiar that Snape hardly dared look at them. And on the bed, under the black curtains…

“No!”

But there it was. The dim torch on the wall gave enough light to illuminate the figure of a man under the sheets, a silent body whose face had been shrouded carefully, to spare the still living the grim reminder of what comes last. Death! – Snape had encountered Him in many forms and on many occasions. Often He had been bloody and violent, afflicted by the most cruel of men; sometimes He had been silent and sudden, but no less terrible. Yet never, never had he felt His presence as he did now, had cowered under the majestic dark shadow that will fall upon all living beings, all too soon!

Snape shrank away from the bed. “My Lord…”

Again, Voldemort did not reply. His steady hand was pointed to the body’s head.

“My Lord,” Snape said, “you’ve certainly made your point, whoever sent you, and I shall not forget it. Let us leave!”

Still the ghost pointed at the body on the bed.

Snape pitied the man who lay there so still and unmoving – pitied, yes, an emotion he had sneered at for most of his life. Forgotten in death – could there be a worse fate? Had anyone sat by his bedside when he breathed his last – had anyone shed a tear or spoken one kind word about this man?

And still the ghost pointed onward.

“I understand, Voldemort,” Snape said, using the name for the first time ever. “I do. But spare me this one sight – let me leave that face uncovered. I know you’ve had no mercy in life, and I do not think death has changed that, but it is not of your own volition you came to visit me to-night. Whoever sent you, hear me now, this is one thing I cannot do!”

The phantom regarded him with unseen eyes, and slowly, almost reluctantly, lowered its hand.

“Thank you,” Snape said. “Now… if there is any… kindness you can show me connected with a death, anything at all… please…”

Voldemort’s cloak fluttered, the darkness rose and the chamber with its silent occupant disappeared. They were outside once more, on a street Snape had seen before, and this time it was Voldemort who opened the green door for him, Voldemort who conducted him into the kitchen.

There was Ginny, seated at the table and mending an old broomstick. There was James, reading a book. There was Lily next to her mother, her crayons spread around her. And it was quiet – very quiet. No one laughed – Snape felt that the little kitchen hadn’t heard laughter in a while. He bent closer and looked at little Lily’s picture – a boy with black hair and green eyes, riding his broomstick high up in the sky and waving to the little family below.

“Mum…,” said James and touched her arm. “Mum, are you…”

The mother laid her work upon the table and wiped her eyes. “It’s fine, James. Thank you.”

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

“Soon,” replied Ginny. “He said he’d be back by six.”

“Do you think he went there again to-day?” asked the boy, sounding much older than his nine years.

The mother sighed.

Soon the front door opened, and in came Harry Potter, a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. Poor man! There was no little boy upon his shoulder now, but the burden he carried seemed all the heavier for it. Were those tears glistening on his cheeks? They were wiped away to quickly for Snape to decide.

“Harry, there you are.” She got up and hugged him. “Did you go there again to-day?”

The poor father nodded. “The Everlasting Christmas Rose Neville gave us looks lovely. He – he would have liked it.”

“Did you give him my picture, Daddy?” asked little Lily.

Harry nodded. “I did, sweetie. I put it right next to the stone with a Protective Charm on it.”

“Do you think he can see it?”

The mother turned away quickly, her hand pressed to her mouth.

“Yes,” said the father, “I’m sure he can. I’m sure he likes it very much.”

His voice broke on the last word, and he excused himself, hurrying into the adjoining living room. Snape followed him. The poor man had sat down in an armchair by the fireplace, staring at a photograph in his hand. A little boy waved at him, smiling… a little boy he would never again carry through the streets, who would never again ask him to take him for a ride on the Firebolt.

“My little boy,” whispered Harry, his fingers stroking the picture frame. “Albus…”

Ginny entered the room, and sat down on the chair’s armrest, her arms around her husband. “Harry, love.”

“I’m sorry,” said the father.

She shook her head and they remained silent for a few moments, looking at the picture. Then Ginny spoke again.

“Do you know who I met, coming back from work? Draco Malfoy. He had his little boy with him, and we talked for a while… he said he was very sorry to hear about Albus, and I think he meant it.”

“He’s changed, yes,” replied Harry. “He’s actually quite a nice bloke.”

“He said to tell you that you should get together one of these days… race around the Quidditch Pitch for old times’ sake, he said.”

The father smiled through his tears. “He should bring Scorpius when we do. I could give him a ride on the Firebolt… Albus always enjoyed it.”

“He did, didn’t he?” said the mother quietly. “Let’s remember the good times, Harry. All the things he enjoyed.”

“Yes,” whispered the poor man, “yes, you’re right. He’d – he’d want that.”

“He would,” said Ginny. They sat there, their arms around each other, and the little boy on the photograph continued to wave and smile.

“Ghost,” said Snape. “Is this what is going to happen? Or is it just a possible scenario?”

There was no reply. Voldemort stood as motionless as ever, his shrouded face turned towards his long-ago enemy. Harry and his wife were still looking at the picture, comforting each other in their grief.

“You have no answers to give me,” said Snape, more to himself than to the unresponsive phantom. “You never had, as a matter of fact. And I sense that you’re going to leave me soon… is that so, ghost?”

The bony hand was raised yet again, but this time it pointed straight at Snape himself, who felt a shudder of fear. He drew back a few steps, but the ghost glided towards him, its cloak fluttering and spreading impenetrable darkness. Harry and his wife faded until they were mere outlines in the gloom – mere shadows – gone!

A churchyard. Eerily familiar – Snape recalled the little cemetery in Godric’s Hollow to which he returned every year, where he spent an hour on his knees and prayed for a forgiveness only one voice could give – alas, a voice forever silenced by his own hand!

Was it her grave the ghost wished to show him? Was he to break down in remorse at her final resting place? The thought stirred a dry laugh in his throat. Remorse! – did remorse bring back the dead? Did it lift the earth, open the coffin, flood the pale sunken cheeks with the rosy color of life? No, and no again!

Night had fallen, and the little churchyard was obscured by strange and misshapen shadows. Fog crept between the gravestones as if on living feet, ensnaring the few trees that stood, crippled and bent, between the crooked remains of ancient tombs and crosses. Weeds and grass had claimed the place as their own, covering all but the youngest of the graves. A lone raven sat on a leafless oak, croaking the old chant – nevermore! – nevermore!

Voldemort stood among the graves, and pointed down to one. Snape stood as if he had been frozen to the spot.

“Ghost,” he breathed. “Answer me one question. Can I – can anyone change the shadows you showed me? Or is there no hope?”

No answer came forth, and still the clawlike finger pointed toward the grave.

Snape stepped closer, trembling as he went, and following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave his own name: Severus Tobias Snape.

The mere letters, engraved in the cold stone, seemed to take the strength out of his legs, and he fell on his knees onto the frozen ground. “Voldemort! Why – why show me this, if there is nothing I can do?”

The finger pointed from the grave to him, and back again.

“Hear me, Tom Riddle,” Snape cried, and his desperation drew the creature’s true name from his lips for the first time. “I understand! I understand now! All I’m asking for is a chance – one chance to prove that I’m not the man they buried here!”

A wisp of fog rose around Voldemort, enshrouding him, blurring his appearance – and for a second it seemed as if there were a different man standing in his place – a tall, thin man – a man who wore a long beard -

“Ghost!” Snape cried. “I’ll change these shadows! I will live in the Past, but I won’t lose myself in it! I will live in the Present, but I won’t let its power blind me! I will live in the Future, but I won’t fear its shadow! I’ll remember the lessons the spirits taught me, and I will honor Christmas in my heart! I swear this on my wizard’s honor!”

And the ghost, who no longer resembled Voldemort at all, finally lowered its finger. Its eyes twinkling merrily, it held out a hand to help Snape to his feet. Snape reached for it – caught it -

- and found himself clutching a handful of his bedclothes, quite safe in his very own sleeping chamber.