"MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!"

The cat's repeated yowls echoed eerily up the grand staircase of Hogwarts castle as Mrs. Norris stood guard over her find.

"MEOW! MEOW!"

Argus Filch shuffled quickly along the corridor, his familiar's voice sounding louder as he approached the entrance hall.

"What is it, my sweet?" the caretaker crooned in his roughened voice. "What have you found?"

"MEOW!" Mrs. Norris' lamplit eyes glowed orange as she poked her head around the plinth of one of the castle's winged boar statues. "MEOW!" Seeing that Filch had spotted her, Mrs. Norris disappeared again, obviously expecting her owner to follow and investigate.

Filch did not disappoint his cat. He pursued his feline companion around the statue and stopped dead, a wonderfully fiendish smile curling his cracked lips up over stained, crooked teeth. "Good girl," he murmured in delight, staring down at the cat, whose tail twitched in triumph as she sat by the downed forms of two sizeable Slytherin miscreants.

After giving his pet a fond pat on the head, Filch stepped out into the entrance hall and nabbed a passing Hufflepuff Fourth Year who was just leaving the Great Hall. The wide-eyed girl listened to his whispered instructions, nodded, and ran off toward the dungeons.

Several minutes later, Severus Snape billowed into view and followed Filch's pointing finger to the situation sprawling on the stone floor.

"MEOW!" Mrs. Norris greeted the Potions Master, then sniffed significantly at the large Second Years lying on the cold stones.

Snape's brows drew together in an angry black line as he surveyed the unconscious students from his own house.

With a wordless nod to Filch, the dark man cast Levitation Charms on the boys and began directing their unconscious forms to float up the staircase. At the three wizards reached the third floor and headed down the corridor toward the Hospital Wing, Snape heard a final echoing "MEOW" filtering up from below. Snorting to himself something that could have been a commentary on fleas and furballs, the man floated the Slytherin students through the double doors to the hospital ward.

"Why, Professor Snape!" exclaimed Poppy Pomfrey, scurrying past with a loaded tray. "What – or whom – do you have there?"

Before Snape could respond, the Medi-witch disappeared behind a concealing curtain, and he could hear a low exchange of feminine voices. Within the minute, Pomfrey reappeared, her tray now empty.

"Oh, just put them over there," the woman said quickly as she spotted the still-floating boys. Her hand waved vaguely toward the opposite side of the ward from that containing the curtained-off bed. She rushed into her office and began pulling out glass vials from a cabinet.

Snape obligingly dropped Vincent Crabbe onto the nearest bed, and Gregory Goyle landed atop the next bed. Neither appeared on the verge of regaining consciousness.

"My, my…" Madam Pomfrey emerged from her office, the tray reloaded. "And what has happened?" Her wand was already out as she approached the newest patients.

"Mr. Filch found them unconscious, lying on the floor, not far from the entrance to the Great Hall."

Pomfrey ran a quick diagnostic on Crabbe, frowned, then repeated it. Balancing the tray expertly, she whirled and repeated her motions over the bed containing Goyle.

"Hmphh…" And then she was off, scurrying back down the ward toward the curtained bed.

Snape followed. Hmphh? That was … unexpected.

But Pomfrey was already returning, trayless.

"About my Slytherins – "

"They're not unconscious, Severus," Pomfrey said. "Not technically, that is, although they're certainly dead to the world."

"I don't understand," Snape stated flatly.

"They're asleep!" Pomfrey told him, now running a more detailed diagnostic scan on Crabbe.

"What!"

"Asleep," Pomfrey repeated, now reassessing Goyle. "And drugged. A very powerful sleeping potion, if I'm not mistaken."

Snape looked at her in disbelief. "How – ?"

Pomfrey illuminated her wand and carefully examined the boys closely, then took a small cloth and wiped Goyle's lips. A dark smear stained the pristine fabric. She collected a second sample from Crabbe, carefully sniffing the fabric. "Smells like chocolate," she announced. "They may have ingested the potion inadvertently."

"You think?" Snape's voice sounded hard.

Pomfrey snorted, although her snort sounded more ladylike than Snape's own. "I seriously doubt they'd drug themselves with sleeping potion outside the Great Hall. Don't you agree, Severus?"

The Potions Master rolled his eyes. "As dense as these two are… Well, perhaps not," he conceded reluctantly. "But, then, who DID drug them?"

"That's for you to find out," Pomfrey replied, sounding irritated. "I have another patient to tend to." She flicked her wand several times, and the Slytherin boys were pajama-ed and tucked under the covers of their respective beds. "Nothing to do but let them sleep it off, I'm afraid. They should make it down to breakfast tomorrow," she assured Snape.

The Medi-witch hurried down the ward to the curtained bed once more.

After a moment's hesitation, Snape followed more slowly, his trailing ebony robes whispering across the worn stones. He stopped before reaching the curtained-off bed, respecting the privacy of the unseen female patient. But he needed a further word with Poppy Pomfrey – a word, and two blood samples. And those chocolate-stained cloths. One way or another, he intended to get to the bottom of this.

A chuckle from behind the curtain caught Snape's attention. A MALE chuckle. But earlier, he'd distinctly heard a female voice coming from that private cubicle…

"Wait right there," Pomfrey's voice ordered.

"Well, she's hardly going to go around the castle like this, Ma'am."

A MALE VOICE. A very FAMILIAR male voice!

Pomfrey popped through the curtain and Snape caught a glimpse of red hair hovering over the bed. Without any warning, Snape abruptly thrust his black-buttoned sleeve through the aperture between the curtains and tugged on the elbow belonging to the red hair…

"Weasley!"

Ron Weasley yelped as Snape yanked him past the curtains.

"Professor! Really!" admonished Pomfrey, before she scurried away to her office again.

A familiar black mop appeared from beyond the far side of the cubicle.

"Potter!"

Both Gryffindors' eyes bulged with trepidation, it seemed to Snape. And their expressions appeared unaccountably guilty. But then – they were Gryffindors, after all. And Gryffindors were always Up To Something which necessitated experiencing a guilty conscience!

"Uh … hi, Professor," Harry Potter said rather weakly. Of all the rotten luck…

Potter. Weasley. Snape's black eyes flicked to the closed curtains. An unseen female. His lips tightened. Granger, obviously. Then he frowned. TWO trays of Potion vials? What the hell was WRONG with Granger?

He made to step forward, but Weasley flung his slight body in front of him to block the tall man's way.

"You can't go in there!" shouted Ron, his voice sounding desperate. If Snape found out … everything…

The Potions Master raised an eyebrow.

"You can't go in there!" Ron repeated. "It's a – it's a – "

"It's a FEMALE thing!" blurted Harry. He'd heard Aunt Petunia put off Uncle Vernon's inquisitiveness on more than one occasion by voicing that very phrase. "A female thing," he reiterated firmly.

"A female thing?" Snape said silkily. "But the two of you were in with her, were you not?" Determined to see exactly what Potter and Weasley seemed equally determined to prevent him from seeing, Snape shoved Weasley aside and pulled open the curtain.

And Snape LAUGHED!

And LAUGHED!

And LAUGHED, LAUGHED, LAUGHED, LAUGHED!

Hermione Granger glared fiercely at him from a black-furred cat's face and Snape LAUGHED!

Hermione's pointed black ears flattened down in fury and Snape LAUGHED!

Doubled over with the unexpected assailing mirth, Severus Snape staggered sideways, groping for the nearest hard-backed visitor's chair. When he found it, he collapsed awkwardly upon it, his long legs sprawling forward while his head dangled backwards over the chair's top bar. The echoes of his helpless laughter hurtled from wall to wall, rebounding upon themselves time and again.

Snape finally had to wipe tears – TEARS! – from the corners of his eyes, and still he laughed!

Madam Pomfrey returned, tsk-tsking as she passed Snape, and even that struck him as unaccountably hilarious, so he laughed some more, gasping a bit now as he struggled to undo some of the buttons down the front of his coat.

When he had finally caught his breath, Snape snorted loudly. "A FEMALE thing?" he sneered. "Looks more like a FELINE thing, if you ask me."

"Nobody asked you, Severus," Pomfrey stated coldly. "Now please leave my patient in peace. She's already suffered a severe trauma without your interference." When the man seemed disinclined to move from the chair, the Medi-witch gave his shoulder a firm shake. "Go. Away. NOW. You may check on your Slytherins tomorrow, if they don't make it to breakfast."

Slowly, Snape got to his feet, his coat hanging open over his black waistcoat.

"A female feline thing," he said, glancing from Potter to Weasley and back. "I know the two of you had something to do with this," he said, pointing at Granger, his voice finally returning to the threatening baritone they knew so well. "And there will be a reckoning," he promised.

With that black pall hanging satisfactorily over the Golden Trio, Snape took his leave, his robes chuckling in his wake. He spared the barest of glances at Crabbe and Goyle as he passed their beds and exited the Hospital Wing.

He'd made it halfway to the staircase before the memory caught up to him. Growling audibly, Snape whirled and stalked back to the infirmary. His robes whipped at his heels as he stormed through the doors.

Over Madam Pomfrey's bent shoulder, Hermione saw him coming and let out a squeak. Harry and Ron spun around just in time for the Potions Master to grasp their forearms in his relentless grip.

"Professor – ?" Harry gasped out.

"Explain to me … please…" Snape hissed, "why the two of you are attired in SLYTHERIN uniforms!"

The Gryffindor boys gulped fearfully, and the bedridden cat whimpered.

-:- -:- -:-

"At least Snape believed we were just being Gryffindor idiots, dosing Crabbe and Goyle," Ron said glumly, as he watched Harry packing his school trunk. "If he'd known we'd actually managed to get into the Slytherin Common Room…"

"I suppose," mumbled Harry. "But I really think he went overboard in the punishment."

"Yeah," Ron nodded. "A hundred points apiece from Gryffindor, and I get attached to Percy-the-Prefect round the clock for the remainder of the holidays. Percy is NOT pleased, and that's putting it mildly." He sighed. "I'd bet a hundred galleons, if I had them, that Mum will send a Howler to breakfast tomorrow morning."

Harry kicked angrily at his bedpost. "What about me? Snape himself is escorting me to the Dursleys' house for the rest of the holidays. I'm feeling sick at the very thought." The black-haired boy wrapped his arms around his middle. "I really really REALLY don't want to go." He closed the trunk lid over the last of his belongings. "And I can't imagine how they'll react when I show up on their doorstep without any warning. But it won't be good."

Ron's red head nodded solemnly. "Yeah. Especially after they didn't even want you coming back to school this year." He frowned in concern. "Do you … do you think they put the bars back up on your window?"

Harry shrugged. "Guess I'll find out," he said gloomily.

"Potter!"

Both Second Years jumped as the Potions Master's voice jarred the peace of their dormitory. The twisting stairwell in the tower didn't seem to reduce Snape's sharpness as his demand for Harry's presence rose upwards from the Gryffindor Common Room.

"I'm coming!" Harry shouted. More quietly, to Ron, he added, "I am so doomed."

"I'll walk down with you," Ron said staunchly, and he followed Harry's trunk as it bumped down step after worn step.

Snape was waiting impatiently by the portrait door. "Hurry UP, Potter."

Dragging his trunk a bit faster, Harry headed for the Fat Lady's portrait, but he stopped long enough to look back at Ron before entering the seventh floor corridor. "Happy Christmas, Ron."

"You, too, mate. And good luck."

Snape's talon-like fingers grasped Harry's bicep and pulled him through the doorway. "MOVE, Potter."

Harry looked back one last time as Snape hustled him away toward Dumbledore's office. Ron was still standing in the open doorway, and Harry heard Percy's strident voice ringing from within the Common Room: "Ronald Weasley, don't even THINK about leaving my sight!" Ron gave an exaggerated shrug for Harry's benefit before stepping back inside the Common Room.

Silently, Harry accompanied the dour Potions professor to the Headmaster's office. At first, the boy had been surprised to learn that they were to Floo to the Leaky Cauldron, rather than travel to London via the Hogwarts Express, but he didn't complain. While the train was fun when he was in the company of his friends, he could barely force himself to imagine the horror of being shut in a small compartment with Severus Snape for hours on end. As much as Harry dreaded going to Number 4 Privet Drive for the holidays, if he HAD to go – with Snape, no less – better to just get it over with quickly.

And so they did, emerging from the Floo in the crowded wizard pub only seconds after leaving Dumbledore's office. Snape barely gave Harry the time to wave to Tom, the bartender, before they entered the tiny courtyard outside Diagon Alley. Before Harry could realize that the man in black did not intend to enter the Alley itself, Snape grimaced as if he'd bitten a lemon and pulled Harry tightly against his billowing robes before whirling like a midnight cyclone.

The world spun, melted, contracted, and spat Harry out in the alley near Wisteria Walk in Little Whinging. The first thing he spotted was some of Dudley's graffiti on a neighbor's rubbish bin. Startled, he stumbled backward and tripped over a corner of his trunk, which Snape held in a tight grip.

"Wha – what just happened?" Harry gasped. "How did we get here?" He turned wide green eyes upward to meet those of his teacher. "Professor?"

Snape snorted, but his voice did not sound amused. "We Apparated, Potter. It's a means of Magical travel." He thrust the trunk toward the boy, who automatically grabbed the handle.

"Why didn't we do that from Hogwarts, then?"

"Too far," Snape said tersely. "Do you know where we are?"

Harry nodded.

"Then lead the way."

Obediently, Harry moved off, although he couldn't help the slowness of his footsteps.

The Dursleys would be SO angry to see him back for Christmas…

"Professor, could we please go back to the castle?" Harry asked, no – begged – in a low, urgent voice. "Please? I'll do anything – any detention you want to give me, no matter how long it lasts. Please?" He looked up at Snape and stopped short, stunned that the man was now attired Muggle-style in beige slacks with an insulated russet nylon jacket zipped closed against the December chill.

Snape's face, however, remained utterly implacable. "Nonsense, Potter. You are exiled to Surrey until the beginning of spring term."

"But, sir! I'll do ANYTHING! Please … don't leave me here. Not with … them." Harry's voice trailed off miserably as he stared into the man's bottomless black eyes.

Snape didn't even bother to respond this time. He simply shoved Harry's spine, propelling him forward past the gaily-lit houses of the neighborhood which the boy had hoped to leave behind until next summer. Neatly-pruned shrubs boasted Christmas lights, and beribboned wreaths festooned every door they passed. Behind proper sheers, more Christmas lights shone fuzzily within every lounge window, illuminating artificial Christmas trees weighed down by the latest designer ornaments, thick ribbons, shining garlands, and faux icicles. The very sight of all this electric joy depressed Harry to no end.

"Privet Drive," Snape announced all too soon, looking away from the boy's beseeching gaze as he read the street sign. "Let's go."

They seemed to reach Number 4 in no time, even with Harry literally dragging his feet against Snape's grip on his elbow. Uncle Vernon had undertaken his usual lighting spree, winding blinking lights around the outdoor lamp post, up the small fir tree next to the drive, along the border of every window overlooking the street, and added a jolly St. Nick, complete with glowing sleigh and reindeer to the tiny front lawn. Aunt Petunia had outdone herself, hanging the largest wreath yet upon the front door – the pungent scent of fresh-cut evergreen permeated the air over the porch, and the wreath itself sagged beneath the addition of heavy apples, oranges, and pears. Momentarily distracted, Harry wondered how the real fruits managed not to rot, but perhaps Petunia kept replacing them every day or so?

"Please, Professor!" he begged again, his eyes staring worriedly up through his glasses. "Please don't leave me here! Please!"

Snape's hand hesitated before his finger pressed the doorbell, which was nearly lost amidst the prickly surround of shiny holly leaves.

"Please!"

Those green eyes…

Snape looked determinedly away and rapped sharply on the door.

"Please, Professor!"

The door opened.

"Boy!"

Harry gulped. This was even WORSE than he'd imagined…

"Aunt Marge?" he whispered in horrified disbelief. "What are … what are you doing here?"

"I've come to stay for Christmas, of course." Her moustached lip curled up disdainfully against the underside of her nose. "Why are YOU lurking about on my brother's front step? You're supposed to be in that juvenile detention center until next summer, aren't you?"

She waved a hand to emphasize her question, and to Harry's dismay, he saw she was waving a wine glass, sloshing the dark red contents onto Petunia's expensive carpeting. Obviously, not her first glass of the evening. Not to mention, an opened bottle dangled from her other hand… Desperately, he tried one last entreaty. "Professor, could we PLEASE just go back to the school? PLEASE?"

Snape was frowning now. But he addressed himself to the swaying Muggle instead of responding to the boy's question. "I am Severus Snape. It was my duty to escort Potter to his relatives' home for the Christmas holidays. May I inquire as to your identity, madam? You do not appear to be Petunia Dursley."

Marge let out a guffaw that had Harry automatically checking over his shoulders for eavesdroppers at the neighbors' houses. Vernon – and especially Petunia – would never do anything to attract negative attention, if they could help it. But Marge kept weaving on her feet in the open doorway, punctuating her words with the sloshing wineglass. "Petunia!" she blasted. "I should say not! I'm Marge!"

Snape's lips tightened. "Is Petunia or Vernon Dursley at home? I should like to speak to them."

Marge laughed loudly, and Harry heard several doors opening across the street. Her unrestrained belch caused Snape to wince, and Harry could hear distant snickers…

"I repeat – Is Petunia or Vernon Dursley at home?"

"Nope." To the wizards' disgust, Marge actually swigged from the wine bottle. "Out Christmas shopping." She leaned forward and peered closely at the dark man. "Your hair REALLY wants washing."

Just let me die, Harry thought hopelessly. Just let me die. Because Snape will kill me anyway.

He could actually FEEL the anger radiating from Snape's body, a faint magical sizzle dancing across the boy's skin as the Potions Master attempted to maintain sufficient control not to hex Marge Dursley all the way into the New Year.

"Here they come!" shouted Marge, gesturing streetward with the wineglass, which suddenly left her empty-handed as it sailed across the porch and landed in a bed of winter pansies lining the front walk.

Harry and Snape turned to watch the Dursleys' vehicle turn awkwardly off the street into their drive. Vernon glared fixedly at his nephew, while Petunia stared in horror at the cluster of neighbors gawking at her house, and Dudley laughed and pointed at Marge's wineglass upended among the pansies.

"Professor, PLEASE … PLEASE take me back to Hogwarts. PLEASE."

Against his will, Severus Snape looked down at Potter. Those emerald eyes had glued their desperate gaze to his soul.

"Please, Professor! I'll do ANYTHING…"

Potter…

"BOY!"

Vernon Dursley's moustache stood practically on end as he stomped toward his front door. Petunia fluttered behind, her hands making shooing motions toward the neighbors, then toward the figures on her own porch. Dudley waddled along in their wake; having retrieved the wineglass, he now kept swiping his fingertip over the inside to gather droplets of merlot to sample.

"BOY! What the devil are you doing here?"

"Mr. Dursley?" Snape stepped into the angry man's path. "I am Professor Severus Snape. I teach at Potter's school, and I – " He hesitated as Vernon's face paled abruptly before returning to a furious shade of crimson. "I have brought Potter home for Christmas. He will not return to school until classes resume in January."

"NO!" Vernon's shout echoed up and down the length of Privet Drive.

Snape jerked involuntarily at the man's unexpectedly loud protest. "I beg your pardon?"

"No, I said! Absolutely NOT! That BOY will NOT be in our home for Christmas! We'll not have his – FREAKISHNESS – spoiling our holiday! Take him away!"

"Vernon! Shh! The neighbors will hear!"

Snape noticed that while Petunia tried to quiet her husband, her angry eyes never left Potter's slight form shuffling uneasily under her glare.

"Professor, please…"

How could Potter imbue a whisper with such agonized desperation? Squaring his shoulders, Snape turned to leave. "We shall expect his return by train on January ninth." For some reason, he felt compelled to add, "If Potter does NOT arrive on schedule, OUR PEOPLE will come here to conduct an investigation." Not surprisingly, the Dursleys' jaws opened and closed spasmodically. But as for Potter – rather than appearing reassured, the boy's shoulders slumped and any light of hope faded from his emerald eyes, before he hung his head and stared down at the porch beneath his worn trainers.

Snape swept down the front walk, and the pansies rippled as if caught in a draft of trailing robes, even though the man wore only slacks and a jacket. He looked back once. Just once. But it was enough to see Potter shoved roughly through the front door by his uncle. Kicking his conscience every step of the way, the dark man exited Privet Drive to Apparate back to the Leaky Cauldron.

Inside Number 4, Harry braced himself. He was on his own. Despite all of his pleading to the contrary, Snape had left him to the unlikely mercy of the Dursleys.

-:- -:- -:-

An hour before sunset on Christmas Eve, Harry stumbled through the deserted park nearly a mile from Privet Drive. His mind absently processed what his bleary eyes saw – an icy rim lining the perimeter of the duck pond, though the center remained darkly unfrozen; a whirlwind of birds warming themselves with frantic flight before settling in for the cold night; scraps of bright giftwrap and a trailing ribbon littering the stark ground beside a wooden bench.

Had it not been for the gift wrap, Harry would have collapsed onto the bench. As it was, the signs of recent human presence grated on his raw nerves, and he forced himself farther on, slumping down at last onto a grassy spot sheltered by three evergreens. Painfully, he drew his legs up beneath him, sitting cross-legged, elbows on knees, palms gently supporting his aching head.

The past few days since his arrival in Little Winging had proven horrific. Aunt Marge, of course, had taken the smallest bedroom during her extended stay, so Harry had ended up sleeping back in his old cupboard under the stairs. In fact, unless Harry was actively "being useful" by performing specific chores, he'd been ordered to STAY in the cupboard at all times, so as not to "inconvenience" Aunt Petunia's various groups of guests who came by daily to enjoy her "Christmas hospitality". The boy could only listen to their inane conversational drivel through the brass vent in the cupboard door while he sat silently, nursing the latest batch of bruises inflicted by Uncle Vernon, Dudley, or occasionally Petunia herself. The only bright spot in the dark dungeon of his exile lay in the fact that Ripper had been left to board in a kennel over the holidays, so he didn't have to worry about being bitten by Aunt Marge's vicious little fiend. And, he had to admit, at least the cupboard prevented Marge's constant haranguing , since Petunia feared the parade of visitors witnessing her sister-in-law flinging invective at a closed cupboard door.

But it was the latest skirmish with Dudley which had sent him fleeing Number 4 on Christmas Eve. Harry suspected his left arm must be broken, and possibly a rib or two, along with a badly blackened eye which was now swollen nearly shut. Harry had garnered these token of familial contempt when Marge complained that Harry had taken too long washing his face in the bathroom, and Dudley had obliged her request that he "take care of the matter" by punching Harry's clean face before shoving him backwards down the stairs.

Given that Petunia's latest round of guests had arrived just in time to see him tumble down and land sprawling at the foot of the steps, Harry had forced himself to his feet and excused his abrupt exit past the twittering feminine chorus of "Are you quite all right?" and "Poor lad!" Aunt Petunia would never forgive him for landing amidst her arriving guests in such an uncouth fashion, so he beat a hasty retreat down Privet Drive and around the corner. With no particular goal in mind, he'd stumbled along until he reached the deserted park.

Carefully heaving a shallow sigh against the pain in his ribs, Harry finally looked up and focused on the sunset as he tried to regroup. Did the Restriction against underage wizards using magic outside of school apply to healing injuries? He'd suffered other injuries in the years before going to Hogwarts, and his relatives had always freaked when he healed "abnormally" fast. But that just happened – he'd never consciously attempted to heal himself. Would a conscious attempt even work? And if it did, could he get into trouble for it?

Harry blinked rapidly as the sunset colors swam before him. Maybe he'd better play it safe and not even try. If he healed overnight in his cupboard while he was sleeping, maybe the Ministry of Magic wouldn't consider it a deliberate violation. But healing in the cupboard would necessitate his returning to the Dursleys, and they'd be so ANGRY to see him darken their doorway once again…

Wiping his eyes, Harry concentrated on the delicate outlines of the tree branches silhouetted blackly against the colorful southwestern sky. A myriad of crisscrossed thick limbs, smaller branches, and crooked twigs traced starkly-beautiful random patterns upon the glowing heavens.

Like black lace, Harry thought, smiling slightly at the whimsical imagery. Black lace against the winter sunset.

Winter lace!

That was it, Harry decided. He'd admired the lacy evening silhouettes every winter, but he'd never bothered to put a name to it until now. Winter lace. Winter lace against the warm hues of the frigid December sky.

The boy sat silently, absorbing the meeting of earth and sky as the heavenly colors shifted from brilliant gold to a deeper tangerine, then segued into his favorite sunset color – flaming pink – before fading a bit toward a softer rose, then quiet violet… Superimposed over the play of light, the black patterns of winter lace remained steadfast, firmly anchored to the earth even as the trees stretched up to touch the glowing glory from above.

Eventually, the streetlights flickered on along the streets lining the park. Then the public Christmas tree burst into artificial brilliance, its multicolored electric lights reflecting in the rippling waters of the duck pond. Car headlights glowed in passing as last-minute shoppers headed toward their festively-decorated homes.

Harry shook his head. Nothing manmade could possibly rival the natural beauty of the lace-lined sunset. As the last of the evening light faded, the tree branches gradually lost themselves against the clear night sky, where the first stars of Christmas Eve began to appear.

It would have been so perfect, Harry thought, if he'd been anywhere but Surrey. Why, oh, why, had Snape left him on the Dursleys' doorstep?

Why…

-:- -:- -:-

Many miles away, in the isolated warmth of his dungeon quarters at Hogwarts, Severus Snape kept asking himself, why, oh why, had he left Potter on the Dursleys' doorstep? Why…

Something was wrong with Potter's situation. He KNEW it!

He'd known it then, and still he'd just left the green-eyed brat with those Muggles. He should have taken him away… That drunken Marge – AUNT Marge? Obviously from the huge husband's side of the family… And Petunia had always been quite nasty in general, but especially regarding all things magical. Snape snorted contemptuously. He doubted the woman's outlook had improved with age. And the … large … boy – some sort of cousin to Potter, wasn't he? Definitely took after the bad-tempered man in more ways than one. Snape sipped his firewhiskey, contemplating. After all the years he'd dealt with children, there was something about the large boy which set off alarm bells. If the boy hadn't been Muggle, he would have been a Slytherin, without a doubt…

The firewhiskey warmed a slow trail to the Potions Master's stomach.

What really bothered him was not being able to discern Potter's true reasons for why he didn't want to be left at Number 4 Privet Drive. He had attempted a mild form of Legilimency toward the end, peering intently into Potter's pleading green eyes, but the boy's mind had blocked his inquiry… Not consciously, obviously, but as a result of having to hide details of his home life from other, more overt, intrusions, probably over a period of years.

Snape took too large a swallow and sputtered a bit.

He'd tried skimming through Potter's mind, to no avail, and was left with the same plaguing questions. WHY did Potter want to leave his family? Why would he BEG for detention at school, as opposed to spending Christmas at home? Oddly, he could not penetrate Potter's mind about anything regarding Number 4, although he HAD seen Potter envisioning detention upon detention, scrubbing cauldrons and floors, preparing Potions ingredients, cleaning bedpans, writing enough lines to fill the Hogwarts library… But NOTHING whatsoever concerning his aversion to the Dursleys.

Snape's sense of unease grew. At the time, standing on the Dursleys' porch, he'd thought he couldn't possibly take Potter back to Hogwarts, not after INSISTING to Dumbledore that Potter be banished from the castle until classes resumed in January. He'd have looked quite the fool, and Severus Snape never deliberately took any action which would result in his looking foolish. It was bad enough, as he well knew, to be MADE to look foolish by other … parties.

But those green eyes kept staring at him…

Pleading…

The messy black hair, the oversized clothes – large enough to have fit the bloated cousin – the worn trainers, the skinny frame… All in such contrast to the wealthy, well-dressed Dursleys…

He sipped again, considering. If Potter could HIDE his thoughts… Well enough to prevent Snape from seeing what Potter feared to even THINK of…

The memory of those emerald eyes – so like his mother's – fixed desperately upon his own… "Please, Professor! I'll do ANYTHING!"

Snape swore and flung his half-drunk firewhiskey into the smoldering embers in the grate. He'd left Potter several days ago… It might already be too late! He grabbed a handful of Floo powder and cast it down, shouting, "The Leaky Cauldron!"

He emerged from the emerald flames into the dim light of the pub. Nodding to Tom, the Potions Master billowed into the tiny courtyard and Disapparated.

Seconds later, he billowed up the front walk of Number 4 Privet Drive. The door was just opening and a gaggle of chattering women spilled from the house into the lamplit dusk, calling over their shoulders to their frazzled hostess, "Oh, I do hope you find the poor boy soon" and "Such an awful tumble he took" and "I'm sure I saw him BLEEDING as he ran out the door", and – whispered loudly to one another – "I can't believe Petunia doesn't even seem to CARE!"

Snape absorbed the hubbub as he pushed his way past the women, forcing them to detour into the pansies on either side.

"Well, REALLY!"

"Who could he possibly BE?"

"Never thought Petunia was one to keep such rude company!"

"Did you see that CAPE dragging along?"

Petunia Dursley hadn't quite managed to close the front door to Number 4 upon her own mortification before Snape forced it open again.

"Who? What – ? YOU!" Petunia shrank backwards from the angry wizard. "Snape! How DARE you enter my home!"

Snape waved aside her outraged question as irrelevant. "Where's Potter?"

The woman's lip curled disdainfully before she sneered, "How should I know?"

The Potions Master leaned down to glare into her face. "Potter is your NEPHEW. You were ENTRUSTED with his CARE. Surely, a caring aunt should know where her nephew is, don't you think?"

Petunia sniffed dismissively. "Well, sorry to disappoint you, but that fr – boy – does as he pleases. He's nothing but trouble. Always has been. We're better off when he's not around, so I really can't be bothered to trouble myself over his whereabouts."

Before Snape could reply, a new voice broke in.

"The ungrateful whelp ran out the door." Marge descended the carpeted stairs, flicking her thick fingers through the gold tinsel garland twined around the railing. "If you ask my opinion, my brother and his wife have treated him too well through the years. They should have just left him at an orphanage and washed their hands of him when he was still a baby. But look at him now – he throws their generosity back in their faces and runs out into the cold. THAT'S the kind of brat he is."

Marge looked Snape up and down. "It's been how many days, and you STILL haven't washed your hair?" She snorted in disgust. "You should be ashamed!"

Telling himself that the moustached Muggle bitch wasn't worth the magical energy required for a good hex, Snape focused his attention on Petunia. "So, Potter ran off? That's what you're saying?"

The pretentious woman shrugged. "Haven't you been listening?"

"And you don't know where?"

Petunia planted her hands on her hips. "You need to leave, Snape. Vernon will be home soon, and you'd better not be here when he arrives. Or else."

A nasty sneer curled the corners of the wizard's mouth. "Threatening me, Petunia?" he said softly. "Me? I would have thought you'd learned your lesson when we were children."

The Muggle paled. "Just get out of here, Snape. NOW."

"Not without Potter's belongings. Where is his room?"

Petunia hesitated. "Er – Marge is staying in it."

Snape's black eyes darted between the women. He silently withdrew his wand, ignoring Petunia's gasp of dismay.

"Point me Harry Potter's room." The wand swiveled upon his palm and pointed toward the stairs. He started up.

"You can't – "

But the wand overrode Petunia's protest, swiveling toward the banister railing, then tugging Snape's fingers downwards. Puzzled, he retreated to the ground floor and walked past the stairs. The wand whirled abruptly to point to a short door beneath the side of the steps. Curious, Snape bent to open it, noting the sliding bolt on the outside of the door. His expression darkened at what the bolt implied… Behind him, Petunia moaned.

But the cupboard under the stairs told its own story. Not only was Potter's trunk jammed beneath the treads, a small mattress lined the floor, topped by a thin blanket and several unlaundered changes of clothing, clearly recognizable as the rubbish which Potter habitually wore when not in his school uniform. In fact, the very shirt he'd worn several days earlier lay in a heap, and Snape's features tightened as he noticed fresh bloodstains on the shirt's front…

He backed out of the cupboard and glared fiercely at the Muggles. Waving his wand, he intoned, "Accio Harry Potter's belongings."

Most items zoomed from within the cupboard itself, but interestingly, several significant pieces swooped down the steps, including Potter's invisibility cloak, a photo album, and – of all things – Potter's wand. They must have been secreted somewhere upstairs – perhaps an attic? – where the Dursleys would be less likely to come across them. Mentally, Snape applauded the boy's rationale, but the idea of the boy carelessly wandering away from the warded property without his wand caused Snape to bristle irately.

The moustached aunt had shrunk against the wall, if it could be said that someone of her bulk could shrink at all, gasping as she saw Potter's belongings flying around on their own. Based on her reaction, the woman must never have been informed as to her "nephew's" magical nature. Well, he'd simply take care of that before taking his leave.

Noting that none of the wrapped gifts overflowing the carpet beneath the family's garishly-flashing Christmas tree had responded to his summons, the Potions Master forced down a new wave of anger. Presumably, the Dursleys did not intend any of those gifts for Potter. Snarling under his breath, Snape collected Potter's trunk and scant other belongings, shrank them, and tucked the results into a pocket of his trailing robes.

As he passed the women still trembling by the front door, he advised Petunia in his darkest tones, "Dumbledore WILL know of this." Pointing his wand into Marge's shocked face, he growled, "Obliviate!"

Severus Snape stepped out onto the porch just as Vernon Dursley's expensive car turned into his drive. Through the tinted glass, Snape could see the man's furious expression darken as the robes billowed down the Dursleys' front walk.

"Point me Harry Potter."

Ignoring the enraged Muggle struggling out of the car, Snape set off on foot, heading into the light of the dying sunset, following his wand's quivering tip.

-:- -:- -:-

Harry looked up dully as heavy footsteps traversed the darkened park, approaching his sanctuary within the three evergreens. His first thought of, Please don't let it be Dudley, was replaced with shock. "Snape?" he whispered in disbelief. Maybe Dudley had hit him so hard that he was hallucinating…

"Potter."

Harry sat, slack-jawed, staring at the thick robes trailing across the winter grass. "You came," he said inanely. "You came back…"

Although the park remained deserted, Snape looked quickly around to ascertain that they were unobserved by Muggles. He then Lumosed his wand and examined Potter's visible wounds, wondering how many more remained unseen. That led to him casting a diagnostic scan, which revealed a broken rib, another with a hairline fracture, multiple breaks in the left ulna, an assortment of contusions, and a mild concussion. In addition, the scan revealed the very beginning stages of hypothermia.

The man frowned at the silent boy. "You walked here all the way from your home?"

"It's NOT my home," Harry blurted out before he could stop himself. "It's … just where I live. Where I have to live. When I'm not at school, that is." He glowered, then added, "Yeah. I walked here. There was nowhere else to go."

Snape studied him quietly for a moment. "Well, you can't spend the night here in the park. You'll freeze before dawn. Come with me." He stood up and held out a hand to assist Harry to rise from the cold ground.

Utterly bemused, Harry accepted the proffered hand, not even questioning where they might be going. The possibility of the Leaky Cauldron crossed his mind. He knew Tom kept rooms upstairs for guests. But really, it was enough to know that Snape had come back. Some instinct told Harry that the man wouldn't take him back to the Dursleys.

The Potions Master pulled him close, and in a wink, the park vanished to be replaced by the interior of a small shed. The stale air, smelling of dust and dry cobwebs, hinted that the structure had not actually been used in some time.

"Follow me," Snape ordered, opening the shed's door, and the crisp smell of a winter night greeted Harry's nostrils when he stepped outdoors. Glancing up once at the stars overhead, he followed the trailing robes across a walled-in back garden where planting beds and a collection of deciduous shrubs lay dormant, barely visible by the scant light of a quarter moon. A tiny greenhouse abutted the rear wall of a sad-looking brick house, and Snape barely paused long enough to wave his wand to unlock the back door.

They stepped directly into a kitchen, and the Potions Master quickly locked and warded the door behind them. Another wave of his wand lit an old-fashioned oil lamp on the plain wooden table as well as several candles in mirrored holders affixed to the walls. The angled triple mirrors multiplied the light for each candle, and the kitchen took on a homey glow, for all that it felt unused. Another flourish of Snape's wand instantly heated the smallish room.

"Have a seat."

A ladderback chair slid across the linoleum flooring, and Harry gingerly lowered his aching body onto the wooden seat. "Where are we?"

A tiny quirk tugged at the corner of Snape's thin lips. "Spinners End."

Harry frowned. "What's Spinners End?"

"Somewhere safe." Snape did not elaborate, and Harry didn't press him for further information, merely watching as the man opened his potions pouch and began extracting several vials.

"How long since you last ate?" Snape asked, adding at Harry's hesitation, "One of these needs to be taken on a full stomach."

"Oh." Harry bit his lower lip before replying, "Um … lunch."

The dark man narrowed his eyes. "Lunch today?"

Harry flushed. "Well, yesterday, actually."

"Was that your choice?"

The boy shook his head, causing Snape to mutter something sounding rather dire concerning Muggles under his breath.

"Right. We'll deal with the bone fractures first." True to his word, the Potions Master healed the skeletal injuries, vastly reducing Harry's immediate pain. Then he healed the abused, swollen eye with his wand, following that up with a gentle application of Bruise Balm to the darkened tissues. "You may take the concussion potion and pain reliever now," Snape said, handing him a vial of coppery-looking liquid, then one of clear, pale violet. "We'll eat before you take the boneset decoction."

Harry swallowed the contents of the two vials, grimacing. Each tasted different, but equally vile in its own way. He handed the vials back to the man, flexing his healed arm experimentally.

"Take care not to stress the mended bones," Snape cautioned as he tucked the emptied vials away.

"Okay," Harry said agreeably. "How do you know so much about healing, Professor? You're as good as Madam Pomfrey."

Was that a chuckle? Surely not. Snape was merely hrumphhing. "I make it my business to know certain things which often prove useful."

"Oh." Not that Harry considered that to be a proper answer, but it sounded typically Snapish.

Meanwhile, the man was fishing through a kitchen drawer. He withdrew a handful of shiny, colorful cards featuring photographs of food. Honestly, they looked like menus, thought Harry. As it turned out, they were. The boy looked questioningly up at Snape.

"Wizard Order-In," Snape explained. "Decide what you would like, and I'll place the order."

"Anything?" Harry gaped at the varied menus. There must be at least a dozen different types of food: from French to Italian, Indian and Greek to Chinese, seafood, pizza, deli sandwiches, steaks, Granny Gwen's Home-Style Hash, 24-hour breakfast, sushi, bakery pastries and cakes and pies, gourmet coffees and teas, and even a substantial wine list including selections from both the Muggle and Wizarding worlds.

Noticing the wine list amongst the pile of menus, Snape slipped it out of Harry's reach before saying drily, "Your choice. However, anything totaling over three galleons, you'll need to reimburse me the balance when you're back at school."

Harry laughed. "I couldn't possibly eat three galleons' worth."

"You haven't seen the prices on the seafood menu," Snape pointed out. "Or the French."

His eyebrows rising beneath his fringe, Harry carefully perused each menu card. "These are all Wizarding restaurants?"

"More like food services," Snape explained. "I have an account with each service. I use my wand to place the order, and the amount is deducted from my Gringotts account."

"Wicked! I've never heard of anything like this." He ran his finger down the list of deli sandwiches, then made a face at the sushi photos. Those poor little shushis were so raw they looked like they were in PAIN. "I think I'll go with this," he decided, pointing to Granny Gwen's home-style menu. "Shepherd's pie and green beans. And milk, large. And treacle tart. That doesn't add up to two whole galleons. Is that okay, sir?" He peered hopefully at Snape.

The dark man nodded, then instructed, "Observe." He carefully tapped his wand tip against a blue dot beside each requested menu item, and Harry saw the dots turn glowing gold. "Anything else?" When Harry shook his head, Snape tapped a box marked "Order Complete". The box glowed green. After a few seconds, a card listing the ordered items and the total due appeared on the table. Snape tapped his wand in the box labeled "Order Confirmed", then pressed his thumbprint into a flashing red box. The thumbprint glowed green just before the entire card abruptly disappeared from the table.

"Now what?" Harry asked, staring at the empty spot on the scrubbed wood where the card had lain.

"We wait."

But not for long – in less than two minutes, Harry's meal arrived. The food appeared to have been lovingly plated, including authentic Blue Willow china, silverware, homespun placemat and matching napkin. The entire setting was encased by a glowing stasis dome.

"How do we – "

"Stop!" Snape grabbed Harry's wrist as the boy reached toward the dome. "Don't ever touch the stasis field. You could lose your hand."

"Whoa!" exclaimed the startled Gryffindor. And at Snape's responding glare, he added, "Sorry, sir. I didn't think."

Biting back a customary retort, Snape focused on continuing educating the boy. "First, you need to confirm 'Order Received'," he said, tapping a new card which had arrived with the food. As he did, the stasis field disappeared, and Harry's mouth watered as he suddenly smelled the delicious aromas. "Now you may eat," said Snape, using his wand to maneuver the placemat closer to Harry's side of the table.

"How do they know when to take the plates away?"

Snape pointed to the final box on the card, marked "Render Final Service".

"Do you have to reactivate the stasis field?"

"No. Just tap the card with the wand, and everything disappears automatically."

"Awesome!"

For his own meal, Snape chose hot-and-sour soup, spicy shrimp with garlic sauce and steamed rice, and hot oolong tea from the Chinese menu. Harry avidly watched the ordering process all over again, asking, "What's with the thumbprint?"

"It's to keep unauthorized people from using the account holder's registered wand to withdraw funds from Gringotts. For example, a child could nick a careless parent's wand while the parent slept or was in the bath. But the thumbprint requirement would prevent the child from ordering a secret or overly-expensive meal without the parent's knowledge."

"I see." Harry chewed thoughtfully. "I can just imagine how fast Dudley would get over his aversion to magic if he had complete freedom to order all the food he wanted!" At another thought, he snickered, adding, "But of course a wand wouldn't work for Dudley, so he'd just die of envy!"

"I believe that is exactly what happened with your Aunt," Snape said quietly, tapping the "Order Received" box for his Chinese meal. "Petunia, that is. She quite envied your mother's magical gift."

Harry's jaw dropped. "You knew my mum?"

"We'll discuss that later. For now, eat." Snape poured hot oolong into the tiny china teacup and unwrapped his chopsticks before spooning up hot-and-sour soup.

Harry stared at the man for a moment longer, dying to ask questions about his mother but sensing it would only anger Snape if he were to push. Still, the Potions Master was treating him … hospitably … so Harry decided to try to keep the conversation going. "Does each wizard have to have his own menu? Or can other people order from the same menu?"

Snape took a bite of the spicy shrimp dish before answering. "As long as a person has an account with a particular Order-In service, that person can order from any menu for that service, whether as a guest in someone else's home or in a hotel. The menu itself is not coded to a particular wand. The account is registered to respond to the account holder's wand and thumbprint."

"Gotcha. So, how do I set up an account?" Harry's mind was already spinning with visions of treating Ron and Hermione to endless feasts, and personally, he couldn't wait to work his way through the entire Indian menu – he did so love curries…

Snape smirked. "First of all, you would need to be an adult. Seventeen, in the Wizarding world."

Harry's shoulders slumped as Snape chuckled aloud. "Scratch that, then," he said morosely. "That'll be another five years for me."

From that point, they finished their meal in silence, but for once, Snape's company felt comfortable to Harry, not awkward or intimidating. When they were done, Snape tapped each service's card, and Harry smiled as the dragon-patterned bowls and plates, along with the woven bamboo placemat, vanished back to the Chinese place, and his own homey setting popped back to Granny Gwen.

"And now you may take this," Snape said, handing Harry the remaining boneset potion.

The boy screwed up his face, but he swallowed the contents quickly, washing it down with a glass of water which Snape had suddenly conjured. "Thank you, sir. I'm already feeling much better."

The man nodded, rising, and gestured for Harry to follow him through a slightly-warped door and across a tiny passage that couldn't really even be considered a hall. They entered a gloomy room which appeared to be completely lined with books, aside from a small window and door facing the dimly-lit street. Snape lit the fireplace with a casual Incendio and settled into a well-worn lounge chair, motioning for Harry to take the equally worn sofa. To Harry's surprise, Snape cast a charm into a dark corner, causing a tiny Christmas tree to suddenly appear, perched upon a rickety table. The boy smiled at the unexpected tree, his face softly illuminated by the marble-sized magical light orbs hovering amongst the branches.

"Is this your home, Professor?"

"This is where I live, when I'm not in residence at Hogwarts," Snape replied quietly. "I consider the castle to be my true home, Potter."

Harry nodded empathetically. "Me, too."

"Tell me about the people you live with."

Cringing, Harry automatically shook his head. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I'm not supposed to talk about the Dursleys," he mumbled unhappily, staring determinedly at the tiny tree. "It's disrespectful. And against their rules. I'll get in trouble."

"More trouble than spending the night in a city park?" Snape probed. "In freezing weather?"

"Way more. And besides, I'd have had to go back anyway. To their house. To sleep, you know."

"In that cupboard under the stairs?"

"What?" Harry's eyes bugged out like emerald marbles.

"I've seen it," Snape said flatly. "Also, I've collected all of your belongings. I'll be taking you back to Hogwarts, but not until you've told me about your life with the Dursleys."

Harry stubbornly clamped his lips shut and crossed his arms defensively across his chest.

Snape blew out his breath in irritation. "You may start with your recent injuries. How did that happen?"

Harry stared down at the floor. The threadbare carpet stared mutely back, offering no clue what he should do. Did he dare tell, he wondered. Would Snape use the information against him somehow? But then… Snape had rescued him, hadn't he? Taken him home instead of back to the Dursleys. Fed him. Harry's own choice of food at Snape's expense. That was a far cry from having to eat the Dursleys' leftovers. And with Aunt Marge staying for the holidays, not as much had been left over as usual…

"Dudley," he whispered, raising his eyes to gaze at the Christmas tree. It seemed to be the safest anchor in his dangerously tilting world. He was actually going to confide in Snape… "Dudley … punched me in the face." At this admission, a small gold onion-shaped ornament appeared among the magical lights on the Christmas tree. Harry suddenly realized that the tree had only been decorated with lights until now. Wondering what would happen, he murmured, "Then he shoved me down the stairs." A red glass ball appeared, reflecting the soft magical lights. "Backwards." A silver angel materialized, swinging gently from a lower branch.

"Why did Dudley do that to you?" Snape asked very quietly, barely audible above the faint crackle of flames in the fireplace.

"On account of Aunt Marge being angry that I took too long washing my face when she wanted in the bathroom." A green glass pinecone appeared.

"Do your relatives often physically abuse you?"

Harry stared at the glowing tree for the longest time. Did he dare reveal any more details? Could he trust Snape – really trust him – not to tell the Dursleys if he told? But Snape had said he WOULD take him to Hogwarts… "Will I have to go back to the Dursleys?"

A faint sigh drifted across the book-lined room. "Not if it were up to me, Potter, but it's not up to me. Unfortunately. I will advise the Headmaster against sending you back, but it will be his decision in the end. I can make no promises." He paused, almost adding something, then fell silent.

"Oh." Harry's face fell, and he hunched in on himself. "Then I will have to go back."

Snape breathed in and out several times. "It might … help … if he had more information upon which to base his decision."

"Oh." Now it was Harry's turn to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. In…

At length, he nodded, silently offering a response to Snape's earlier question, but no decorations appeared on the tree.

"You must speak aloud," Snape told him softly.

"Yes," Harry whispered. "They always have done." A goldfish ornament appeared, beautifully detailed down to the very last tangerine scale.

"Tell me," murmured Snape.

And branch by branch, the small tree gradually filled with some of the most beautiful ornaments Harry had ever seen as he admitted hurt after hurt. Eventually, the tree relocated to the floor and repeatedly added inches to its height to accommodate the necessary decorations. More lights appeared spontaneously to illuminate the newest dark branches, and Harry felt as if some of the darkest parts of his own soul had filled with comforting illumination as well. His confessions of the Dursleys' atrocities came faster now, tracing back farther and farther through all the years since he'd been left in a blanket-lined basket on their doorstep. Not just the physical pain he'd suffered, but also the psychological and emotional torment he'd endured – the result of being told and shown time and time again how much he wasn't wanted in their home, how much he wasn't loved, and no matter how much he'd tried, nothing he'd done could ever change any of their hatred toward him.

The Christmas tree had grown nearly seven feet tall by the time Harry ran out of things to say. Every lush evergreen branch glowed with magical lights, and a plethora of ornaments filled in the empty spaces between the layers of greenery. Glass balls of all sizes and colors, molded glass animals and objects, hand-painted wooden ornaments, sequined geometric shapes, beaded wires, crocheted snowflakes – all combined to create the most breathtaking Christmas tree Harry had ever seen.

"That's it, I guess," he said, feeling a bit lightheaded at having released so many burdens which had weighed down his soul for far too long.

Atop the tree, a magnificent star materialized, its surface appearing to be encrusted with brilliantly-refracting diamonds.

"Wow!" Harry breathed, as shimmering icicles appeared on every branch as the final touch. He sat and gazed upon the mesmerizing sight, his eyes traveling from one sparkling wonder to the next, feeling lighter inside than he could ever recall. In the past, the Christmas season had always filled him with a leaden weight as he watched everyone else burbling joyously about sales and giftwrap and roast goose. The mingled scents of mince and eggnog on the carolers' frosty breath could turn his stomach in a heartbeat. But this softly-glowing tree felt like fragile perfection and bore no resemblance to the electric frenzy permeating Little Whinging.

Just out of Harry's range of vision, Snape's wand performed a series of complicated patterns in the firelight, and a wrapped flat box popped into place beneath the tree.

"Sir?" asked Harry, his quiet voice hesitant as he turned his head to look back at Snape.

"You may unwrap it," the Potions Master said, even as he held up a cautioning hand. "However, I must ask that you keep this … gift … confidential. Strictly between us."

Harry hesitated even longer before nodding. "Yes, sir." He bent down to retrieve the package from beneath the lowest boughs of the glowing tree. The wrapping paper was a plain, shiny white, but it reflected back all the colors now lighting the Christmas tree. Carefully, Harry unstuck the edges of the paper from the mild magical seal. The paper slid off and he laid it aside, surprised at the box revealed. Yellowed with age, it smelled "old", but not unpleasantly so. Just "old". Wondering what could possibly be Snape's idea of a gift, Harry slowly pulled up on the lid, then laid back one side of a concealing sheet of dark blue, crinkled tissue paper. Something black … and delicate…

"A scarf?" Harry asked as it unfolded coming out of the tissue. "A woman's scarf?" Confused, he held up the sizeable length of black lace.

"A mantilla," Snape corrected him. "It belonged to your mother. There is also a peineta comb…"

Harry lifted out the ornate black comb, inlaid with iridescent mother of pearl. "This is Spanish, right? And it belonged to my mum?" His emerald eyes wide with surprise, he stared at the Potions Master. "How?"

"Your mother … Lily … and I were in the same class at school. She … was a friend. We'd known each other since childhood."

"Here?" Harry gasped. "She grew up around here?" His eyes flew to the window. "Is her home nearby?"

Snape shook his head. "A distance from here, actually. She grew up in a better neighborhood than I. There was a play park near her house. That's where we met. I knew she was a witch from the moment I saw her, but she had no clue about herself and became quite angry when I called her one to her face."

"Really?" Harry's eyes glowed in the firelight. "Tell me more. Please!"

Snape shrugged, looking almost as if he regretted saying even that much. "We remained friends through our first few years at Hogwarts, but she was a Gryffindor, and eventually House … tensions … led to a parting of the ways."

"Oh." The boy stroked the pile of black lace in his hands. "That's sad. But what about the mantilla?"

Snape sighed, his eyes gazing at the lace. "Lily saw one in a Muggle movie, and from that moment she became obsessed with having a mantilla. She wanted to 'dress Spanish' for the Halloween Feast. She thought it would be the most elegantly feminine costume imaginable. Highly romantic, extremely graceful… Although she was quite talented at Charms, her Transfiguration skills took a while to develop. Since my abilities were more advanced than hers in Fifth Year, I managed to Transfigure a small tablecloth into her mantilla, and an oyster shell into the comb. Lily made her own Spanish-style dress to go with them."

"Cool!" Harry grinned. "She must have been impressed to see you do such complicated Transfigurations when you were only fifteen. This is so beautiful, Professor!"

"Actually, Lily didn't see me. I lacked the confidence that I could really pull it off, so I worked in secret, and she only saw the finished products. And truth be told, it did take me several attempts to get it to come out right."

"Maybe there's hope for me yet," Harry said, admiring the lace more closely, holding it up in silhouette against the dancing firelight.

Snape snorted. "Transfiguration requires diligent EFFORT, Potter."

Harry nodded, then asked, "So, how do you have this now, sir? The mantilla and comb, that is?"

The man remained silent for several long minutes before replying. "Lily returned them to me at the end of our Fifth Year. She had enjoyed 'dressing Spanish' on weekends since Halloween – it became 'her thing' – and she'd even go to Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley like that."

"She must have turned a few heads."

"Indeed." Snape sighed again. "Including that of James Potter."

"Uh-oh… Did he object to the mantilla?"

"No. Only to the fact that it was Slytherin-made."

"Oh. I see," said Harry. "He was jealous."

Snape shook his head, his long hair swinging gently. "Lily only ever saw me as a friend, but when … when Potter began to notice her, things … changed between us. Eventually, we went our separate ways. Lily returned the mantilla and comb to me before boarding the Hogwarts Express for the summer holidays."

"James … my dad … made her return them?"

The dark-robed shoulders shrugged, ever so slightly. "Lily never said. But they eventually began going out and later married. I CAN say that she treasured this mantilla and comb during the time that she had them. I think she would be pleased to know that her son could have two of her favorite possessions, regardless of her reasons for returning them to me."

"Thank you, Professor," Harry murmured. "I promise I'll take very good care of them." Something suddenly occurred to him. "I don't suppose you'd have a photograph of her wearing this, would you? Dressing Spanish?"

But Snape merely shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not."

"Oh, well. It was just a thought." Carefully, Harry refolded the black lace, marveling that his own mum's very fingers had touched it in the distant past. He stroked the sleek, tall comb, knowing that the teeth had slid through his mother's silken red tresses, holding up the cloud of black lace which would have draped so gracefully around Lily's slender shoulders as she dressed like a Spanish lady of a bygone era. He smiled softly, imagining that, for all of the unusual styles of dress he'd seen worn in Diagon Alley, his mum would still have stood out from the milling, admiring crowds. Gently, he replaced the comb in the box, covered it with the folded black lace, then overlapped the sides of the protective tissue paper before lowering the yellowed lid.

"Thank you so much, Professor." The boy looked earnestly into the man's black eyes. "I promise to keep your gift confidential – not to tell anyone that you were the person who gave it to me, that is. But do you mind if I told people it used to belong to my mum? They might think it kind of odd that I'd have a woman's mantilla and comb, you know?"

"You may tell them it was your mother's," Snape assured him. "That would be acceptable."

Harry beamed at him before his mouth flew open in a gigantic yawn. "What time is it?"

Snape cast a Tempus, then announced, "Nearly midnight."

Eyes wide, Harry asked, "You mean, I talked THAT long?"

The man gestured at the numerous ornaments on the Christmas tree. "You had a lot to say."

"I suppose so."

Silently they sat, gazing at the glowing tree, until the sound of a distant church bell striking midnight sounded faintly through the night.

"Happy Christmas, Professor."

"Harry Christmas, Potter."

After another moment of silence, Harry just had to ask, "So … um … when do we go back to Hogwarts?"

Snape smirked. "You'll be there in time for breakfast, Potter, never fear. In the meantime, why don't you take a nap?" He pointed his wand at the sofa, and Harry felt it change beneath him, shifting in to a comfortable single bed, complete with a puffy pillow and a fluffy duvet.

"What about you, sir?"

When the man sighed this time, the lines on his face suddenly looked deeper in the firelight. "I need to … think," he replied. "To plan, if possible."

"Oh. You mean Dumbledore."

"PROFESSOR Dumbledore, Potter," Snape admonished, but at least he didn't deduct points from Gryffindor. "I'll wake you before dawn."

"Right," said Harry. "But before I sleep, could I use your bathroom, please?"

Snape waved his wand, and a bookcase swung forward on silent hinges. "First door on the right," he said, illuminating the concealed hallway and the room which was Harry's goal.

Later, Harry stretched out under the warm duvet, his head sinking so far into the pillow that he was practically asleep before he could close his eyes. His last sight was of the beautiful Christmas tree, and then he fell into dreams of sunsets and fireplaces, of tree lace and mantilla lace…

Snape watched the sleeping youth, wondering how on earth Albus Dumbledore could have left Harry Potter at Number 4 Privet Drive for all those years. Had the old goat EVER checked on the boy? Even once? The Potions Master shuddered to think that Dumbledore really might NOT have done…

-:- -:- -:-

"Potter, wake up."

Harry thrashed a bit, struggling under the thick covering, his half-bleary mind believing Uncle Vernon must be calling him out of his cupboard. Then he caught a glimpse of Snape's colorful Christmas tree behind Snape's black robes, and it all came back to him. He squinted up at the Potions Master. "Is it morning already?"

"Very nearly." Snape's voice sounded rather tight. "We'll Floo directly to my office."

More accustomed to the thin blanket in the cupboard at the Dursleys', Harry kicked and floundered, trying to work his way out from under the voluminous duvet until Snape made fast work of it by simply Vanishing the fluffy mass.

"We're going straight to the castle, then?"

"That's what I'd planned. Why do you ask?" Snape cocked an eyebrow at him.

Harry grinned. "Well, you do have that menu for 24-hour breakfast."

"Sorry, Potter. You'll have to wait until you're old enough for your own account." He steered the boy toward the fireplace, allowing Harry the chance to gaze one last time at the Christmas tree before he threw down a handful of Floo powder and shoved Harry into the emerald flames, shouting,"Severus Snape's office, Hogwarts!"

Before Harry could really catch his breath, he was churned out of another fireplace in the bowels of the castle. He recognized Snape's office from some earlier detentions, and within seconds, the man himself had followed him through the Floo, billowing dramatically into being as he stepped from the green flames.

"Here are your belongings, Potter," said Snape, unshrinkng Harry's school trunk. "While most of your effects appeared to be … stored … in that cupboard, several items, including your wand, came from the upstairs of your relatives' house. They are all in the trunk. I would strongly urge you to get into the habit of keeping your wand on your person at ALL times in future."

"Yes, sir," said Harry, opening the hasp and removing the wand from his trunk. He sighed ruefully. "It's going to be a job dragging this lot from the dungeons all the way up to Gryffindor Tower."

"I'll have a house elf take care of it," Snape said, sounding almost as if he were gritting his teeth at doing Potter yet another favor. "Now, get out of my office and STAY OUT OF TROUBLE."

"Yes, sir. I promise. Just let me take this with me…" And Harry carefully tucked the box containing his mother's mantilla under his arm."Bye, Professor! And thanks again."

He closed the heavy oak door behind him and negotiated the quiet corridors of the dungeons, feeling for a while that he might be the only person in the castle… But finally, he heard voices from above and realized someone was already up and in the entrance hall.

Eager for breakfast, Harry ran up the last few steps, prepared to sing out, "Good morning!", but the words died upon his lips. None other than Draco Malfoy was blocking his path, along with Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. A few other voices echoed inside the Great Hall – early risers after the elves' fancy Christmas breakfast specialties – but Harry would have to get around the roadblock created by the Slytherin goons and their leader.

"Potter!" Malfoy's brows drew together as he took in the Gryffindor's unexpected appearance. "What were YOU doing down in the dungeons? That's SLYTHERIN territory." He stated the obvious in a threatening tone of voice.

"Er – just taking a walk before breakfast," Harry said stoutly. "Works up the old appetite, you know."

The aristocratic blond planted himself squarely in front of Harry and pointed at him accusingly. "What I KNOW, Potter, is that SOMEONE –TWO someones, in fact – got into the Slytherin Common Room last night, pretending to be Crabbe and Goyle."

"Pretending?" Harry opened his eyes wide and affected his most innocent expression. "How do you figure?"

Malfoy looked back at him with disgust. "Polyjuice, obviously."

"Poly-what?"

"Polyjuice Potion, you ignorant dolt. As if you didn't already know."

Harry furrowed his brow, shrugging. "I don't seem to recall studying that in Professor Snape's classes."

Undeterred, Malfoy leaned in to confront Harry at point-blank range. "Like I'm sure you also don't recall a couple of spiked cupcakes? Enough sleeping potion in each one to put these two – " he jerked a thumb at his companions " – to sleep and land them in the hospital wing?"

Harry shrugged again. "Why should I recall that? It's nothing to do with me."

"HA! As if!" Malfoy shoved Harry backwards toward the top of the dungeon stairs. "Two people using Polyjuice came with me into the Slytherin Common Room, while the real Crabbe and Goyle were unconscious here on the floor of the entrance hall."

"So?"

"So, Potter, your Mudblood friend is up in the Hospital Wing right now because she stupidly used cat hair in her Polyjuice. I figure you and Weasley were the other two, since the three of you always get in trouble together. Admit it!"

Harry raised his chin. "I don't have to admit anything, Malfoy! Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm late for breakfast." He shoved past the angry blond, but when Goyle stuck out his foot, Harry tripped over it and went sprawling, the cardboard box clattering across the cold stones of the entrance hall.

"What's this, then?" Malfoy pounced on the spill of black lace a moment after the box top popped off.

"Get your hands off it, Malfoy!"

"Ooooh, a GIRLIE scarf!" the Slytherin crowed in delight."Potter's got a GIRLIE scarf!" Malfoy sashayed around Harry, swishing the mantilla by one end.

The dark-haired Gryffindor tried to get to his feet, only to be pounded down by Crabbe's meaty fist.

"Always knew you were really a wuss, Potter. This lacy crap proves it. So much for the 'hero' of the Wizarding world!" Malfoy sneered.

Scrambling up at last, Harry lunged for the mantilla. "Give it here, Malfoy! That was my mum's!"

"That was my mum's!" falsettoed Goyle, grabbing the wafting loose end of the mantilla. "SURE it was your mum's, Potter. Everyone will believe that, right?"The large Slytherin scoffed. "In a Niffler's eye, they'll believe it!"

Malfoy and Goyle stretched the mantilla between them, holding it just over Harry's highest reach.

"Stop that!" Harry shouted. "You'll damage it!"

"Oh, yes!" agreed Malfoy, an evil grin spreading over his face. "Let's DAMAGE it!"

He backed up, and Goyle backed in the opposite direction. Before Harry's very eyes, the delicate lace patterns began to distort and stretch alarmingly.

"PLEASE!" begged Harry. "Please stop! It's going to tear!" He leaped for Goyle's end, but the taller boy used his free hand to aim a punch into Harry's stomach, knocking the wind out of him before the Gryffindor even hit the stone floor.

"Crabbe! You can be the bull! Olé!"

At Malfoy's urging, Crabbe lowered his large head and snorted like an enraged bull. He pretended to paw the stones, then charged toward the stretched-out mantilla.

"NO!" screamed Harry from his sprawled position. "STOP!"

But Crabbe's bull ripped Lily's fragile lace asunder, leaving Malfoy and Goyle holding two fluttering ends.

"Olé! Olé! Olé!"

Malfoy grabbed his torn end and ripped it with his hands into two more lacy shreds, and not to be outdone, Goyle ripped his half once, then handed part to Crabbe, and they each ripped the lace again.

Too shocked for words, Harry slowly pushed himself to his feet, barely aware that a small gathering of holiday students had begun to assemble, some descending the marble staircase, while others emerged from the Great Hall. His mum's mantilla… Ruined… And he'd promised Snape he'd take good care of it… The Potions Master was Head of Slytherin, and he'd never believe his own students had done this… Never mind that he'd rescued Harry from the Dursleys and hosted him in his own home for Christmas Eve – Snape would MURDER Harry for the destruction of Lily's lace… Harry had to get AWAY…

With no plan whatsoever, Harry ran to the main doors of the castle and opened them enough to squeeze his way outside. The clear night sky had begun to gray in the east with predawn light, and he could see well enough to get down the snow-covered steps to the open grounds. There, he took off running, slipping occasionally on the snowy slopes, falling into a couple of drifts, but always heading farther and farther away from the castle. Some instinct called him toward the Black Lake, and upon its shores he finally collapsed, gasping in the frigid gloom.

Hot tears spilled from his eyes, creating faint steam which blurred his vision of the lake and the Forbidden Forest off to one side.

-:- -:- -:-

"What is going on here?"

Severus Snape's obsidian voice penetrated the cluster of loudly-arguing students like fury on Pepper-Up Potion. The strident voices echoing through the entrance hall fell abruptly silent.

"Just a bit of fun, Professor," Draco Malfoy said blithely."Bullfight, as it were."

Snape's eyes suddenly lit upon the shredded black lace dangling from the three Slytherins' hands. "Where … did you … get THIS?"

Malfoy laughed, not having registered the danger infusing his Head's tones. "Oh, we uncovered one of Potter's perversions. He had a girlie scarf!"

Deathly silent, Snape glared black ice at the laughing blond. Surprisingly, as dense as they were, even Crabbe and Goyle caught on before Malfoy that something had gone seriously wrong…

"Is there a problem, Professor?" Malfoy asked rather glibly."If not, I'll just go on to break– "

"Where. Is. Potter. Now?"

Malfoy waved a negligent hand toward the main doors. "Oh, he went out."

"Out."

Snape's black tone finally penetrated Malfoy's bout of joie de vivre.

"Er, yes, Professor." The blond Slytherin frowned. "IS there a problem, sir?"

"You're HOLDING it. Or, rather, what is LEFT of it."

Malfoy shrugged and handed over his bit of lace. "Don't ask me what Potter was doing with girl's stuff, Professor. He probably stole it!"He guffawed loudly before he realized that nobody else in his ever-growing audience had laughed with him. Glancing around, suddenly uneasy, Malfoy jerked his head at Crabbe and Goyle, who tendered their own fragments of Lily's lace to their Head of House.

Snape's fingers trembled with rage as they buried themselves in the remains of the mangled mantilla. Lily had loved it so… And the comb…

Compressing his lips, he screwed his features into the most frightening scowl he could manage, leaned over Malfoy, and furiously demanded,"Where. Is. The. COMB?"

Stumbling backwards, Malfoy shook his head in denial, stammering, "C-Comb? WHAT comb? I-I don't know anything about a-a comb!"

Before Snape could take more than two seriously-threatening steps toward the boy, Hannah Abbott spoke up. "Would this be the comb, Professor? It was in this box. On the floor." She gingerly extended the yellowed box and peineta comb to Snape, then backed hurriedly away.

"Thank you, Miss Abbott." At least the comb remained undamaged, he thought, his fingertips unconsciously caressing the smooth teeth as he glared at Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. "As for you three … WHAT did you THINK you were DOING?"

Malfoy's pale gray eyes flickered, and Snape cut the boy off before he could voice his latest lie. Or even the truth. "One hundred points from Slytherin," he said coldly. "For disgracing your House with atrocious, destructive behavior on Christmas Day." Behind him, he heard the clatter of emeralds as they caromed upwards in the Slytherin hourglass.

"A hundred points!" Malfoy squawked in outraged disbelief."But you NEVER take points off of Slytherin!"

"Make that one hundred points APIECE." The dark Potions Master gave the blond a most unpleasant smile as more emeralds flew precipitately up to the top of the hourglass. "Never say 'never', Mr. Malfoy."

Ignoring the gaping jaws of students from all four Houses, Snape spun on his heel and exited the stunned silence in the entrance hall, growling in irritation as he passed through the main doors and caught sight of Potter's blundering trail through the snow. How many times had he already had to run after Potter in the year and a half since the child had first arrived at school? How many times had he intercepted Potter? How many times had he had to save him from outside dangers or the boy's own inner demons?

Plunging through a drift into which Potter had obviously fallen, Snape shook his head. The boy still had another five and a half years remaining at Hogwarts…

His nostrils pinched together whenever he inhaled, so the man resorted to breathing through his mouth, his breath frosting in the air as he followed Potter's erratic trail toward the lake. Snape's black robes swept quietly in his wake, drifting over the surface of the snow.

By the time Harry realized someone else had joined him, the eastern sky had silvered and the tears had long since chilled upon his cheeks. The boy kept his gaze fixed upon the patterns of winter lace silhouetted against the growing light. Black tracings from the trees lined the edge of the Forbidden Forest, each tree standing out as an individual by its very shape. One might boast a tall central trunk, with a series of rugged horizontal limbs as its main feature. Another might forego a tall trunk, splitting instead into a graceful, slender fan of thin branches sweeping skyward. The lightning-struck remains of a once-regal specimen stood as a bare sentinel, jagged spars protruding but a short distance from the long-dead trunk, while the sizeable tree adjacent to it managed to echo the fanciful, windswept shape of a carefully-pruned miniature bonsai. So many trees, so many types of winter lace…A few dried leaves fluttered from a single branch on a vase-shaped tree, while a roundish one revealed shriveled leaves clinging like ornaments to most branches, making the tree appear semi-full even in the dead of winter. Against the pale gold above the horizon, a sturdy tree's high-up forked branch held a clump, which Harry thought might be a squirrel's nest.

But the lace was everywhere – regardless of the trees' sizes or shapes, they all contributed to the delicate black lace silhouetted against the brightening dawn. Well, maybe not that lightning-struck spur, Harry allowed, although it did provide a solid contrast to the lace. He sighed, his frosty breath graying the silhouette of a mitten-shaped tree, looking as if it were raising a lacy hand to brush the pinkish streaks now forming amidst the gold…

"Potter?"

Harry cringed. He was dead. Snape had come after him. Malfoy had surely made up some lie to implicate Harry as the one responsible for the mantilla's destruction.

Even as he waited for the final death-blow to land, Harry took comfort in one last thought: Lily's lace might be gone, but the black winter lace would always live on…

"I'm sorry, Potter."

"What?" His verbal reaction to the unexpected apology popped out before he realized he'd spoken aloud. Why would the man apologize? Hadn't he come to do him in? "But – Professor – it's my – well, that is, I promised you I'd…"

"That you would what?" Snape's quiet voice settled next to him as the man sat down to share the fallen log, gathering his robes around him.

"That I'd … take good care of my mum's mantilla," the boy whispered, his voice almost breaking. "And I failed. It was Malfoy, sir. And Crabbe and Goyle. I know you won't believe me, but it's the truth, really it is."

"I know."

Harry's cringing eyes opened wide. "You … you DO?"

Snape nodded. "I do."

The more Harry stared at the man, the more he wanted to believe him. "So," he ventured at last, "you didn't come out here to… to…"

"I came out here because a seriously-distressed student had run out into the snowy night, completely disregarding any attention to his personal safety."

"Oh." Perhaps it would be wiser not to reply to that particular statement.

Man and boy sat silently for a few moments, both watching the eastern sky. An actual vertical beam of light seemed to emanate up from the spot on the horizon where the sun would appear any moment.

"Do you ever notice it, Professor?" Harry asked, wanting to share a comforting concept with the man who had also lost the treasured mantilla. "The winter lace?"

Snape studied the Gryffindor. "I assume that you are not referring to the mantilla lace?"

Harry shook his head, pointing toward the trees. "See? The tree branches make black lace against the sky when they're silhouetted like that. I call it winter lace. I usually just see it at sunset, but if you look before dawn, it happens then, too." He looked sideways at the man and saw the black eyes carefully examining the treetops.

"I'd never thought about it before, but you are quite right," Snape conceded. "Winter lace, you say?"

"That's just what I decided to call it," Harry told him, shrugging. "But I really only notice it when the sun is low. I suppose it's there in the middle of the day, but it doesn't show up as well, 'cause the trees look gray instead of black. I like seeing the black lace against the colorful sunset – or sunrise."

Snape chuckled, the sound curling low across the snow. "You certainly inherited your mother's sense of imagination."

"Really?" Harry beamed. "Do you think my mum would've seen the winter lace in the sky?"

"I believe she would, Potter."

"Lace like her mantilla, right? In a way, I guess I'll think of mum from now on every time I see winter lace. But the best part is, no one can destroy my imagination, like Malfoy did the mantilla." Harry frowned for a moment, thinking. Then he tried to put his newly-formed concept into words.

"You gave me the mantilla as a reminder of my mother, but it's an even greater gift telling me that I have her sense of imagination. I'll always be able to see mum's lace when I look at winter lace. It's like an eternal gift, if you know what I mean, Professor?"

Snape actually smiled, his gaze tracing the patterns of black lace against the breaking dawn. "I do understand Potter. An eternal gift, indeed."

And they sat there in the silence of the snowy dawn, side by side, watching the glorious rise of the sun, squinting as they were immersed in brilliant light, the golden rays sparkling off the crystalline surface of the fallen snow covering the earth's surface.

The light of Christmas had entered the world once again.

-:- -:- -:-