December 5th, 1989

Diagon Alley:

“How much for these Cauldron Gloves, ma’am?” Harry asked Sandra, the owner of Slug and Jiggers Apothecary.

The pretty witch smiled at him, and said, “Buying them as a gift for your dad, Harry?”

“Yes, ma’am. Papa will like them, I think. They’re new, so I know he doesn’t have them.”

“And they work very well,” laughed the witch, displaying her now smooth hands. “See. No calluses or burn marks since I bought myself a pair. They fit close, see, like a second skin, and they have cushion charms on the palms, so you don’t get bruises from stirring so long.” She indicated the places where a potions practitioner was likely to develop bruises from gripping a stirrer for hours on end. Those who practiced the craft knew just how hazardous it was to your person, and they were always trying to develop items and solutions to protect themselves against the inevitable spills and overflows and fumes.

The gloves had been invented by a clever witch who had once nearly ruined her hands in a potions accident. The gloves she made enabled her to keep brewing, despite the scarring on her hands.

Harry thought they would be a superb present for Severus, whose slender hands were at risk everyday for accidents working at Prince Labs, despite his caution.

“How much, Miss Miska?”

“For you, Harry, 5 Galleons and 3 Sickles.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, sure that she had discounted the gloves somewhat. He knew that she had “a thing” for his papa, and hoped one day to get him to go out with her for lunch or something, which was why she usually gave Severus and his family discounts on her merchandise. He quietly reached into his money pouch and withdrew the required amount.

“Thank you, Harry,” Sandra said, ringing up the sale and placing the money in the register. “I hope you and your father and friends will be back again this year to sing Christmas carols.”

“We will, ma’am,” Harry reassured her. “Don’t worry.”

“Will your papa sing for me again?” she asked, the way she did every year since he was seven.

Harry nodded. For some reason, Severus always sang one song for Miss Miska, and never anything else the entire night. And Sandra always took a picture of them and gave out the best sweets and hot cocoa.

“I look forward to it,” she said, her eyes dreamy. “Is he here this afternoon?”

“No, but my grandpa is,” Harry informed her. “Papa had to work later than he expected, so Grandpa took me and Nev and Blaise to Christmas shop.”

“Getting an early start, are you?”

“Yes, that way I have more to pick from,” Harry said seriously, and the witch laughed.

“That’s a good attitude to have, Harry. Well, have fun shopping and happy holidays!”

“Same to you, Miss Miska,” he returned her well wishes, then stepped from the shop, where Neville and Blaise were waiting outside, finishing their ice cream cones.

Augustus was just across the way, a few doors down, at Eeylops Owl Emporium, picking out a bird for Severus as his gift to his grandson. The Owl Emporium also sold other raptors besides owls, and Augustus was interested in purchasing a hawk or a falcon, since he felt that one of those birds suited his grandson’s proud and mainly solitary nature. He had shooed the boys over to the apothecary and gone in the store himself, which he had not been in since he had purchased Warlocke some forty years before.

The proprietor nearly had heart failure at finding the enigmatic hero Lord Prince in his establishment. “My lord Prince, it is an honor—such a very great honor—to serve you!” he had stammered. “How may I help you, my lord?”

Augustus bit back a sigh. So his name had not been forgotten even now. But at least the man wasn’t bowing until his nose scraped the floor, the way some had done back when Grindelwald was newly defeated. “I am looking for a special familiar for my grandson, preferably a falcon or a small hawk.”

“Of course, milord. This way, please. I just acquired a very fine peregrine, she is a queen among raptors, silver and white plumage, exceedingly intelligent. . .”

Augustus followed, sincerely hoping the bird was what he was looking for.

* * * * * *

“All set, Harry?” asked Neville, licking the last of the ice cream from his fingers, then hastily scrubbing them with a napkin he found in his pocket.

“What did you end up getting?” asked Blaise, ever curious.

“A pair of Cauldron Gloves,” Harry answered, patting the small bag with his purchase.

“Sounds neat!” Neville remarked. “Can we see them?”

Harry nodded, beginning to walk down towards Eeylops. He reached into the bag to take out the gloves, and banged into a tall scarecrow like man walking up the street. “Oh!”

“Merlin blast you, boy!” growled the old man, his hair sticking up in all directions, and his eyes sharp and hard as flint. “Watch where you’re going, can’t you?”

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t . . .err see you,” apologized Harry.

“Humph! Then maybe you ought to get new glasses,” groused Smithers, glaring angrily at the impudent brat who had almost run him down. “Kids these days, think they own the street. Outta my way, brat, a’fore I teach you some manners.” He clutched his ashwood wand meaningfully.

Harry backed up, more startled than frightened. He had not bumped into the other wizard on purpose and he had apologized.

He tugged his stained dove gray cloak about him and pushed past Harry and his friends with a muttered oath and a scowl of pure meanness twisting his face.

Neville shrank away from the irate wizard, and even Blaise was quiet. But Harry was angry that the man didn’t even acknowledge his apology, and he said loudly, “You’re welcome, Mr. Grinch!”

Smithers ignored the taunt, or perhaps he didn’t recognize the reference.

He strode down the cobblestone way, and people scattered from his path as if afraid he would curse them, or gave him a wide berth. To those who foolishly wished him a good day or a Merry Christmas, he responded with a grunt or a snort and the occasional, “Merry Christmas! Humbug! Lot o’ nonsense!”

“What a . . .nasty old man!” quivered Neville, looking after Smithers with frightened eyes. “Thought for a minute there he was gonna hex you.”

“I wouldn’t put it past old Smithers,” said an elderly witch, the owner of Cauldrons Unlimited. “He’s a right irritable chap.”

Some of the other shopkeepers who had witnessed the exchange nodded in agreement.

“Not a nice bone in that ‘un’s body,” said one.

“Leastways not anymore,” said a very old witch with half her teeth missing. “Turned hard and sour when he lost his family in the Great Fire.”

“The Great Fire?” Blaise repeated.

“What’s that?” asked Harry.

“Don’t they teach you kids anything today?” the old toothless crone asked. “The Great Fire occurred back some ten or eleven years back. Half the shops along the west side o’ the Alley caught and burned up, and some o’ the residences too. Smithers lost his first shop and worse, his wife and two kids. It were a magical fire, started some say, by a malfunctioning stove or an exploded cauldron. Or maybe even one of those Death Haters or whatever they call themselves. Nobody ever found out how it got started, but it were a magical blaze, and it burned fast. Had to get in some firecallers in the end to douse it, but by then it were too late.”

“’Twas a sad day that,” recalled a passerby sadly. “Lost a lot of businesses. And people too.”

“After that, Smithers changed. Became cold and hard, his heart turned to stone. I think he blamed himself fer not bein’ able to save his family, or maybe he blamed everyone else. No tellin’ which. When he started up his apothecary again, he was sharp and bitter, and all he cares about is profit. His best friend is his moneybags.” The crone shrugged.

“Is that why he looked at me like he wanted to tear me apart?” asked Neville nervously.

The cauldron witch nodded. “Oh, yes! He don’t like kids at all, but you steer clear of him, dearie, and you’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, he ain’t one to cross. Quick with a wand. Or his hand, according to some of his former apprentices. He never got one could last a full year, his temper’s unpredictable and it’s just gotten worse over the years,” said another.

This was followed by murmurs of agreement and scowls.

“Bit of a rotter, all right.”

“I heard he once hexed a customer’s fingers together for shortchanging him.”

“Hates Christmas too. You never see his shop decorated and he keeps his ‘prentices and Masters brewing till all hours, even on Christmas Eve. No breaks. Cold-hearted bugger.”

Blaise and Neville shivered at the accounting they heard, but strangely Harry was not afraid. Harry knew that those who did not know Augustus feared his temper, and his reputation was such that it made people tremble (and bad little boys too). But once you got to know him, Augustus Prince was a fine man, and not frightening at all.

He thought about what the others had said about Smithers, and then recalled something Augustus had once said about Drusilla. “She was all the warmth in this world, and when she passed the Veil, I felt as if she took all the warmth within me. It’s amazing that my heart did not crumble to dust.”

Could that be what had happened to Smithers? Could his heart have turned to dust or frozen?

Harry recalled the Grinch in the story, who had also been mean and ill tempered, until his heart had been touched by the singing and the spirit of Christmas and understanding.

Last year Harry had given out gifts to unfortunate children and orphans. He wondered if anyone had ever given Smithers a gift since he had lost his family? Or had they all given him up as a lost cause, or been frightened away by his grim scowl and snarl?

No one should be alone on Christmas, Harry thought, it was something Severus had said last year. He pictured the grouchy miserable wizard going home to a dark flat and a cold bed, eating watery soup and drinking some bitter tasting tea or ale, listening to all the merriment and cheer about him and hating it because he no longer had any reason to celebrate or anyone to celebrate with.

But he wants it that way, Harry reminded himself. Look how he treats people. He reminds me of a scared cat, hissing and spitting to make himself look threatening, but inside he’s shaking and scared. Mystic used to do that to him when he was small, the young wizard recalled, but once he learned Harry wouldn’t hurt him, he stopped hissing and made friends with the boy.

Could Smithers want that and yet not know how to ask?

Abruptly, Harry turned and went back down the street to a small vendor selling hot cocoa in tins along with mugs shaped like cauldrons with witty sayings on them and small bags of a sweet called potion poppers, they were chocolate vials filled with different tasting syrups. Harry was very fond of them, and so were his friends.

Harry chose one that said Euphoria is Just a Sip Away, along with a tin and a bag of sweets.

“Will that be all, lad?”

“Yes, sir. Oh, and could you please wrap it?”

He took the present a few moments later, it had been wrapped in gold and red and green striped paper, thanked the vendor then hurried over to his friends. “Sorry, last minute gift.”

“For who?” Blaise queried.

“You’ll see,” Harry replied mysteriously. He scanned the street where he had last seen the vexatious Smithers.

A small group of young boys were throwing snowballs at a black door with a round window a few feet beyond the Leaky Cauldron. “Humbug! Humbug! What bug’s crawled up your chimney, Smithers?” they chanted.

They whooped and hollered and made rude gestures at the old man shaking his fist at them through the window.

Suddenly, the door was yanked open and Smithers came out, wand in hand. “Get, you meddlesome brats! Go home, the lot of you troublemakers, before I warm the seat of your breeches with a fire jinx!” He waved his wand threateningly, it sputtered and shot fiery sparks.

The children scattered, running off down the side street, still shouting insults and making grotesque faces.

Smithers went back inside, slamming the door.

“Those kids are nuts!” exclaimed Neville.

Blaise chortled. “Yeah, but they had fun for a bit.” He nudged Harry. “Right, Harry?”

But Harry was not laughing. Taunting Smithers was fun for the boys, but it did nothing save aggravate the apothecary and fuel his bitterness.

He fingered the present he had just bought, making up his mind. Then he started forward towards Smithers’ door.

Blaise caught the back of his scarf. “Uh, Harry, where are you going?”

“To give Smithers a Christmas present.”

“What?” Neville choked. “But Harry, you can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“Because he’ll hex you, that’s why!” Neville gasped. He grabbed a bit of Harry’s green cloak. “Don’t do it. He’s dangerous.”

“Nev, please. Let go. I’ll be fine. His bark is worse than his bite.”

“How do you know that?” whimpered Neville.

“Because he only threatened those kids, he didn’t hex them,” Harry answered. “And he could’ve. Potion makers have really fast reflexes with their wands. Right, Blaise?”

His friend nodded. “Yup. Have to, to prevent accidents when in the lab. Papa always says that Mama could outdraw anybody ‘cept a master duelist if she wanted to.”

“But Harry . . .he’s really angry . . .you saw his face . . .what if he doesn’t want a present?” Neville gulped, casting an uneasy look at the closed door.

“If he doesn’t answer the door, I’ll leave it on the porch.” He just hoped none of those boys came back if he did do that, because it would be a shame if they broke the mug by throwing snowballs at it. Or stole it.

“Be careful, Harry,” Neville warned, shivering.

Harry cuffed the other lightly on the shoulder. “You worry too much, Nev. Tell you what, you wait here and keep a lookout, and if Smithers tries anything, you go and get Grandpa. Okay?”

“Okay.” Neville agreed, wishing Harry wasn’t so rash.

“I’ll say a prayer for you,” Blaise teased, his eyes twinkling.

Harry snickered. Then he walked quickly and quietly up to Smithers’ house and rang the small bell pull.

An instant later, a very irate Smithers stomped over to the door and yanked it open. “Bloody hell, can’t you rotten scoundrels take a hint, or must I really set your pants on fire, you little—”

“Hello, sir. Merry Christmas,” Harry greeted, then he held out the present.

“What’s this?” Smithers demanded suspiciously. “A new kind of prank?”

“No, sir. It’s a Christmas present.”

“I can see that, you dolt!” He took the package and shook it. “What's in it? Dungbombs? Exploding crackers?”

“No, sir. It’s a mug and some hot cocoa and a bag of potion poppers, they’re sweets—” Harry began.

“I know what they are!” Smithers interrupted, running his wand up and down the gift. “Humph!” He eyed Harry.

From the cover of a small potted fir tree, Neville and Blaise watched, mouths agape, certain the irascible sorcerer was going to draw a wand on their friend.

“You’re the brat that almost knocked me over before.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry.”

Smithers stared at Harry, almost too astonished to speak. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had given him a Christmas present. He coughed, then mumbled a very rusty, “Thanks. Now leave.” Harry turned to go. “Wait. Why would you do this, boy? You don’t even know me.”

Harry turned around. “Because everyone deserves a present on Christmas, even grouchy curmudgeons like you,” he said honestly. Then he waved, and called out, “Merry Christmas, Mr. Grinch!” before running back down the street.

Smithers remained where he was, wondering if he had lost his touch in scaring little troublemakers witless. He looked at the tag upon the present. It was addressed Mr. Smithers and it was signed Harry Snape, esquire.

Smithers nearly choked. Snape! Why that was the name of the young Potions Master who once worked for me. The one who has become a bloody international genius. And that means that cheeky brat who was just here is his son! He had a vague memory of a red-headed baby spitting at him as Severus Snape walked out of his shop for the last time. He wondered if his father had put him up to this?

Cautiously, Smithers unwrapped the present, waiting for something to explode or to jump out at him. But all he saw was a perfectly ordinary tin of hot cocoa with marshmallows and a bag of potion poppers inside of a cauldron mug. He recognized the handiwork of Amos Philpot, the vendor that sold cocoa and hot toddies. Humph! Always meant to get me one of these. He permitted himself a small smile, then he spun about and stalked back inside. The door slammed.“Christmas presents, bah!” he muttered, then he summoned a battered kettle and put it on to heat. No sense letting good cocoa go to waste. Curmudgeon, am I? Ha! But what in Merlin’s name is a Grinch?

* * * * * *

Blaise and Neville clapped Harry on the back in congratulations for being so brave, then they all trooped back to Eeylops, hoping Augustus had not completed his transaction too soon and was now waiting for them. He grew grumpy when people were not punctual.

But they found that Augustus was just walking out of the shop with a covered cage, looking very pleased with himself.

“Grandpa!” Harry called. “Did you get it? What’s it look like?”

“Take a breath, Henry,” ordered the Elemental Master. “And don’t shout, she’s very nervous right now. You can see her when we get home. Are you all finished with your Christmas shopping, lads?”

“Yes, sir,” they all chorused.

“Good. Then grab hold of my sleeves and put one hand on my pendant,” Augustus ordered, holding out a large golden medallion with the Prince crest upon it.

As soon as all the boys had placed a hand upon it and had the other upon him, Augustus activated the Port Key and they all were transported back to Foxfire Hall.

They all shed their outwear in the entry, and Lina appeared to put them away.

“How was your visit, milord and young masters?”

“Very good, Lina,” said Augustus.

“We got to eat ice cream and Harry gave a present to . . .what did you call him again?” Neville asked.

“Mr. Grinch,” Harry supplied. Then he cast Augustus a pleading look. “Grandpa, can we see her now?”

“Very well,” the master of Foxfire Hall agreed, then he carried the cage into his study. “But you are to be quiet and not make any sudden movements.” He gently swept the cover from the cage.

There, perched upon a hickory limb, was a magnificent ice and silver peregrine falcon. She had eyes of a brilliant gold and she examined them with a haughty air, making soft noises.

Harry’s breath caught. “Oh! She’s . . .magnificent! What’s her name?”

“The proprietor simply referred to her as Her Majesty,” answered Augustus. “But your father will give her a proper name once they bond. She’s a rare Imperial Peregrine falcon. Her kind were only given to royalty long ago, and it’s said Arthur the Great flew one in the hunt. This one came from Russia, where they prefer falcons and hawks to owls as messengers.” Augustus whistled gently, and the bird turned her head and looked at him.

He held out a dead mouse to her.

She dipped her head and took the tidbit graciously.

“Welcome to Foxfire Hall, your majesty,” Augustus said softly, then he placed the cage in a corner, and recovered it. “Come, lads. I’ll wager all that choosing of gifts has made you famished. And Henry, what’s all this about buying a present for the Grinch? Don’t tell me you made that ridiculous storybook monster come to life with accidental magic. . .”

Harry giggled. “No, Grandpa. It’s . . .a nickname . . .” he explained, accompanying the old man down the stairs.

Augustus chuckled when Harry revealed whom he had given a present to. “You’re a bold one, Henry. Reminds me of your gran. Drusilla was always giving presents to people she felt deserved them, even if she hardly knew them. You have her generous heart.”

* * * * * *

Christmas morning

Foxfire Hall:

Hotspur gathered up all the wrapping paper surrounding young master Harry and banished it with two quick flicks of his fingers into the fireplace. Paper always made good kindling.

Harry was beaming from ear to ear, clearly pleased with the gifts he had received this year, but now he was looking over at Severus expectantly. His father was seated in his usual place on the right of the couch, where he could observe his son opening his gifts. He was wrapped in his comfortable green dressing robe and slippers. “Now, what is this gift you’re so eager for me to open, Harry?” he asked with a slight smirk. “Tickets to the next international Quidditch World Cup?”

Harry shook his head. Severus had already opened his Cauldron Gloves, and pronounced them a wonderful gift, then he promptly asked his son how much he had spent on them. He had a limit that Harry could spend on Christmas gifts, for he did not want the boy to spend all of his allowance on expensive gifts, he wished to teach the boy how to budget his money.

“That’s all?” he said when Harry told him how much he had gotten the gloves for. Then he shook his head. “You bought them from Miss Miska, right? I should have known.”

But now Harry was jumping up and down as Augustus carried in the covered cage with a large green bow atop it.

“Harry, for the love of Merlin, stop gyrating,” Severus ordered. “You’re acting like you’ve got Itching Powder down your pants.”

Harry halted, forcing himself to remain calm, not wanting to frighten the familiar.

Beside the hearth, Mystic and Calin dozed sleepily, not even bothering to glance up at the cage.

“Merry Christmas, Severus.” Augustus said, then swept the cover off the cage with a flourish.

The falcon inside awoke and gave a startled meep before she noticed the man with the obsidian eyes looking at her. She lifted her great golden eyes to him.

“Well met, my lady,” Severus murmured.

The falcon gave a soft cry and bobbed her head, as if greeting him. Then she moved to the cage door and deftly undid the latch upon it and pushed open the door, much to the watching wizards’ astonishment.

She gave them a rather amused glance. Then she spread her magnificent wings and glided over to land gently upon Severus’s shoulder. She made barely a ruffle when she flew and her talons did not even pierce the cloth, so deftly did she grip.

Then she gave another of those satisfied cries and regarded Augustus and Harry curiously.

Severus reached up a hand to stroke her, and she preened his hair. “So, shall we be friends, magnificent one?” he crooned.

She regarded him intently, chirruped and went back to nibbling his hair, allowing his fingers to gently ruffle her chest. He smiled. Then he turned to Augustus and said, “Grandfather, this is a magnificent gift . . .I never expected . . .”

Augustus waved off his thanks. “High time you got yourself a familiar, Severus. She’s an Imperial peregrine falcon, the only one of her kind over here right now. She was bred in Russia, and George Eeylop told me that these birds are fiercely loyal and protective of their chosen wizard or witch and also proud and extremely intelligent.”

“Has she a name?”

“He referred to her as Her Majesty, but that’s more of a title than a name, if you ask me. He said you’ll know when you pick the right one, she’ll come to it.”

“Can I help?” asked Harry.

“You may,” Severus acquiesced. “Write down a list of names and then we’ll try them out.”

Harry ran to get a piece of parchment and a Everfull Quill from Augustus’ study.

They spent the rest of the morning trying to name the majestic falcon.

First they tried the obvious names, like Regina, Majestic, Brilliance, Empress, Monarch but the falcon, now dozing in her cage, did not respond to them. Next they tried synonyms for wind and storm, like Blizzard and Tempest, but she remained indifferent.

Augustus offered up Glorianna, which was an old name for Elizabeth the First.

The falcon opened her eyes at that one, but then she fluffed up her feathers and went back to sleep.

Severus summoned a book of names, both foreign and English and began to flip through it. He needed a unique name, one that was easy to pronounce, but at the same time described the falcon’s imperial attitude.

Finally he found what he was looking for. The name he had chosen meant “glorious ruler” in the Slavic tongue. He looked up from the text and said quietly, “To me, Valeska.”

He held out his arm, which now bore a falconer’s glove upon it.

The falcon opened her eyes and gave a triumphant screech. Then she flew directly to her wizard, bating.

She settled quickly, however, walking up the Potions Master’s arm to settle upon his shoulder.

“Valeska,” Augustus remarked. “An unusual name. What does it mean?”

Severus told him.

“It fits her,” Harry said, smiling at the proud bird.

Valeska clicked her beak and winked at him. She seemed quite content among the proud wizards of Foxfire Hall, riding on Severus’s shoulder to dinner as if she had been doing so her whole life, unquestioned queen of all she surveyed.

They had almost finished their delicious dinner of roasted turkey and whipped potatoes, gravy and dressing, along with buttered parslied carrots, which Harry tried to bypass until Severus gave him a sharp look and indicated he better put a few on his plate.

Harry bit back a groan and did so. He and his father had been fighting an ongoing war over vegetables since he was a toddler. Most times Severus won.

Lina came in and cleared the plates while Hotspur served them a small dish of lemon sorbet with a drop of Digestive Remedy in it, it would aid in digestion as well as cleanse the palate. Severus had developed it long ago to avoid that overstuffed feeling after eating a rich dinner.

Fifteen minutes later, Lina returned to the dining room, having eaten her own meal with her husband in the kitchen, and asked who wanted hot cocoa or coffee with a splash of firewhiskey or a small brandy.

Mention of the hot cocoa reminded Harry of his impromptu gift to Smithers and he turned to Severus and said, “You’ll never guess what happened when I went to Diagon Alley to buy your present with Grandpa, Papa. I met the Grinch!”

“Harry, what are you talking about? There’s no such thing.”

Harry smirked. “Not like the one in the story, no, but I met an apothecary there who acted just like him. His name was Smithers—”

Severus nearly choked on his coffee. “Smithers? Amos Smithers? That nasty skinflint that I used to work for after I finished at the Academy?”

Harry nodded. “That’s the one. I banged into him by accident . . .” he told Severus the whole story, and when he was finished, his father said nothing for a very long moment.

Then he smirked and gave a very wicked chuckle. “That was very generous of you, Harry. You’re lucky the old bat didn’t have a heart attack right there, though, from a surfeit of too much kindness.” Then he took a sip of his coffee. “Ah well, even Smithers deserves one present a year. Maybe your gift will thaw his icy heart.”

Harry hoped so, then he lifted his mug of cocoa and drank, savoring the creamy richness. As he did so, his calico,Calin, jumped on his lap, turned about twice and settled on his knees, purring happily.