Lucius was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatsoever about that. He was as dead as a doornail, as Muggles say. Now, in wizarding houses, it must be added, a doornail need not be dead at all; it may very well come alive, as may the door, the table, the chairs and any other piece of furniture upon which a well-executed Locomotor Charm has been cast.

But not old Lucius, no. He had kicked the bucket, so to speak, and there was nothing to be done about it. And it may be said that his house elves, at least, breathed all the easier for it. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Lucius was as dead as a (Muggle) doornail.

Did Severus Snape know he was dead? Of course he did. These two worthy gentlemen had been partners in crime, and the expression may well be taken literally by the gentle reader. And the day Lucius Malfoy was conveyed to his final resting place, it was Snape who followed the coffin, Snape who watched it lowered into the earth, Snape who Flooed Draco and bullied him into paying for the costly memorial service.

It must be emphasized that Lucius was dead, or his following appearance in the story may be misinterpreted as a simple visit between old and perhaps not-so-fond acquaintances.

Snape went back to his laboratory after the funeral and brewed another of his many potions, without wasting further thoughts or sentiments on Lucius. Who was, after all, dead as a doornail.

Oh, but he was a hard-hearted git, Severus Snape! A sneering, scowling, stalking old sinner! No smile upon his features unless he came upon the happy opportunity to remove points from Gryffindor’s ever-dwindling supply; no kind word on his lips unless drawn from him by a certain Dark sorcerer, who had required his followers to ply him with sycophantic niceties. All the better for Snape that the sorcerer had long died, then, for niceties did not pass easily under Snape’s overlarge nose. His brow was knit in a perpetual frown, his lank black hair framed a face hardened by the years, and his billowing black robes served as an exclamation mark for every biting comment and subsequent dramatic exit he made.

Nobody ever stopped in Diagon Alley and said, “How are you, Professor Snape? How’s things back at the school?” (unless they were guileless Hufflepuffs, but a Stinging Hex or two usually took care of those unfortunates). No first-year ever asked him for help in finding the Great Hall, no fellow teacher ever inquired as to his plans for the summer holidays, no old friend visited him in his dark dungeons, now that Lucius was dead.

But what did Snape care? It was what he liked, and if he wanted any dunderheads to disturb him in his well-earned peace, he would let them know, thank you very much. In the meantime, they had better stay away.

Once upon a time – of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve – old Snape was busy brewing in his dungeon lab. It was a cold day outside Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and the biting frost crept into its ancient walls, the icy wind finding every crack and crevice through which to blow and make the poor students draw their scarfs more tightly around their necks.

For all Snape cared, they could have tightened those scarfs by another ten inches or so, and saved him the trouble of preparing lessons, the pestilential little brats.

The door of Snape’s main lab was open so that he could keep an eye on Potter, the young apprentice teacher who assisted him with his brewing. Snape had a very small fire burning in his fireplace, just enough so that he could see the faded letters in his ancient potions tomes. It was his strong opinion that too much light and warmth disturbed the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, or something along those lines. Or perhaps he just liked to see Potter shiver with cold.

Suddenly the door banged open, and Snape let out a soft but blasphemous swear, which I shall not repeat to spare the ears of my more delicate readers. “D--- it, Draco! What happened to knocking before you enter?”

“Merry Yule feast, Godfather!” came the voice of the young man who had just sauntered into the dungeon. “Never expected to find you here, of all places.”

“If you’re trying to be funny, it isn’t working,” said Snape and turned back to his cauldron. “And do spare me the Christmas humbug, will you.”

Now, Snape’s godson was a handsome young man, who could make the young witches’ heads turn even now that he no longer wore the expensive robes of his boyhood days. At this moment, his face was aglow with having ridden a broomstick through the icy storm outside.

“Christmas?” Draco said outraged. “I’d never use such a common Muggle term, Godfather. You’ll notice that I said ‘Yule feast’.”

“It’s still humbug, whether you call it merry Christmas, merry Yule feast, or merry non-denominational winter holiday!” grumbled Snape. “Why would you be so merry, I wonder, after estranging your late father and losing the family fortune?”

“And why would you be so miserable, I wonder? Your potion brewing earns you more than enough money, not to mention your senior teacher’s salary.”

“As if you didn’t know that the stingy governors haven’t given me a raise in years! And what can I be but miserable, surrounded as I am by bratty children, incompetent colleagues” – this was delivered with a withering look in Potter’s direction – “and other idiots.”

This was directed at Draco, who, it must be said, didn’t even flinch at the insult. “Calm down, Uncle Severus. All I wanted was to invite you to Christmas dinner at our flat.”

“Our flat! Why you insisted on marrying that girl…”

“Astoria may not have a lot of money, but she’s as pureblooded as they come. And she doesn’t call me ‘bunbuns’ like Pansy used to.”

“Be that as it may… I told you, I won’t stand for the Christmas nonsense.”

“Yule feast!”

“Yule feast then!” shouted Snape, who was quickly losing what little patience had been in his possession. “I don’t care! If it were up to me, any dunderhead who goes around yapping about ‘merry Christmas’ should be boiled in his own cauldron and buried with the Elder wand through his heart!”

“Like He-Who-Must-N-”

“Exactly like Him,” Snape said with a dangerous glint in his dark eyes. “Now if I may, I shall return to my work without further disturbances.”

“Have it your way, Uncle Severus. I for my part will always remember the Yule feast as the one time of the year when my father had time for me… the only time when he left his Dark robes at the door and sat under the Christmas tree with his little son, hexing the house elves for my innocent amusement. This is a feeling I shall never forget, Uncle. And therefore I shall celebrate the Yule feast, every year without fail, in the hope that one day all wizardkind – yes, even you, Uncle! – may join me!”

Potter stuck his cold-reddened nose through the door. “Hear, hear, Malfoy! For once in your life you’re talking sense!”

“Shut up, Potter,” was the less-than-kindly reply, but it was drowned out but Snape’s sharp remark: “I should assume, Potter, that you have better things to do than to eavesdrop and add your two Knuts to conversations that are none of your concern… or is potion making so undemanding to you that you wish to look for alternative means of employment?”

At this, Potter’s nose was hastily withdrawn, and the vigorous cutting of ingredients resumed.

“So,” said Draco. “Are you coming or not? Astoria wants to know how many place sets to order.”

“Not,” replied Snape curtly. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Well, if you change your mind you know where to find me.”

“Yes,” muttered Snape, watching balefully as the form of his nephew withdrew to the door. “In a dingy London flat half as big as your father’s drawing room, idiot boy.”

He returned to his brewing, commenting then and again on the idiocy of his godson who had forsaken the Malfoy fortune and name for a stupid little witch. No one heard these comments, which may be considered fortunate, seeing as they cast aspersions of the unkindest nature on the general state of mankind.

It was not long, alas, that Snape’s work was to be interrupted yet again. Potter had opened the door to let in two people – a witch and a wizard with whom Snape was familiar, if not voluntarily so. The slightly rotund gentleman with the red cheeks was known to his associates as Neville Longbottom, while the young lady answered to the name of Miss Lovegood. They had old-fashioned ledgers in their hands and expressions on their faces which did not bode well for Snape’s general peace of mind.

“Is there something I can do for you, Longbottom… Miss Lovegood?” he asked in the coldest of voices, which made the rotund gentleman tremble.

“We’ve come on behalf the Werewolf Protection Association,” answered the sweet young lady, undaunted by the scowl on her former teacher’s face. “You know, of course, the stigma and shame the poor victims cannot escape in their daily lives. It has come to our attention that you have developed an advanced version of the Wolfsbane Potion… one that stops the transformation altogether and allows the victim to sleep through the full moon in their human form.”

“Yes,” said Snape, his hard face unmoved.

Finally, the young gentleman had gathered enough of his spirit about him to speak up. “W-we were wondering, sir, in the – the spirit of the season, if you might be willing to… release the recipe to the public? So – so everyone could benefit from it.”

Snape turned his cold eyes upon the young man. “And why would I do so, Mr. Longbottom?”

“Many hundreds suffer every month from the cruel curse cast upon them,” Miss Lovegood replied in his stead. “Many of them children, sir.”

“Well, is there no longer a closed ward in St.Mungo’s?”

“Yes…”

“And 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?”

“I’m sorry to say they still are.”

“Well, what a relief,” said Snape. “Then I should say you’re not in need of my advanced potion.”

“But sir-!” Neville Longbottom’s voice rose to a desperate pitch. “Many would rather die than be locked up in a cage!”

“Then they’d better do so,” said Snape, “and make sure they can’t bite anyone else and pass on the disease! I’ve work to do, in case you haven’t noticed. Goodbye!”

The two left, not without wishing the poor apprentice in his antechamber a merry Christmas. He returned the greeting cordially, seeing them to the door and promising to donate what little money he could afford to their honest cause.

Snape grimaced. “It figures, Potter, that you would throw away the salary I pay you out of my own pocket to those mongrel-loving frauds! I suppose you’ll want the whole day off tomorrow?”

“If it’s convenient, Professor.”

“It is not convenient, Potter, even though your absence does wonders for my temper. And I suppose you’ll expect a Christmas bonus on top of it?”

“All apprentice teachers get one…”

“Well, all apprentice teachers had better do the work they’re paid for, then! How like your father you are, Potter, a whining and lazy layabout! But I fear I shall not hear the end of it if I don’t give you the day off. You’ll make up for it the next day, you hear me!”

Potter assured him that he would, and Snape stalked out of the laboratory, making his way deeper into the dungeons. If the gentle reader be so inclined, imagine a maze of dank corridors never graced by sunlight or warmth, and accordingly of as gloomy and dismal a nature as the man who was currently proceeding further into its depths.

This was where Snape lived, and it suited him well. If it struck his fancy, he would suddenly appear in some dark doorway or another, frightening a poor first-year who had lost his way. None of them ever stumbled upon the corridor that led to his chambers, for Snape had made sure to cast many Obstacling Charms to keep away unwanted human company. As we shall see, these charms did not fulfill their purpose quite as well if the company in question was not of the flesh-and-blood persuasion.

Now, it is a fact that there was nothing at all particular about the portrait that guarded the Potion Master’s entrance door. Indeed, a Muggle would have startled at its occupant’s inclination to scowl and stroke his long black beard, but as wizards are well used to moving paintings, this did not concern Snape in the slightest. He spared old Salazar but a glance as he indicated for the door to be opened.

Only it was not old Salazar who stared back at him. It was Lucius. Lucius, who was not, as the reader may be surprised to hear, dead as a doornail, but who appeared as he had in his lifetime, a haughty and proud countenance that stared down upon whatever unworthy creature dared to cross his path. There was a strange and ghostly glow about him, superimposed as he was on Salazar Slytherin’s haggard form, and he seemed to be part of the picture and yet beyond it…. beyond, indeed, the realm of human life altogether.

Snape did pause at this frightful apparition, but it did not stop him from ordering the door opened, or from entering his chambers when it was. He turned, half-expecting to see Lucius’ blond ponytail and ridiculous bow sticking out into the hall, but there was nothing on the back of the door but his very own coat hook.

“Foolishness,” Snape muttered, and made his way into his chambers. They were a gloomy affair, these chambers Snape had occupied for so many years, built many centuries ago by a wizard with a similarly misanthropic nature as the hero of our tale. There was a large central room that held nothing but a shabby old chaise longue, a worn carpet, book shelves and two arm chairs facing one another in front of the fireplace. A bedchamber adjoined it, but the current scene finds Snape in what he deemed his living room, taking a seat in one of the armchairs and warming his long, potion-stained fingers over the flames.

Flames which, to Snape’s astonishment, seemed to outline the shape of Lucius’ face in the glowing coals.

“Nonsense!” he muttered, but spared the door a furtive glance. It was still locked as it should be.

Getting up, Snape took several turns about the room and made sure his warding charms were in place. Satisfying himself of this state of affairs, he returned to his armchair and picked up a potions journal.

“Humbug and nonsense.”

It may evoke some sympathy even for this cold, harsh man to learn of his fright when he first became aware of the sound outside his chamber door. It was a clanking, dragging sound that seemed to come from deep within the castle, from some place even he, master of the dungeons, had never visited.

The sound approached, moving along the maze of corridors, coming closer and closer. Time seemed to stand still as Snape listened to what seemed to be chains dragging across rough stone floor. Ghosts there were enough in Hogwarts castle, but none had ever ventured into his corner of the dungeons! And he felt cold despite the warm fire directly in front of him.

The cold increased then, as suddenly as if the wind outside had sent at icy gush into the chamber. The noise had reached Snape’s door, and, yes, it was inside the door now, coming closer even as the terrified man stared at the apparition in front of him.

Lucius. Alive and yet so obviously not, illuminating the gloomy chamber with an unearthly light that emanated from an invisible core within him. He was dressed in stately robes, and his hair looked nearly as immaculate as it had in his living days, somewhat mussed on top by the folded kerchief bound about his head and chin.

The chain he wore was wrapped around his middle and linked to his cane, which he had carried with him everywhere in his time on Earth, and whose snake-fanged head had been pointed at many an innocent victim. Purses heavy with Galleons, Dark devices too horrible to describe, treasures taken from hapless victims and a robe and Death Eater mask added to the weight that slowed the apparition in its progress.

“Lucius,” Snape said. “Unannounced as ever.”

“Snape,” the ghost spoke in Lucius’ unmistakable haughty tones. He had untied the kerchief about his head, and was currently trying to flatten his hair. “I would of course not presume to interrupt your busy social schedule.”

“What’s with the flashy entrance, Lucius?” Snape asked. “What do you want?”

“Straight to the point as usual,” Lucius said, having arranged his hair in a satisfying manner and now turning his full attention upon Snape. “It’s those crude half-blood manners that will always keep you from the higher echelons of wizarding society.”

“The higher echelons have done well without me, and I without them,” Snape said. “I repeat, what do you want?”

Dragging his chain along, Lucius sat down in the armchair facing Snape’s and crossed his legs. “I know what you’re thinking, Severus. You don’t believe in me.”

“Well, I do believe in ghosts,” Snape said, truthfully enough for a man who had spent more than half his life in a haunted castle. “I simply do not believe that you would return as a ghost, Lucius. You’ve always been too lazy for that kind of thing.”

“What am I, then?”

“You may be a hallucination, brought on by a potion left too long to stew, or by one of Potter’s abominable concoctions.”

The ghost sighed at this and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Now, don’t be so obstinate, Severus. You know as well as I do that I’d have better taste than to haunt your mouldy old dungeons, had I been given any choice in the matter.”

“You have not?”

“Not exactly,” Lucius replied ruefully. “This chain, here – it’s a symbol of sorts, see, of my ‘wordly vices’.” He formed quotation marks with his fingers as he said it.

“In that case it should be a lot longer.”

“I grow weary of that joke, Severus,” the apparition replied sourly. “The Bloody Baron seems to find it exceedingly amusing. In any case, I have been sent here to warn you.”

“Warn me? Of what?”

“Of your own end, Severus Snape,” Lucius replied in a darker tone. “Your own vices, your own chain that you have been laboring on all these years! It will be heavy to carry – very heavy indeed! I have neglected my business in my time on Earth-”

“Not exactly,” Snape interrupted dryly. “At last count, the Malfoy fortune amounts to-”

“Fortune!” cried the ghost, shaking his cane and making the chain rattle. “My true fortune was in my heart, Severus, for me to spend and give away freely! My business was wizardkind – and, yes, Muggles too – the poor in Knockturn Alley – the outcasts – the downtrodden – all my business!”

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Who told you to say that?”

Lucius lowered the cane. “Why do you ask? It is my deepest sorrow, the curse I carry-”

“Lucius,” Snape cut across him. “I may have grown older, but I’m not yet senile.”

“Never mind who told me,” Lucius said, tossing his hair back. “I’m only the messenger. Know, Severus, that you shall be haunted by three spirits tonight, three chances to redeem yourself. Expect the first one when the clock strikes one.”

“Lucius, if this is one of his schemes-”

“No more!” cried the ghost, rising from his seat by the fire. “Ask no more of me! I am but a shadow, doomed to obey. Expect the ghosts, Severus, and may you shun the forlorn path I tread! Look to see me no more.”

He drifted, unheeded by Snape’s protests, towards the door through which he had come. Snape followed him and watched as the apparition melted away through the wood, its chain dragging behind him. He opened the door to the dark corridor without, and drew back  in fright.

The darkness was filled with ghosts, drifting back and forth, moaning and groaning in the most frightful manner. One of them resembled a toadlike woman in a pinkish dress, who dragged a long chain of framed ministerial decrees behind her. Some carried cauldrons and bottles, others were chained to huge tomes, and one man was bowed down deeply under the burden of a hundred heavy broomsticks.

Snape banged the door shut, his heart racing despite himself. He tried to sneer at the foolishness of the scene he had just seen before his very eyes, but found that he could not. And being, from the emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or his glimpse of the Invisible World, or the conversation with Lucius, or the lateness of the hour, much in need of repose, went straight to bed and fell asleep upon the instant.

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.

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.

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.

Safe! – safe, and in his own chamber, in his very own bed! The sheets were his own, the gray nightshirt was his own, and best of all, the time before him was his own, to make amends in!

“I will live in the Past, the Present and the Future,” Snape repeated, wondering at how easily these words passed his lips – he did not sneer them, did not scowl as he spoke them, no! – he meant them! Meant them from the bottom of his heart, and would never forget them as long as he lived.

Never had Snape’s silent chambers seen so lively a morning! Their occupant rushed to and fro, pulled garments out of the wardrobe, throwing them hither and thither in his search for the festive blue robes that had been a gift from his friend, his first love, Lily. There they were, and they fit him still!

“Ha!” cried Snape. “She always said that I looked good in blue.”

And he did – quite a dashing sight! The lank black hair was tied back with a ribbon, and there stood another wizard where the bat of the dungeons had been – an elegant and mysterious gentleman, quite ready to leave his abode and take part in this merriest of feasts, the celebration of Yule!

And leave Snape did – he sprinted down the gloomy corridors of his dungeons, lighting torches in their brackets as he went, his smile bright enough so that no artificial illumination would have been necessary at all! Down another corridor – past a clanking suit of armor which shrank back in fright – up the stairs – into the Great Hall!

The sight of the majestic Christmas trees, adorned with hundreds of glittering lights, filled him with sheer joy. How had he never seen their beauty before? Why had he worried about the needles on the floor which caught in his robes, about the students who would secretly put up ornaments that resembled teachers’ faces? Wasn’t it a grand joke?

Snape laughed out loud, and belatedly noticed a group of Hufflepuff first-years who were staring at him as if they’d seen a ghost. Seen a ghost! Wasn’t it funny? Snape broke into laughter once more, and the Hufflepuffs fled, running as fast as they could for the stairs to their dormitory. Snape wanted to call after them, but found himself breathless with laughter. And did it feel good? I can assure you, gentle reader, that it did.

There – two students from his own House! Seventh-years who had opted to stay at the school for the Christmas break.

“Miss Webster – Mr. McCulloch – what day is today?”

Miss Webster stared at him with wide eyes. “Um, it’s Christmas, sir?”

“Christmas Day! What a fortunate coincidence, isn’t it?”

These words – and perhaps the wide smile that accompanied them – seemed to frighten the two students out of their wits.

“Professor,” McCulloch began tentatively, “are you feeling okay?”

“Okay!” cried Snape. “Better than that – much better! I’d go as far as to say that I feel splendid – really splendid!”

The two Slytherins shared a look.

“Maybe you should come with us to the hospital wing, sir,” suggested Miss Webster. “You, er, don’t seem quite yourself…”

“And I’m not!” laughed Snape. “Not myself, and better off for it! Here-” he tossed a bag full of Galleons to McCulloch, who caught it as a reflex -  “do me a favor and go down to Hogsmeade, and see if Honeydukes will do a special order! I want sweets delivered to every common room, and Zonko’s Lucky Bags for every student who signed up to stay for the holidays! I would go myself, but I have an owl to send to the Werewolf Protection Association! Fifty points to Slytherin if you get it done within the hour!”

McCulloch looked from the purse in his hand to his teacher. “Are you quite sure, sir?”

“Of course, of course! Oh, and have five pounds of assorted chocolates delivered to the staff room – I daresay my dear colleagues need a cheerer-upper!”

“Um… yes, sir, Professor Snape,” replied the two dumbfounded students, and made haste to retreat to a safe distance. “We’ll – we’ll take care of it.”

“Splendid! Splendid! You’ll excuse me now – but I shall see you at the feast tonight, and do make sure you keep the change, for your troubles! I hear Madam Puddifoot offers excellent eggnog at this time of year – just what the ladies like, Mr. McCulloch!”

He winked at the young man, who blushed furiously and avoided pretty Miss Webster’s eyes. Snape smiled at this – indeed, there was little that could now draw a smile from him on this fine, fine morning! There was so much he had to do, every task a greater pleasure than the last! He hurried across the hall towards the stairs, unaware of his students’ eyes following him with an expression of the greatest astonishment a Slytherin ever showed in public.

Two hours later found Snape striding down a narrow lane close to Diagon Alley. Nothing had changed about the place – the little, well-kept houses – the carefully swept pavement – the modest but cheerful decorations the inhabitants of Rustic Alley had hung in their windows. The street was the same, but the man who strode purposefully toward his destination had changed beyond all recognition. He looked merrily about, smiled at a group of children who were having a snowball fight, stopped to pet a cat, laughed out loud at the two duelling snowmen an inventive sculptor had set up in his front garden! Snape had never enjoyed a morning as he did this one, and the bundle under his arm made him feel even merrier, gleeful with anticipation. Oh, how he was looking forward to their faces!

He finally came to a halt in front of a green door and rung the bell. Just before the door was opened, he paused and endeavoured to put on his worst scowl, as near as he could feign it. He, who had been the master of scowls and sneers, found it hard to muster even a frown!

Harry Potter opened the door, his smile fading to a startled expression when he beheld his employer. “Professor Snape!”

“Potter!” spat Snape. “What do you mean by not coming in to work?”

“But – sir!” stuttered the poor man. “You – you said I could have the day off!”

“And you believe that is an acceptable excuse? How like your father you are! Well, Potter, I’m not going to stand for this slipshod attitude any longer, and I’ve come here to tell you-“ -with this he drew menacingly forward- “-that I’m going to double your salary!”

Potter blinked. “S-sir?”

“I’ll double your salary!” laughed Snape. “And don’t think about coming in until New Year’s Eve – you’ll want to spend the time with your family!”

“Sir,” said Potter, coming forward as if to support Snape, should he suddenly pass out. “Are you feeling quite alright?”

“Fine, I feel fine! Here-” With this, he took a tiny box out of his pocket and cast an Enlargement Charm on it. “I think you may find a use for this.”

Hands trembling, Potter took the wooden box and carefully lifted its lid. Inside, neatly lined up, were a bottle of Nerve Restoring Potion and year’s worth of Advanced Wolfsbane.

The poor father nearly dropped the box. “Sir! Why-”

Snape held up a hand. “The only ‘why’ involved, Potter, is why I didn’t give you this far earlier. For this I apologize. I have released the recipe to the WPA today and the potion should be available in every apothecary soon, but don’t let me hear you’ve been going to Slug and Jiggers for little Albus’ supply. I insist on brewing that personally.”

“Professor Snape?” Ginny had arrived, just in time to hear the last few words. “Is there a problem?”

“Ginny!” Potter’s voice was choked. “Professor Snape’s given us Advanced Wolfsbane and – and Nerve Restoring Potion for Albus!”

Ginny’s pretty face paled at the news. “What-”

James chose this moment to poke his face around the door. “Oh,” he said, clearly intimidated by the sight of his father’s employer, but Snape smiled at the boy.

“Just the man I wanted to see, James!” He put his bundle on the doorstep and cast another Enlargement Charm. The fabric fell apart, and out rolled-

“A Firebolt Junior!” squealed James, all shyness forgotten. “Three of them!”

“To further your enjoyment of your winter holidays,” said Snape with a wink. “Give your brother and sister my best!”

His original plan had been to make his excuses and leave, but of course the Potters would have none of it. He was asked into the house, offered repeated thanks by the thunderstruck parents, which he firmly declined, and soon found himself in an armchair by the fire, being plied with mulled wine and home-made mince pies. Little Albus was speechless for an entire five minutes when presented with the Firebolt, then left the room and returned with a large chocolate Hippogriff.

“For you,” he said to Snape, and absolutely refused to take back what must have been an exceptional treat to the little boy. Snape eventually accepted it, after Harry had indicated behind Albus’ back that the boy would not take ‘no’ for an answer.

“How can we ever thank you enough?” asked Ginny when Snape finally made his leave.

“Thank me? For something I should have done years ago? Do not thank me. But – bring the children to work every now and then, Potter. I enjoy their company.”

“Professor,” said Harry, “won’t you stay for Christmas dinner? We’d love to have you.”

“Thank you very much,” said Snape, “but I’m afraid I have another engagement and must decline your kind offer.”

A last look at the little family at the door, waving him goodbye! And little Albus in their midst, alive and smiling, clutching his new broom! What better sight could there be – what better Christmas present could he give himself?

Snape went on, elated as he hadn’t been in years, to his final destination. He lingered an entire ten minutes in front of the door before he could summon the courage to knock. Perhaps – perhaps no one was at home! Perhaps he was too late!

But no! The door opened and revealed his godson, attired in his very best and looking rather festive.

“Uncle Severus!” exclaimed Draco. “You came!”

“I have,” said Snape, and felt rather timid all of a sudden. “I’ve come to dinner if – if the invitation still stands.”

Draco broke into a smile, a sight that would have made many a young witch swoon and which lifted his godfather’s heart tremendously. “Of course it still stands – come in, come in!”

And they were there, all of them – Astoria, little Scorpius who ran forward to show his picture to ‘Uncle Sev’, Blaise, Crabbe, Goyle, Miss Parkinson, all with smiles on their faces to greet their old teacher!

“Merry Yule feast, Godfather,” said Draco, and Snape vowed that he would never, as long as he lived, fail to answer this greeting.

“A merry Yule feast to you to, godson of mine – to all of you!”

###

Snape was better than his word. He did not return to his old ways, and to little Albus, who did NOT die, he was a dear uncle and honorary godfather. He became as good a friend, as good a teacher and as good a man as Hogwarts had ever known. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset (and besides, he could always send a Stinging Hex their way; he was not a Slytherin for nothing). His own heart laughed, and that was quite enough for him.

He had no further encounters with ghosts (except those that are at home in Hogwarts castle), and it was said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if anyone possessed the knowledge. May the same be said of us, and especially of you, gentle readers, who have shown so much patience with an old man’s wheezing waffle and long-winded story-telling. And so, with my purposes met and on my way back to the Beyond, I shall offer you one last greeting and wish you a very merry Christmas, joining my little namesake in his announcement: Merlin bless us, every one!

I remain as ever, your faithful servant and meddling old coot,

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore