Fic: Humbug
Title: Humbug
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 7500
Characters and/or Pairings: Severus Snape, assorted walk-ons
Summary: Severus Snape has found the perfect Christmas gift for Minerva. He just has to deliver it.
I can hear my potential readers say, "Strewth. Over 7K for that?"
And they have a point, of course.
But, yes. 7K. For when the inmates of Hogwarts are on the prowl, the best-laid plans of gits and men gang oft agley.
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: All characters belong to JKR.
Author's Notes: When you start reading this story, you will find that some lines are actually not bad at all. Those are the ones I nicked from Dickens.
My fabulous beta, kellychambliss, was willing to work her usual magic on this tale, even though she loves A Christmas Carol in Prose as much as Minerva and rereads it annually, too.
It's proof of her generosity that she didn't hex me for this Snapely take on her favourite.
It's in a Pickwickian sense, dear; you knew that, didn't you?
December 24th, 1991
Once upon a time - of all good days of the year, on Christmas Eve, Severus Snape sat alone in his Hogwarts office. He looked at the cover of the book he had just closed with a mixture of satisfaction and irritation.
The irritation one expects in a Snapely Tale. The satisfaction may surprise my readers. But, dear Readers, it was Christmas Eve, a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time, the only time I know of in the long calendar of the year when a story involving a somewhat happy Snape isn’t completely out of character.
The satisfaction came from the fact that the book in question made a perfect Christmas Gift, and Snape wasn’t accustomed to finding perfect gifts.
Some people had an extraordinary talent for it. Flitwick’s gifts were inspired, always. Flitwick managed to get the very thing you really wanted - and you never knew you wanted it until you unwrapped the parcel. Dumbledore, too, usually managed something truly enjoyable, only, in his case, the talent was not for guessing hidden desires, but for listening carefully to stray remarks.
And both men went through some trouble to get the gifts. But, Snape had often thought, they had some luck, too. Which was probably why they actually enjoyed the whole overrated gift-business.
It had been Dumbledore who had forced the habit on Snape during his - Snape’s - first year of teaching. A few days before Christmas, Dumbledore had drawn him aside and had said, in a voice heavy with meaning, “The basket is in my office, you know.”
Snape had simply stared. A joke? Dumbledore was fond of telling jokes, but there usually was some text before the punch line - if this was a punch-line, even.
Once again Dumbledore had said that the basket was in his office.
So is the basket case, it seems, Snape had thought, but he had merely said, “Headmaster?”
And as a result of Dumbledore’s explanations, he had made his way to Diacon Alley, on the day before Christmas, to spend his meagre earnings on presents for people who had resented his presence and who, in some cases, had actively avoided him, just because they had all been hypocritical enough to get him a Christmas gift. “It’s a tradition that we give each other presents at the annual Staff Party, dear boy. And if you want to join in, you must participate. Go to Enchanted Gifts, you’ll find suitable things there. Just wrap them up nicely and put them into the basket in my office. We distribute them during the party. You may even find it a rather heart-warming experience.”
Snape had not wished to join in. He had, however, wished to keep his job, and he could recognise an order when he heard one. So he had set off on what he fully expected to be a rather unpleasant experience.
It had been one of the few occasions where the words ‘overly-optimistic’ and ‘Snape’ could be put into the same sentence. It hadn’t been ‘rather unpleasant’. Leave alone ‘heart-warming’. It had been hell.
Masses and masses of people, all of whom had looked stressed out and harassed, had cluttered up the Alley, pushing each other out of the way, elbowing themselves into the shops.
In Enchanted Gifts, Snape had looked in horror at people jostling for boxes of soap and calendars. Two witches had each tugged at the end of a scarf, glaring at each other like Harpies on Pepper-Up Potion.
Finally, Snape had managed to get hold of a sales assistant.
“Suitable gifts, Sir? Such as?”
“That’s what I’m asking you. Advise me. I need several suitable gifts. Nothing expensive,” Snape had ordered.
“Soap, perhaps? A box of luxury soap is always welcome,” the idiot boy had suggested. Soap! That wasn’t a gift, it was an insult. (The yearly agony of the first day after the holidays, when his fellow students would boast of their gifts. And at some point Potter, or possibly Black, would holler, “And you, Snivellus? What did your Mum sent you? A bottle of shampoo?”)
“No soap, then,” the young man had said, hastily. “A calendar? That’s always useful.” Snape had told him what he thought of people who needed twelve months’ worth of twee cottages or winsome puppies to know what day it was.
Finally they had decided on chocolate. Chocolate was appropriate on every level. (Those Chocolate Oranges his Mum used to send him - there was no money for anything else, but she knew he loved chocolate. He used to eat one segment a day, to make it last.)
He had ordered the necessary number of boxes. Small boxes. The young sales assistant had asked him whether he had only ladies in his acquaintance - and so many ladies, too! Snape had explained that he planned to give chocolate to the men as well. Surely his colleagues would like it as much as he? Just three months in his new profession had convinced him that teachers, regardless of gender, needed all the chocolate they could get.
But the young man had explained that he couldn’t give chocolate to men. It was considered unsuitable. That had meant Snape wouldn’t get any, either - another reason to hate this whole gift business.
In the end, he had gone to Oddbottles and had purchased several bottles of sherry. Sherry was affordable. It was nice. And it was something a man could enjoy on his own. Unlike wine, sherry could be kept open for a very long time - no need to invite others to share a bottle.
That had settled all the gifts - except for Binns. No point in giving comestibles to a ghost. In the end, Snape had returned to Enchanted Gifts, where he had seen one decent calendar of Historical Wizarding Places. Binns was interested in history. And a man who had managed to miss his own dying day probably could do with a calendar.
So he had picked it up - the last one of that type. Someone else had picked it up at the same time, and they had each tugged at a corner, but Snape had managed to stare him down. When the man had let go, Snape had felt a brief spurt of pride - he had won! He had the gift! It had been the highlight of his day.
That experience had set a pattern for the following years. Every year, in December (but no longer on the day before Christmas) Snape made his way to Diacon Alley. The contacts with his colleagues had improved over the years. So had Snape’s salary, and this had been reflected in larger boxes of chocolate, a better quality of sherry, or even mead.
But it was still a ridiculous habit. And it was, as much as in his student days, a source of pride and boasting. People now took pride in giving ‘the best’ presents. The best-chosen. The best-wrapped. And much was made of people ‘who had made an effort’.
This is the even-handed dealing of the world, Snape had often thought. There is nothing people like better than chocolate and a nice tipple, and there is nothing they condemn with such severity when they get it as a gift. Uninspired, they call it behind your back. Ha!
But the gift-business could not be avoided.
And this year, suddenly, he had had some luck with his gift-buying. At Flourish and Blott’s of all places, in their small section of Muggle books, he had found the perfect gift for Minerva McGonagall. A beautifully-bound, exquisitely-illustrated copy of A Christmas Carol in Prose. Minerva loved the story; she re-read it annually on the first day of the Christmas holidays. And her own copy was a battered paperback that survived solely by the grace of her excellent Reparo’s .
From now on she would enjoy handling the book as much as she enjoyed reading it. And Snape had wanted to give Minerva something special. Because of the amount of pleasure he got from their daily banter and mutual sarcasm - both during staff meetings and during the post-mortems they held over a glass of Firewhisky.
But mostly, of course, because she was one of those who loudly praised ‘the effort’ made for gifts. Which was a bit rich, coming from a woman who thought tartan handkerchiefs were suitable. Even though she did select the Black Watch tartan for him: a careful choice that, he presumed, represented the ‘effort’.
This would show her what a real effort looked like.
And Snape knew she would love her gift, for she truly thought this an excellent book.
Which brings my Readers to the source of Snape’s displeasure. You will readily understand that, when a book comes with a recommendation of Professor McGonagall, one expects a good read. And when Snape had found himself with the book in his possession, albeit temporarily, he had seized the occasion and read it. With extreme care, so as not to sully it by as much as a fingerprint or a tiny creak.
He had found it most disappointing.
Snape had liked Ebenezer Scrooge, to begin with. This must be clearly understood, or his subsequent disenchantment with the story will make no sense at all. He had enjoyed the idea of a protagonist who was neither young nor handsome. And he had wholeheartedly agreed with Scrooge’s sentiments on Christmas. A sound-thinking man, Snape had thought, and he had quite warmed to old Ebenezer and his hatred of the festive season.
Not that Snape hated Christmas itself. He just wasn’t very enamoured of it. He had personal issues with the trope of a male child at whose birth prophets claim that he’s The Chosen One, but he wouldn’t keep others from their celebrations.
What he did disliked, emphatically, was the virulent epidemic of human misery and distress commonly known as Seasonal Cheer.
Take Christmas Lunch, for instance. At a recent staff gathering, Irma Pince had complained at length of the miseries of a Christmas Lunch that would include her sisters (“Such a shame you didn’t marry, Irma - you would have made such a good wife and mother,”) her cantankerous uncle, (“Screw-top wine? Not very festive, eh?”), and her picky grandmother (“Perhaps a little cranberry sauce - a small spoonful might not upset my tummy. So very acid, isn’t it? But I suppose one must follow tradition, and I’m not one to complain. Indeed, I’m not.”)
“Being stuck with a swarm of ghastly relatives - or whatever the collective noun for family is; an unkindness or even a murder might be more appropriate - all of whom one has to feed, shower with presents, and entertain, is no-one’s idea of a good time on, say, May 15th or August 7th. So what makes you think it’ll be a jolly, cheerful occasion on December 25th?” he had asked his colleague. To which, predictably, Irma had replied that it was the Season of Goodwill.
And take the whole Christmas Cards nonsense. In many cases, an accurate message would be, “We never had much to say to each other in the first place, but twenty-odd years ago life threw us briefly together. I still don’t have anything to say to you, but Christmas cards are a sign of popularity. So we’ll send each other tinselled robins till death or a General Owl Strike do us part.” Snape himself did not indulge in the ridiculous habit.
In Ebenezer Scrooge, Snape felt, he had found a kindred spirit. In the first chapter (or Stave as the whimsical author would have it) Scrooge had been most promising. Take the way he saw through that nephew of his, who ignored him the whole year and came on Christmas Eve to suck up to him. Of course the nephew didn’t mean it. If you really wish to see people at Christmas, you don’t wait till the day before with your invitation. He was after the money, that much was clear. ”What reason have you to be morose? You’re rich enough.” Hardly a subtle approach, either.
But Scrooge had sent him away with a few witty remarks and a flea in his ear. His attitude towards the two “portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold” had been exemplary, too. A steady and reliable contribution to well-established charities was, indeed, much more constructive than showering the poor with gifts in December, only to ignore their plight the rest of the year.
And the way Scrooge had dealt with the sudden apparition of a ghost was rather spirited, for a Muggle.
But after that the book had gone downhill. True, in the case of Marley, the author had got his description of a ghost very right. Snape had even taken a closer look at Sir Nicholas, the day after, to see whether any buttons on his back shone through at the front - he had just enough recollection of Dickens’s description to desire to do that.
The ‘Spirits’, however, were far too corporeal, and either too jolly and chatty or absurdly silent. As to the character development …
Scrooge was made to relive a scene from his youth. It was clear that he had been a ‘solitary child, neglected by his friends’. Snape felt there was subtext enough to say that Scrooge had been a bullied child, too. And these dreadful memories were supposed to mellow the man?
Then he was shown the moment when the woman he loved rejected him. Awful, but these things happen. One endures. One lives on. Snape felt that Scrooge had done quite well in the living on department. He could have turned to the bottle; he had turned into an excellent man of business instead. But the idea that reliving such an experience softens a man was … humbug.
There was no better word for it. Snape had never heard the word in the Muggle neighbourhood of Spinner’s End, and he rather thought the author had made it up. Excellent find. To give him his due, Mr Dickens had a way with words, and he excelled in vivid, atmospheric descriptions.
He just wasn’t a very clear or intelligent thinker. The encounter with the second ‘Spirit’ gave further proof of the man’s dunderheadedness. Scrooge sees with his own eyes that he is disliked and maligned in the house of his employee. And he loves the man dearly for it, gives him a raise, and wants to help the family.
He also sees that his nephew (as both Scrooge and the readers would have expected ever since the first few pages) ridicules him, insults him, and generally speaking performs the Muggle equivalent of a Levicorpus on him. And Scrooge is enchanted and wishes to return the next day?
Humbug, humbug, humbug.
But Minerva would like her gift, and he would like to discuss the book with her. To show her just where the author went wrong.
There. The bow on the package looked just so; all he had to do now was deliver it. He had briefly considered putting it on the pile of gifts in the basket in Dumbledore’s office. Had he done so, Minerva would have received it on the last day of classes, when the staff held their annual Christmas drink. Which was a Christmas drink only in name. In reality it was a celebration of End of Classes, Departure of Most Students, and Two Weeks of No Marking, and therefore a much more entertaining affair than enforced seasonal jollity.
But had he presented the book then, although it would have been in time for Minerva’s annual re-reading, the fact that she had got a better gift than the others would have stuck out like a sore thumb. Embarrassing for giver and recipient alike. Therefore Snape had decided to leave the small package in her office on Christmas Eve. Minerva was bound to go there on Christmas Day, since she never spent a day at Hogwarts that was completely work-free, and the unexpectedness of the gift would make it all the more fun.
Snape tried out the alien word.
Yes, fun. And why not? It was, after all, only once a year, as Albus invariably said during the Christmas lunch. A bad excuse for forcing people to wear silly hats every 25th of December, and Snape knew that his finding the perfect gift was a one-off rather than an annual event, but just for once he’d do a fun thing.
Snape rose and made his way through the dungeons to the House Elves’ back stairs. It would get him close to Minerva’s rooms without chance encounters with inquisitive students or colleagues.
Noiselessly, he hurried up the staircase, turned at the little landing between the dungeons and the ground floor, and found himself staring at a floating Christmas cake, exquisitely decorated in blue and bronze.
A floating Christmas cake.
He had just read a book full of ghosts and spirits. But surely, that didn’t affect a man’s senses to the point where …
Of course not. True, a little thing might affect them. A slight disorder of the stomach made them cheats. Ebenezer Scrooge himself had said that a bit of undigested beef or an underdone potato might go a long way towards explaining Marley’s ghostly presence.
And then the cake spoke.
“Who’s that?” it said testily.
Which explained all.
For the cake spoke with Flitwick’s voice. Snape, who until then had merely stared at the floating vision, lowered his eyes and, sure enough, there was the tiny Charm’s teacher, waving his wand with one hand while trying to hold on to a stack of presents with the other.
“It’s I,” said Snape, who, after his initial shock, had regained both his composure and his grammar at the familiar sight of his colleague.
“Well, give me a hand, will you, there’s a good man,” said Flitwick. Snape took over the stack of presents. “Thanks,” Flitwick mumbled, and Snape saw his lips move some more. Wingardium Leviosa. Nearly wordlessly, Flitwick kept the cake floating and continued to mount the stairs. “Ravenclaw Common Room,” he told Snape, who had no other option than to follow him.
When they arrived, Snape took a good look at the Ravenclaw door knocker. It was an eagle, exactly as it should be. Not that he had expected anything else, of course - door knockers didn’t turn into the ghostly images of the dead. Anyone knew that.
“What is the … Oh, sorry, Professor Flitwick, it’s you,” said the eagle, and the door opened. Snape looked at Flitwick.
“I need to be able to get in at once if there is a problem,” Flitwick explained. “I can’t always pause to answer a question, so it recognises my hand.”
“Really?” said Snape.
“No need to use that berate-the-dunderheads voice, dear boy,” grinned Flitwick. “There’s no security risk. It works on the patterns of veins. Highly individual, and one needs circulation, so cutting off my hand won’t get you in. You’d have to Imperius me - and I’d like to see someone try.”
Snape thought he’d like to see that, too. Spectator sports couldn’t get better. Pity one wouldn’t be able to make a wager, though - no-one would make a book on the chance of Flitwick losing.
And if the Dark Lord were still alive?
He would have underestimated Flitwick. Briefly, on account of his Goblin blood and small size. But a brief moment was all Flitwick needed. Snape would not bet his last shirt on the outcome, but a month’s wages? Yes.
Meanwhile, Flitwick had floated the cake to the middle of a long table covered in books. Snape put down the presents and put the books aside to make room. Clearly the Ravenclaws took their studies seriously - books all around, on Christmas Eve, and in their Common Room, even.
“Thanks,” said Flitwick, and he put the cake down with a sigh of relief. “They’ll like that when they wake up tomorrow.”
They would. Why anyone would wish to give already overexcited children a sugar-high of such majestic dimensions was beyond Snape, but they would like it all right.
“I always feel sorry for those who can’t go home for Christmas,” explained Flitwick, correctly interpreting Snape’s look. “That’s why I want to give them a little extra. A festive cake, in their House colours, just for them. Makes them feel special.”
True. And the idea of a cake in House colours was a good one. The Hogwarts decorations were always carefully neutral. For one moment he thought of his own Slytherins. There weren’t many who stayed at the castle - pureblood families tended to gather their clans, and the Slytherins themselves usually took care of their own and invited fellow students to their homes. Just three or four solitary children were left. There always were. Snape knew that only too well.
A little gift wasn’t a bad idea. He rather wished he had thought of it himself. Or had heard of Flitwick’s idea at an earlier time, when he could have done something about it.
“What are you thinking?” Flitwick asked. Drat Ravenclaws and their legendary perceptiveness.
“I was thinking,” said Snape, “that this sugar-overload explains the exuberance of your little lot during Christmas lunch.”
“Your Slytherins would be just as exuberant,” stated Flitwick.
“They would not.”
“They would, too.”
“They most certainly would not.”
“Would, too.”
“You’re using this childish version of an argument,” said Snape, who had his fair share of perceptiveness and felt that Flitwick needed taking down a peg or two, “because you think it will trick me into doing what you probably consider to be ‘the decent thing’ for my students. That’s humbug! But if I had a cake, I might be tempted to prove you wrong in your assessment of Slytherin behaviour. I might be inclined to lay a wager, even.”
“Then let’s raid the kitchens and get one,” said Flitwick gleefully. The man was truly insufferable on occasions. Still, a small cake wouldn’t hurt. And it would prove him, Snape, right and Flitwick wrong.
He nodded his acquiescence, and the two men set off to the kitchens. Once they had arrived, Snape looked around inquiringly. “How do we proceed now?” he asked. “Are you familiar with the place?”
“Accio Christmas cake,” Flitwick said, with a quick flick of his wand. One of the cupboards flew open, and three plain, brown, undecorated cakes in varying sizes popped out and landed on a kitchen table.
“You’ve done this before,” said Snape, sternly. Flitwick looked up and grinned.
“Guilty as charged, Professor. And do you really mean to say that you never raided the kitchens? Not even once?”
Snape said nothing. Kitchen raids were group things. Potter, Black, and Lupin had been boasting about them forever. Living through ‘danger’ together, and then sharing the spoils among friends. Of course he had never raided a kitchen.
Until now.
It was what he supposed one might call ‘fun’, doing this with Flitwick. And giving the spoils to his students. Not that there was any danger in the exploit. No-one would expel Professor Snape for raiding the kitchen.
It would merely be generally known that he had done his students a kindness.
Was that a noise in the corridor? Where they discovered?
No. All remained silent. Thank Merlin.
Snape selected the smallest cake - there were only four Slytherins left at Hogwarts. “Accio marzipan and icing,” he added, flicking his own wand. “And icing sugar and jelly.” The ingredients assembled on the table.
Flitwick looked at him with admiration. “I was worried about those cakes,” he said. “I always order one with icing in place, and then I just add the decorations. But you seem to know what you’re doing.”
“I usually do. Also, I’m a Potions Master. We Potions Masters are rather good at cooking. Besides, I once saw my mother decorate a cake.”
Snape started to heat the jelly in a small pan and brushed it over the cake with a little brush. It was really remarkably easy to Summon all necessary equipment. A well-ordered kitchen, then. Unlike his mother’s. She hadn’t been a good cook; cooking made her even more short-tempered than at other times. The kitchen had not been a pleasant place - except for that one occasion when Snape’s Da had decided to spend Christmas with his parents, alone. There had been a frightful row, and Snape’s mother was adamant that ‘the old misery won’t ruin our Christmas’. She had let him help with the cake. It had been lopsided and not very well-cooked. The decorations were clumsily done. And it was the best cake (and the best Christmas) Snape had ever had.
He steadied his hand as he applied the jelly. No wonder it was trembling. What was he thinking off, standing here and decorating cakes after a strenuous school term? A night of unbroken rest would have been more conducive to his welfare than this madness.
“Why do you use jelly? To add even more sugar?” asked Flitwick with a smile.
“To make the marzipan stick, and to keep little crumbs of cake in place,” explained Snape. “Now we lift the marzipan on top - quite handy, that they have the rolled-out variety - and we smooth it down. No!” he added sharply as Flitwick stretched out his hands.
“First, you take off your ring. It scratches the surface. And then you dust your hands with icing sugar. Like this,” and Snape deftly smoothed the marzipan around the cake.
“Clever! Did you learn that from your mother? She must have been a brilliant cook, then,” said Flitwick.
“In a way,” Snape answered, thinking of the Muggle recipe book he had once bought because the Christmas Cake on the cover looked exactly like the one he and his mother had tried to make. He had read the step-by-step guidelines carefully and had studied the pictures, which had been remarkably instructive for Muggle ones. The final result had looked perfect - far too perfect, of course. Theirs had had a truly home-made look about it, and surely that was the whole point of home baking?
“And it’s the same for the icing? May I?” Filius asked.
Snape nodded, glad to hand over the brush to someone with a steadier hand, and Flitwick carefully brushed the marzipan with jelly (“You’re not painting a Wizarding Portrait! Just put on a thin film!”) Then he lifted the icing on top, dusted his hands and set to work. “You’re covering a cake, not caressing a woman,” muttered Snape. “Or a man,” he added for good measure. Flitwick merely smiled and continued his ministrations.
“There! How does that look?”
“Not bad for a first time,” Snape admitted. He quickly added a small marzipan Christmas tree, which he had modelled while Flitwick took care of the icing. It was decorated with little silver baubles. Then he added a Father Christmas - but a proper one, not that garish red variety. His Father Christmas was clad in Slytherin Green robes with silvery-white fur along the hem. The little figure held a Slytherin banner in his hand.
“You could make it say Yo Ho Ho Ho, suggested Flitwick. Snape merely looked at him.
“Or that other word you used - sounded like ‘humbag’. A Slytherin Father Christmas might say …”
“Nothing. He’ll say nothing. The banner already says it all.”
“As you wish,” said Flitwick. “Now we’ll deliver the cake to the Slytherin Room - how lucky we are that it’s in the dungeons! And then we’ll go to my room and have a drink together. To celebrate.”
Clearly, there was no getting rid of the confounded man. Not without overt impoliteness. And, in a way, Flitwick had been helpful. He, Snape, had seriously considered presenting his Slytherins with a cake next year. Thanks to Flitwick, he could do it right now.
It pleased him, for his Slytherins tended to stand alone too much already. Take Quidditch. Each student favoured their own House, which was only natural. But once that was out of the competition, they favoured whomever played against Slytherin. In the past, Gryffindors had cheered for Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws for Gryffindors - but not even the Hufflepuffs had ever cheered for Slytherin.
Snape tried to make up for the injustice by favouring and praising his own students. Someone had to. Now they would enjoy their cake, and he had actually enjoyed preparing their little surprise. He had enjoyed himself so much that the prospect of having a drink with Flitwick was a rather pleasing one. It was his duty to refuse and deliver the present, of course, but …
He couldn’t refuse Flitwick. He would simply have to deliver his parcel the next night. A pity, but then, Minerva and he were adults; his little gift would be just as pleasing if it came a day later. It would even be more unexpected.
December 25th, 1991
For the second night in a row - of all good days of the year, on Christmas Day, Severus Snape sat alone in his Hogwarts office. He was mildly pleased with the world.
First of all, because his students had behaved admirably during Christmas Lunch. That was one wager won, and one bottle of excellent sherry Flitwick would have to hand over.
Secondly, because his Slytherins had been so very pleased with their cake. They had loved the decorations, they had boasted about it to the Gryffindors, who had received nothing. For which he didn’t blame Minerva, Merlin, no. That Gryffindor lot shouldn’t get sugar on any occasion, as the events at Halloween had shown. Stuff Gryffindors with pumpkin pie and treats, and they think they can trick a mountain troll - single-handedly, too.
But those who deserved cake had got it, and they had been becomingly grateful.
And now he’d deliver his package to Minerva’s office. All was quiet, everyone was asleep. And after the day’s food frenzy it would be a proper, deep sleep.
Snape set off on his errand. He had decided to go by way of the library, not via the back stairs. The back stairs were too dangerous, as previous experience had shown. There was always the small chance that either a student or the irrepressible Head of Ravenclaw would fancy another piece of cake and raid the kitchens. But no-one, absolutely no-one at all, would want to go to the library on the evening of Christmas Day.
Except, perhaps, Miss Granger. But she had not stayed at Hogwarts. All would be well.
It was when Snape arrived at that pleasant thought that a piercing scream roughly shattered the silence of the night.
In different stories, set in different castles, this would be where the hero faces either a Nameless Horror, or a Savage Beast, or, worst of all, a Damsel in Distress to save and subsequently marry, for such is the unenviable fate of Brave Heroes.
But this story is set in Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, so our hero merely said, “Oh, damn. Now what?” In a rather peevish manner, too, but as my Readers will remember, I did warn them that this would be a Snapely Tale. There’s only so much an author can do with their protagonist. Unless one actually is Charles Dickens, in which case everything is possible.
To return to our hero, whom we had left making his way to the library, he got the answer to his irritated query at once.
It was Filch.
Not that Argus Filch was the screamer. He was made of sterner stuff. But he had caught someone in the Restricted Section. And that someone had opened a book on the darkest of Dark Magic. The book had screamed and had given the intruder away. It had to be either a student, Snape thought, or else it was … it had to be Quirrell, on the prowl once more. He, too, would have considered the relative safety of this particular night where secret missions were concerned.
Snape hastened after Filch, who led him in the direction in which the footsteps of the intruder had disappeared.
There was nothing and no-one to be seen in the dimly-lit corridor. Except - was it real, or imagined? Did the door to that one, particular, disused classroom really open a bit further? And was there a brief change in the stillness of the shadows, an interruption that suggested that something, someone - invisible, but distinctly corporeal, or the small beam of moonlight would have shone right through him - had entered the room? If that was the case …
Snape quickly dismissed Filch. Since he was a Squib, the man would be no help. And if someone was truly after The Philosopher’s Stone, he, Snape, wouldn’t have time to protect Filch. Filch might get hurt, and a man who wanted to bring back thumbscrews didn’t deserve that. Not on Christmas Day. Not at any time, of course. It was not as if there was anything special about December 25th.
Snape cast Mufflatio spells all over the door and the floorboards, until he was quite certain that nothing would creak or groan. Then he opened the door a bit further.
There was the mirror. And in front of it, on his knees …
Potter.
Damn and blast him. Potter!
Oh, Argus Filch, Snape thought, where are your thumbscrews when a man needs them?
Potter was oblivious to the rest of the world. He stared into the mirror open-mouthed; the expression on his face was even more vacant than usual.
Saw himself win the Quidditch Cup, of course. That would be just like him. He was too young for fantasies about kissing a girl, and the likes of Potter didn’t dream of academic successes.
Potter stretched out his hand. Did the stupid boy think he could touch whatever he saw? That it was real?
Or - Sweet Merlin! Did he know what was in there, did he want to take the Philosopher’s Stone - for whatever demented reason of his own?
No. Even if that was the case, he couldn’t succeed. Those were not the terms on which the Stone would surrender itself. And besides, Potter, Muggle-raised as he was, wouldn’t have heard of the Stone. Wouldn’t have realised what it could do.
And even if he knew, he wouldn’t want it. Snape was pleased to find he could think rationally again, after that one moment of fear. Potter was eleven years old; at that age one thinks oneself immortal. What use would he have for the Philosopher’s Stone?
Potter still stared raptly at whatever Erised reflected. He reached out again.
“Mum? Dad?”
It was barely a whisper. So that was what he saw. Lily and that twerp. Obviously. The boy wanted his parents. Especially since he didn’t know his father. It was a good thing the mirror didn’t fulfil the desires it showed. The reality of James Potter would be a sad disappointment.
But not the reality of Lily, of course. She would be quite an improvement on that sister of hers. Snape remembered Petunia all too well. Naturally the boy was pleased to see his mother.
Only, he didn’t sound pleased. Surprised, was more like it. ”Mum? Dad?” It had been a question. A wondering question, as in, “Mum? Are you my Mum?” rather than, “Mum, what are you doing in a mirror?”
Harry had never seen his mother, then? Never seen a picture of Lily? Petunia - Lily’s sister! - had never shown him a picture?
Snape remembered the spiteful, pinched face of the girl Petunia. It was possible. There were mitigating circumstances, even. Raising Potter’s brat couldn’t be an enviable task. But still. Lily. Her own son didn’t know her at all.
Snape took another good look at the boy, who still stared into the mirror, but now with a wide smile on his face.
He couldn’t step up behind him to drag him back to bed where he belonged. For what would Erised reflect when he, Snape, appeared in front of it? Not James Potter, that much was certain.
But.
But there was always the chance that it would show Lily and …
It was bad enough that Albus knew. Snape had no intention whatsoever to relive his past, even though Erised would show the desired acceptance of his suit, rather than the reality of rejection.
Snape considered his options.
Actually, he thought, all things considered, it might not be such a very bad idea to let the boy have his night. It would save him, Snape, the humiliation of a lifetime.
Well, not perhaps the worst humiliation of his life. But still not one he was willing to risk for the Potter spawn.
Potter kept staring and smiling, oblivious to his surroundings. And Lily would want her son to know her.
Soundlessly, Snape retired and made his way to his own rooms.
It was only when he was in bed that he remembered his original plan: to deliver Minerva’s present.
Ah, well.
Tomorrow, then.
December 28th, 1991
For the fifth night in a row - of all good days of the year, on Holy Innocents Day, Severus Snape sat alone in his Hogwarts office. His mind dwelt on Christmas Past.
“Long Past?” you may inquire.
No, Reader. Snape’s past. More precisely: this past Christmas of the year 1991.
You will be glad to hear that Snape had not suffered a major personality change. He was still as introvert a colleague, as sarcastic a teacher, and as greasy a git as the good old castle knew, or any other good old dwelling, street, or village in the good old Wizarding World.
You will not find him making a Laocoon of himself with his stockings, or trying to shave while dancing, either. He valued his nose too much for such nonsense.
He merely mused that this year he had learned a thing or two during the Festive Season.
The secret of Flitwick’s successful gifts, for instance. Was that already four days ago? It seemed much shorter - as if everything had happened in one, long night.
During their drinking session Snape had thanked him again for his own, beautiful present. “What I do,” Flitwick had said, “is buy things as soon as I see them. I spotted that book on Les Herbes Enchantées in Aix-en-Provence this summer, and I thought of you at once. That’s Severus’s Christmas Gift in the bag, I thought.”
It was the most sensible idea in the world. Almost … yes, almost a Slytherin idea. Next year, that was what he would do, too. As soon as he saw something suitable, he’d buy it. One could spread expenses and avoid the December rush, all in one go. It might even save money, since he wouldn’t have to buy at Christmas prices.
And it was perfectly doable. It had happened to Snape, too, to think of his colleagues when he saw something on his holidays. Those slippers he had seen in Istanbul had made him think of Flitwick, for instance. Utterly comfortable they had looked, and beautifully-embroidered. The little shoe-shop had been a riot of colours, and the bronze-and-blue ones would have made a most suitable gift. Flitwick always wore slippers in his leisure hours.
Snape had just never thought about Christmas in the middle of summer, and he hadn’t bought the slippers since bringing back one gift for just one colleague would have been odd. But now he knew the trick, and this coming year he would be prepared. It would be good to have a special gift for Flitwick, not just because of the man’s own generosity, but because he had truly enjoyed the evening they had spent together.
“Come and see me again! Will you come and see me?” Flitwick had asked, and Snape had promised that he would.
Also, the Slytherin cake had been most successful. Snape rather thought he might add a pitcher of mulled wine next year.
No, perhaps not. If his students found it in the morning, they would drink it for breakfast. Not even Slytherin Manners would survive that. But he might pass by with the pitcher on, say, Christmas Eve. Supervise the students while they drank. Talk a bit. About this and that. Quidditch. What they planned to do on Christmas day. It needn’t be long - just ten or fifteen minutes. Stay longer and they’d start feeling embarrassed. So would he. Fifteen minutes of polite conversation and one goblet of mulled wine was more than enough - for all concerned.
Also, he had put a stopper in Dumbledore’s ludicrous idea to hide the Mirror in plain sight - in an old classroom where any idiot could find it. And any idiot had, as he had told Dumbledore with some asperity. On Boxing Day Potter had returned - as Snape knew he would - with the Weasley boy.
Snape had fetched Mrs Norris, with whom he had a reasonably affectionate relationship, and she had taken care of the little problem soon enough. Once the boys had spotted her, they had run for their lives. Snape hadn’t seen them leave, of course, but he had stood around the corner and listened to their hurried footsteps. Afterwards, he had gone to Dumbledore and had told him in no uncertain terms that the Mirror would have to go elsewhere.
He had taken the opportunity to slip in a comment about the need for Potter to see his parents. Dumbledore had been truly shocked to learn that the boy had never seen Lily’s picture. Snape wouldn’t be surprised at all if Dumbledore (anonymously, of course) would give Potter a wizarding picture of his parents for his next Christmas, now that the thought was planted in his head. That was how Dumbledore did his Christmas gifts, after all. Picking up stray hints.
Lily would want her son to have her picture. That was the only reason he had mentioned it to Dumbledore. The brat would like it too, of course - there was a downside to every well-laid plain. But the smile Snape had seen on his face as he saw Lily in the mirror had made him look slightly less like his father, and therefore slightly more human.
On the 27th, he had finally delivered his gift at Minerva’s office. He had stopped at the classroom that had contained the Mirror, and he had heard Potter’s voice ask a question and Dumbledore’s deep rumble in answer. Something about how no-one gave him - Dumbledore - socks. And how much he wanted them.
He had had a point. Snape had often wanted to tell him to put a sock in it, but he had never thought to make a present of them. And now Dumbledore expressed this wish? To Potter? Snape had found it odd at first, and then he realized that Potter had actually dared ask Headmaster Albus Dumbledore what he saw in the Mirror of Erised.
The sheer impudence of the brat was breath-taking.
Obviously, Dumbledore had hidden whatever his personal and highly private truth was, and had told Potter he wanted socks.
Not his heart’s desire.
But something he would like to receive, or it wouldn’t have been the first thing that sprang to mind when he needed to think of something he wanted.
Snape would remember it. If he ever ran into a pair of socks in a colour and design vivid enough to please his sartorially-challenged Headmaster, he would overcome his natural reluctance and buy the horrors. Dumbledore would like the gift. As much as Minerva had liked hers, perhaps.
For when Minerva had found his gift, she had been truly pleased. She had recognised his handwriting on the gift card and had thanked him most warmly. So warmly, in fact, that Snape had completely forgotten to mention the annual tartan handkerchiefs. They had been in a rather Slytherin-looking pattern this year, although Slytherin didn’t have a tartan - this was some clan called Abercrombie, according to Minerva. Clearly, some effort had been made, once again. But not much, as he had planned to point out.
But it didn’t matter that he had forgotten his jibe about tartans. He had still experienced fun, he supposed. Or at least a rather pleasant, tinkling sensation.
A bit like a warming spell, only better.
And Minerva had even invited him for drinks in her rooms. For this very evening.
He had accepted the invitation.
The Unholy Innocents were safe from Erised’s lures; Dumbledore had seen to that. The Stone was safe in the Mirror. His Slytherins still spoke of their Christmas cake.
So it was with an easy conscience that Snape could enjoy Minerva’s company and the discussion on Scrooge he was looking forward to. Besides, Minerva knew how to keep a good whisky, if any woman alive possessed the knowledge, and she knew when to serve it, too.
Snape thought of the excellent drinks ahead, and, briefly, of Ebenezer Scrooge, who wanted to have no further intercourse with Spirits, but would live on the Total Abstinence Principle ever afterwards.
More fool him.
Snape got up from behind his desk, extinguished the candles in his office, and locked up. The Seasonal Misery was well and truly past, and an evening with his old sparring partner lay ahead.
Delivering her gift had been a far more complicated affair than he had bargained for, but the evening ahead would be - dare he use the doomed word one more time, or would Fate interfere and once again scatter the collected inmates of Hogwarts on his path to prevent him from reaching the pleasures of Minerva’s rooms?
No. Minerva and he had planned an evening together, and he would like to see the witch, wizard, or ghost who would stand in their way.
The evening ahead would be fun.
All the rest was humbug.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 7500
Characters and/or Pairings: Severus Snape, assorted walk-ons
Summary: Severus Snape has found the perfect Christmas gift for Minerva. He just has to deliver it.
I can hear my potential readers say, "Strewth. Over 7K for that?"
And they have a point, of course.
But, yes. 7K. For when the inmates of Hogwarts are on the prowl, the best-laid plans of gits and men gang oft agley.
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: All characters belong to JKR.
Author's Notes: When you start reading this story, you will find that some lines are actually not bad at all. Those are the ones I nicked from Dickens.
My fabulous beta, kellychambliss, was willing to work her usual magic on this tale, even though she loves A Christmas Carol in Prose as much as Minerva and rereads it annually, too.
It's proof of her generosity that she didn't hex me for this Snapely take on her favourite.
It's in a Pickwickian sense, dear; you knew that, didn't you?
December 24th, 1991
Once upon a time - of all good days of the year, on Christmas Eve, Severus Snape sat alone in his Hogwarts office. He looked at the cover of the book he had just closed with a mixture of satisfaction and irritation.
The irritation one expects in a Snapely Tale. The satisfaction may surprise my readers. But, dear Readers, it was Christmas Eve, a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time, the only time I know of in the long calendar of the year when a story involving a somewhat happy Snape isn’t completely out of character.
The satisfaction came from the fact that the book in question made a perfect Christmas Gift, and Snape wasn’t accustomed to finding perfect gifts.
Some people had an extraordinary talent for it. Flitwick’s gifts were inspired, always. Flitwick managed to get the very thing you really wanted - and you never knew you wanted it until you unwrapped the parcel. Dumbledore, too, usually managed something truly enjoyable, only, in his case, the talent was not for guessing hidden desires, but for listening carefully to stray remarks.
And both men went through some trouble to get the gifts. But, Snape had often thought, they had some luck, too. Which was probably why they actually enjoyed the whole overrated gift-business.
It had been Dumbledore who had forced the habit on Snape during his - Snape’s - first year of teaching. A few days before Christmas, Dumbledore had drawn him aside and had said, in a voice heavy with meaning, “The basket is in my office, you know.”
Snape had simply stared. A joke? Dumbledore was fond of telling jokes, but there usually was some text before the punch line - if this was a punch-line, even.
Once again Dumbledore had said that the basket was in his office.
So is the basket case, it seems, Snape had thought, but he had merely said, “Headmaster?”
And as a result of Dumbledore’s explanations, he had made his way to Diacon Alley, on the day before Christmas, to spend his meagre earnings on presents for people who had resented his presence and who, in some cases, had actively avoided him, just because they had all been hypocritical enough to get him a Christmas gift. “It’s a tradition that we give each other presents at the annual Staff Party, dear boy. And if you want to join in, you must participate. Go to Enchanted Gifts, you’ll find suitable things there. Just wrap them up nicely and put them into the basket in my office. We distribute them during the party. You may even find it a rather heart-warming experience.”
Snape had not wished to join in. He had, however, wished to keep his job, and he could recognise an order when he heard one. So he had set off on what he fully expected to be a rather unpleasant experience.
It had been one of the few occasions where the words ‘overly-optimistic’ and ‘Snape’ could be put into the same sentence. It hadn’t been ‘rather unpleasant’. Leave alone ‘heart-warming’. It had been hell.
Masses and masses of people, all of whom had looked stressed out and harassed, had cluttered up the Alley, pushing each other out of the way, elbowing themselves into the shops.
In Enchanted Gifts, Snape had looked in horror at people jostling for boxes of soap and calendars. Two witches had each tugged at the end of a scarf, glaring at each other like Harpies on Pepper-Up Potion.
Finally, Snape had managed to get hold of a sales assistant.
“Suitable gifts, Sir? Such as?”
“That’s what I’m asking you. Advise me. I need several suitable gifts. Nothing expensive,” Snape had ordered.
“Soap, perhaps? A box of luxury soap is always welcome,” the idiot boy had suggested. Soap! That wasn’t a gift, it was an insult. (The yearly agony of the first day after the holidays, when his fellow students would boast of their gifts. And at some point Potter, or possibly Black, would holler, “And you, Snivellus? What did your Mum sent you? A bottle of shampoo?”)
“No soap, then,” the young man had said, hastily. “A calendar? That’s always useful.” Snape had told him what he thought of people who needed twelve months’ worth of twee cottages or winsome puppies to know what day it was.
Finally they had decided on chocolate. Chocolate was appropriate on every level. (Those Chocolate Oranges his Mum used to send him - there was no money for anything else, but she knew he loved chocolate. He used to eat one segment a day, to make it last.)
He had ordered the necessary number of boxes. Small boxes. The young sales assistant had asked him whether he had only ladies in his acquaintance - and so many ladies, too! Snape had explained that he planned to give chocolate to the men as well. Surely his colleagues would like it as much as he? Just three months in his new profession had convinced him that teachers, regardless of gender, needed all the chocolate they could get.
But the young man had explained that he couldn’t give chocolate to men. It was considered unsuitable. That had meant Snape wouldn’t get any, either - another reason to hate this whole gift business.
In the end, he had gone to Oddbottles and had purchased several bottles of sherry. Sherry was affordable. It was nice. And it was something a man could enjoy on his own. Unlike wine, sherry could be kept open for a very long time - no need to invite others to share a bottle.
That had settled all the gifts - except for Binns. No point in giving comestibles to a ghost. In the end, Snape had returned to Enchanted Gifts, where he had seen one decent calendar of Historical Wizarding Places. Binns was interested in history. And a man who had managed to miss his own dying day probably could do with a calendar.
So he had picked it up - the last one of that type. Someone else had picked it up at the same time, and they had each tugged at a corner, but Snape had managed to stare him down. When the man had let go, Snape had felt a brief spurt of pride - he had won! He had the gift! It had been the highlight of his day.
That experience had set a pattern for the following years. Every year, in December (but no longer on the day before Christmas) Snape made his way to Diacon Alley. The contacts with his colleagues had improved over the years. So had Snape’s salary, and this had been reflected in larger boxes of chocolate, a better quality of sherry, or even mead.
But it was still a ridiculous habit. And it was, as much as in his student days, a source of pride and boasting. People now took pride in giving ‘the best’ presents. The best-chosen. The best-wrapped. And much was made of people ‘who had made an effort’.
This is the even-handed dealing of the world, Snape had often thought. There is nothing people like better than chocolate and a nice tipple, and there is nothing they condemn with such severity when they get it as a gift. Uninspired, they call it behind your back. Ha!
But the gift-business could not be avoided.
And this year, suddenly, he had had some luck with his gift-buying. At Flourish and Blott’s of all places, in their small section of Muggle books, he had found the perfect gift for Minerva McGonagall. A beautifully-bound, exquisitely-illustrated copy of A Christmas Carol in Prose. Minerva loved the story; she re-read it annually on the first day of the Christmas holidays. And her own copy was a battered paperback that survived solely by the grace of her excellent Reparo’s .
From now on she would enjoy handling the book as much as she enjoyed reading it. And Snape had wanted to give Minerva something special. Because of the amount of pleasure he got from their daily banter and mutual sarcasm - both during staff meetings and during the post-mortems they held over a glass of Firewhisky.
But mostly, of course, because she was one of those who loudly praised ‘the effort’ made for gifts. Which was a bit rich, coming from a woman who thought tartan handkerchiefs were suitable. Even though she did select the Black Watch tartan for him: a careful choice that, he presumed, represented the ‘effort’.
This would show her what a real effort looked like.
And Snape knew she would love her gift, for she truly thought this an excellent book.
Which brings my Readers to the source of Snape’s displeasure. You will readily understand that, when a book comes with a recommendation of Professor McGonagall, one expects a good read. And when Snape had found himself with the book in his possession, albeit temporarily, he had seized the occasion and read it. With extreme care, so as not to sully it by as much as a fingerprint or a tiny creak.
He had found it most disappointing.
Snape had liked Ebenezer Scrooge, to begin with. This must be clearly understood, or his subsequent disenchantment with the story will make no sense at all. He had enjoyed the idea of a protagonist who was neither young nor handsome. And he had wholeheartedly agreed with Scrooge’s sentiments on Christmas. A sound-thinking man, Snape had thought, and he had quite warmed to old Ebenezer and his hatred of the festive season.
Not that Snape hated Christmas itself. He just wasn’t very enamoured of it. He had personal issues with the trope of a male child at whose birth prophets claim that he’s The Chosen One, but he wouldn’t keep others from their celebrations.
What he did disliked, emphatically, was the virulent epidemic of human misery and distress commonly known as Seasonal Cheer.
Take Christmas Lunch, for instance. At a recent staff gathering, Irma Pince had complained at length of the miseries of a Christmas Lunch that would include her sisters (“Such a shame you didn’t marry, Irma - you would have made such a good wife and mother,”) her cantankerous uncle, (“Screw-top wine? Not very festive, eh?”), and her picky grandmother (“Perhaps a little cranberry sauce - a small spoonful might not upset my tummy. So very acid, isn’t it? But I suppose one must follow tradition, and I’m not one to complain. Indeed, I’m not.”)
“Being stuck with a swarm of ghastly relatives - or whatever the collective noun for family is; an unkindness or even a murder might be more appropriate - all of whom one has to feed, shower with presents, and entertain, is no-one’s idea of a good time on, say, May 15th or August 7th. So what makes you think it’ll be a jolly, cheerful occasion on December 25th?” he had asked his colleague. To which, predictably, Irma had replied that it was the Season of Goodwill.
And take the whole Christmas Cards nonsense. In many cases, an accurate message would be, “We never had much to say to each other in the first place, but twenty-odd years ago life threw us briefly together. I still don’t have anything to say to you, but Christmas cards are a sign of popularity. So we’ll send each other tinselled robins till death or a General Owl Strike do us part.” Snape himself did not indulge in the ridiculous habit.
In Ebenezer Scrooge, Snape felt, he had found a kindred spirit. In the first chapter (or Stave as the whimsical author would have it) Scrooge had been most promising. Take the way he saw through that nephew of his, who ignored him the whole year and came on Christmas Eve to suck up to him. Of course the nephew didn’t mean it. If you really wish to see people at Christmas, you don’t wait till the day before with your invitation. He was after the money, that much was clear. ”What reason have you to be morose? You’re rich enough.” Hardly a subtle approach, either.
But Scrooge had sent him away with a few witty remarks and a flea in his ear. His attitude towards the two “portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold” had been exemplary, too. A steady and reliable contribution to well-established charities was, indeed, much more constructive than showering the poor with gifts in December, only to ignore their plight the rest of the year.
And the way Scrooge had dealt with the sudden apparition of a ghost was rather spirited, for a Muggle.
But after that the book had gone downhill. True, in the case of Marley, the author had got his description of a ghost very right. Snape had even taken a closer look at Sir Nicholas, the day after, to see whether any buttons on his back shone through at the front - he had just enough recollection of Dickens’s description to desire to do that.
The ‘Spirits’, however, were far too corporeal, and either too jolly and chatty or absurdly silent. As to the character development …
Scrooge was made to relive a scene from his youth. It was clear that he had been a ‘solitary child, neglected by his friends’. Snape felt there was subtext enough to say that Scrooge had been a bullied child, too. And these dreadful memories were supposed to mellow the man?
Then he was shown the moment when the woman he loved rejected him. Awful, but these things happen. One endures. One lives on. Snape felt that Scrooge had done quite well in the living on department. He could have turned to the bottle; he had turned into an excellent man of business instead. But the idea that reliving such an experience softens a man was … humbug.
There was no better word for it. Snape had never heard the word in the Muggle neighbourhood of Spinner’s End, and he rather thought the author had made it up. Excellent find. To give him his due, Mr Dickens had a way with words, and he excelled in vivid, atmospheric descriptions.
He just wasn’t a very clear or intelligent thinker. The encounter with the second ‘Spirit’ gave further proof of the man’s dunderheadedness. Scrooge sees with his own eyes that he is disliked and maligned in the house of his employee. And he loves the man dearly for it, gives him a raise, and wants to help the family.
He also sees that his nephew (as both Scrooge and the readers would have expected ever since the first few pages) ridicules him, insults him, and generally speaking performs the Muggle equivalent of a Levicorpus on him. And Scrooge is enchanted and wishes to return the next day?
Humbug, humbug, humbug.
But Minerva would like her gift, and he would like to discuss the book with her. To show her just where the author went wrong.
There. The bow on the package looked just so; all he had to do now was deliver it. He had briefly considered putting it on the pile of gifts in the basket in Dumbledore’s office. Had he done so, Minerva would have received it on the last day of classes, when the staff held their annual Christmas drink. Which was a Christmas drink only in name. In reality it was a celebration of End of Classes, Departure of Most Students, and Two Weeks of No Marking, and therefore a much more entertaining affair than enforced seasonal jollity.
But had he presented the book then, although it would have been in time for Minerva’s annual re-reading, the fact that she had got a better gift than the others would have stuck out like a sore thumb. Embarrassing for giver and recipient alike. Therefore Snape had decided to leave the small package in her office on Christmas Eve. Minerva was bound to go there on Christmas Day, since she never spent a day at Hogwarts that was completely work-free, and the unexpectedness of the gift would make it all the more fun.
Snape tried out the alien word.
Yes, fun. And why not? It was, after all, only once a year, as Albus invariably said during the Christmas lunch. A bad excuse for forcing people to wear silly hats every 25th of December, and Snape knew that his finding the perfect gift was a one-off rather than an annual event, but just for once he’d do a fun thing.
Snape rose and made his way through the dungeons to the House Elves’ back stairs. It would get him close to Minerva’s rooms without chance encounters with inquisitive students or colleagues.
Noiselessly, he hurried up the staircase, turned at the little landing between the dungeons and the ground floor, and found himself staring at a floating Christmas cake, exquisitely decorated in blue and bronze.
A floating Christmas cake.
He had just read a book full of ghosts and spirits. But surely, that didn’t affect a man’s senses to the point where …
Of course not. True, a little thing might affect them. A slight disorder of the stomach made them cheats. Ebenezer Scrooge himself had said that a bit of undigested beef or an underdone potato might go a long way towards explaining Marley’s ghostly presence.
And then the cake spoke.
“Who’s that?” it said testily.
Which explained all.
For the cake spoke with Flitwick’s voice. Snape, who until then had merely stared at the floating vision, lowered his eyes and, sure enough, there was the tiny Charm’s teacher, waving his wand with one hand while trying to hold on to a stack of presents with the other.
“It’s I,” said Snape, who, after his initial shock, had regained both his composure and his grammar at the familiar sight of his colleague.
“Well, give me a hand, will you, there’s a good man,” said Flitwick. Snape took over the stack of presents. “Thanks,” Flitwick mumbled, and Snape saw his lips move some more. Wingardium Leviosa. Nearly wordlessly, Flitwick kept the cake floating and continued to mount the stairs. “Ravenclaw Common Room,” he told Snape, who had no other option than to follow him.
When they arrived, Snape took a good look at the Ravenclaw door knocker. It was an eagle, exactly as it should be. Not that he had expected anything else, of course - door knockers didn’t turn into the ghostly images of the dead. Anyone knew that.
“What is the … Oh, sorry, Professor Flitwick, it’s you,” said the eagle, and the door opened. Snape looked at Flitwick.
“I need to be able to get in at once if there is a problem,” Flitwick explained. “I can’t always pause to answer a question, so it recognises my hand.”
“Really?” said Snape.
“No need to use that berate-the-dunderheads voice, dear boy,” grinned Flitwick. “There’s no security risk. It works on the patterns of veins. Highly individual, and one needs circulation, so cutting off my hand won’t get you in. You’d have to Imperius me - and I’d like to see someone try.”
Snape thought he’d like to see that, too. Spectator sports couldn’t get better. Pity one wouldn’t be able to make a wager, though - no-one would make a book on the chance of Flitwick losing.
And if the Dark Lord were still alive?
He would have underestimated Flitwick. Briefly, on account of his Goblin blood and small size. But a brief moment was all Flitwick needed. Snape would not bet his last shirt on the outcome, but a month’s wages? Yes.
Meanwhile, Flitwick had floated the cake to the middle of a long table covered in books. Snape put down the presents and put the books aside to make room. Clearly the Ravenclaws took their studies seriously - books all around, on Christmas Eve, and in their Common Room, even.
“Thanks,” said Flitwick, and he put the cake down with a sigh of relief. “They’ll like that when they wake up tomorrow.”
They would. Why anyone would wish to give already overexcited children a sugar-high of such majestic dimensions was beyond Snape, but they would like it all right.
“I always feel sorry for those who can’t go home for Christmas,” explained Flitwick, correctly interpreting Snape’s look. “That’s why I want to give them a little extra. A festive cake, in their House colours, just for them. Makes them feel special.”
True. And the idea of a cake in House colours was a good one. The Hogwarts decorations were always carefully neutral. For one moment he thought of his own Slytherins. There weren’t many who stayed at the castle - pureblood families tended to gather their clans, and the Slytherins themselves usually took care of their own and invited fellow students to their homes. Just three or four solitary children were left. There always were. Snape knew that only too well.
A little gift wasn’t a bad idea. He rather wished he had thought of it himself. Or had heard of Flitwick’s idea at an earlier time, when he could have done something about it.
“What are you thinking?” Flitwick asked. Drat Ravenclaws and their legendary perceptiveness.
“I was thinking,” said Snape, “that this sugar-overload explains the exuberance of your little lot during Christmas lunch.”
“Your Slytherins would be just as exuberant,” stated Flitwick.
“They would not.”
“They would, too.”
“They most certainly would not.”
“Would, too.”
“You’re using this childish version of an argument,” said Snape, who had his fair share of perceptiveness and felt that Flitwick needed taking down a peg or two, “because you think it will trick me into doing what you probably consider to be ‘the decent thing’ for my students. That’s humbug! But if I had a cake, I might be tempted to prove you wrong in your assessment of Slytherin behaviour. I might be inclined to lay a wager, even.”
“Then let’s raid the kitchens and get one,” said Flitwick gleefully. The man was truly insufferable on occasions. Still, a small cake wouldn’t hurt. And it would prove him, Snape, right and Flitwick wrong.
He nodded his acquiescence, and the two men set off to the kitchens. Once they had arrived, Snape looked around inquiringly. “How do we proceed now?” he asked. “Are you familiar with the place?”
“Accio Christmas cake,” Flitwick said, with a quick flick of his wand. One of the cupboards flew open, and three plain, brown, undecorated cakes in varying sizes popped out and landed on a kitchen table.
“You’ve done this before,” said Snape, sternly. Flitwick looked up and grinned.
“Guilty as charged, Professor. And do you really mean to say that you never raided the kitchens? Not even once?”
Snape said nothing. Kitchen raids were group things. Potter, Black, and Lupin had been boasting about them forever. Living through ‘danger’ together, and then sharing the spoils among friends. Of course he had never raided a kitchen.
Until now.
It was what he supposed one might call ‘fun’, doing this with Flitwick. And giving the spoils to his students. Not that there was any danger in the exploit. No-one would expel Professor Snape for raiding the kitchen.
It would merely be generally known that he had done his students a kindness.
Was that a noise in the corridor? Where they discovered?
No. All remained silent. Thank Merlin.
Snape selected the smallest cake - there were only four Slytherins left at Hogwarts. “Accio marzipan and icing,” he added, flicking his own wand. “And icing sugar and jelly.” The ingredients assembled on the table.
Flitwick looked at him with admiration. “I was worried about those cakes,” he said. “I always order one with icing in place, and then I just add the decorations. But you seem to know what you’re doing.”
“I usually do. Also, I’m a Potions Master. We Potions Masters are rather good at cooking. Besides, I once saw my mother decorate a cake.”
Snape started to heat the jelly in a small pan and brushed it over the cake with a little brush. It was really remarkably easy to Summon all necessary equipment. A well-ordered kitchen, then. Unlike his mother’s. She hadn’t been a good cook; cooking made her even more short-tempered than at other times. The kitchen had not been a pleasant place - except for that one occasion when Snape’s Da had decided to spend Christmas with his parents, alone. There had been a frightful row, and Snape’s mother was adamant that ‘the old misery won’t ruin our Christmas’. She had let him help with the cake. It had been lopsided and not very well-cooked. The decorations were clumsily done. And it was the best cake (and the best Christmas) Snape had ever had.
He steadied his hand as he applied the jelly. No wonder it was trembling. What was he thinking off, standing here and decorating cakes after a strenuous school term? A night of unbroken rest would have been more conducive to his welfare than this madness.
“Why do you use jelly? To add even more sugar?” asked Flitwick with a smile.
“To make the marzipan stick, and to keep little crumbs of cake in place,” explained Snape. “Now we lift the marzipan on top - quite handy, that they have the rolled-out variety - and we smooth it down. No!” he added sharply as Flitwick stretched out his hands.
“First, you take off your ring. It scratches the surface. And then you dust your hands with icing sugar. Like this,” and Snape deftly smoothed the marzipan around the cake.
“Clever! Did you learn that from your mother? She must have been a brilliant cook, then,” said Flitwick.
“In a way,” Snape answered, thinking of the Muggle recipe book he had once bought because the Christmas Cake on the cover looked exactly like the one he and his mother had tried to make. He had read the step-by-step guidelines carefully and had studied the pictures, which had been remarkably instructive for Muggle ones. The final result had looked perfect - far too perfect, of course. Theirs had had a truly home-made look about it, and surely that was the whole point of home baking?
“And it’s the same for the icing? May I?” Filius asked.
Snape nodded, glad to hand over the brush to someone with a steadier hand, and Flitwick carefully brushed the marzipan with jelly (“You’re not painting a Wizarding Portrait! Just put on a thin film!”) Then he lifted the icing on top, dusted his hands and set to work. “You’re covering a cake, not caressing a woman,” muttered Snape. “Or a man,” he added for good measure. Flitwick merely smiled and continued his ministrations.
“There! How does that look?”
“Not bad for a first time,” Snape admitted. He quickly added a small marzipan Christmas tree, which he had modelled while Flitwick took care of the icing. It was decorated with little silver baubles. Then he added a Father Christmas - but a proper one, not that garish red variety. His Father Christmas was clad in Slytherin Green robes with silvery-white fur along the hem. The little figure held a Slytherin banner in his hand.
“You could make it say Yo Ho Ho Ho, suggested Flitwick. Snape merely looked at him.
“Or that other word you used - sounded like ‘humbag’. A Slytherin Father Christmas might say …”
“Nothing. He’ll say nothing. The banner already says it all.”
“As you wish,” said Flitwick. “Now we’ll deliver the cake to the Slytherin Room - how lucky we are that it’s in the dungeons! And then we’ll go to my room and have a drink together. To celebrate.”
Clearly, there was no getting rid of the confounded man. Not without overt impoliteness. And, in a way, Flitwick had been helpful. He, Snape, had seriously considered presenting his Slytherins with a cake next year. Thanks to Flitwick, he could do it right now.
It pleased him, for his Slytherins tended to stand alone too much already. Take Quidditch. Each student favoured their own House, which was only natural. But once that was out of the competition, they favoured whomever played against Slytherin. In the past, Gryffindors had cheered for Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws for Gryffindors - but not even the Hufflepuffs had ever cheered for Slytherin.
Snape tried to make up for the injustice by favouring and praising his own students. Someone had to. Now they would enjoy their cake, and he had actually enjoyed preparing their little surprise. He had enjoyed himself so much that the prospect of having a drink with Flitwick was a rather pleasing one. It was his duty to refuse and deliver the present, of course, but …
He couldn’t refuse Flitwick. He would simply have to deliver his parcel the next night. A pity, but then, Minerva and he were adults; his little gift would be just as pleasing if it came a day later. It would even be more unexpected.
December 25th, 1991
For the second night in a row - of all good days of the year, on Christmas Day, Severus Snape sat alone in his Hogwarts office. He was mildly pleased with the world.
First of all, because his students had behaved admirably during Christmas Lunch. That was one wager won, and one bottle of excellent sherry Flitwick would have to hand over.
Secondly, because his Slytherins had been so very pleased with their cake. They had loved the decorations, they had boasted about it to the Gryffindors, who had received nothing. For which he didn’t blame Minerva, Merlin, no. That Gryffindor lot shouldn’t get sugar on any occasion, as the events at Halloween had shown. Stuff Gryffindors with pumpkin pie and treats, and they think they can trick a mountain troll - single-handedly, too.
But those who deserved cake had got it, and they had been becomingly grateful.
And now he’d deliver his package to Minerva’s office. All was quiet, everyone was asleep. And after the day’s food frenzy it would be a proper, deep sleep.
Snape set off on his errand. He had decided to go by way of the library, not via the back stairs. The back stairs were too dangerous, as previous experience had shown. There was always the small chance that either a student or the irrepressible Head of Ravenclaw would fancy another piece of cake and raid the kitchens. But no-one, absolutely no-one at all, would want to go to the library on the evening of Christmas Day.
Except, perhaps, Miss Granger. But she had not stayed at Hogwarts. All would be well.
It was when Snape arrived at that pleasant thought that a piercing scream roughly shattered the silence of the night.
In different stories, set in different castles, this would be where the hero faces either a Nameless Horror, or a Savage Beast, or, worst of all, a Damsel in Distress to save and subsequently marry, for such is the unenviable fate of Brave Heroes.
But this story is set in Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, so our hero merely said, “Oh, damn. Now what?” In a rather peevish manner, too, but as my Readers will remember, I did warn them that this would be a Snapely Tale. There’s only so much an author can do with their protagonist. Unless one actually is Charles Dickens, in which case everything is possible.
To return to our hero, whom we had left making his way to the library, he got the answer to his irritated query at once.
It was Filch.
Not that Argus Filch was the screamer. He was made of sterner stuff. But he had caught someone in the Restricted Section. And that someone had opened a book on the darkest of Dark Magic. The book had screamed and had given the intruder away. It had to be either a student, Snape thought, or else it was … it had to be Quirrell, on the prowl once more. He, too, would have considered the relative safety of this particular night where secret missions were concerned.
Snape hastened after Filch, who led him in the direction in which the footsteps of the intruder had disappeared.
There was nothing and no-one to be seen in the dimly-lit corridor. Except - was it real, or imagined? Did the door to that one, particular, disused classroom really open a bit further? And was there a brief change in the stillness of the shadows, an interruption that suggested that something, someone - invisible, but distinctly corporeal, or the small beam of moonlight would have shone right through him - had entered the room? If that was the case …
Snape quickly dismissed Filch. Since he was a Squib, the man would be no help. And if someone was truly after The Philosopher’s Stone, he, Snape, wouldn’t have time to protect Filch. Filch might get hurt, and a man who wanted to bring back thumbscrews didn’t deserve that. Not on Christmas Day. Not at any time, of course. It was not as if there was anything special about December 25th.
Snape cast Mufflatio spells all over the door and the floorboards, until he was quite certain that nothing would creak or groan. Then he opened the door a bit further.
There was the mirror. And in front of it, on his knees …
Potter.
Damn and blast him. Potter!
Oh, Argus Filch, Snape thought, where are your thumbscrews when a man needs them?
Potter was oblivious to the rest of the world. He stared into the mirror open-mouthed; the expression on his face was even more vacant than usual.
Saw himself win the Quidditch Cup, of course. That would be just like him. He was too young for fantasies about kissing a girl, and the likes of Potter didn’t dream of academic successes.
Potter stretched out his hand. Did the stupid boy think he could touch whatever he saw? That it was real?
Or - Sweet Merlin! Did he know what was in there, did he want to take the Philosopher’s Stone - for whatever demented reason of his own?
No. Even if that was the case, he couldn’t succeed. Those were not the terms on which the Stone would surrender itself. And besides, Potter, Muggle-raised as he was, wouldn’t have heard of the Stone. Wouldn’t have realised what it could do.
And even if he knew, he wouldn’t want it. Snape was pleased to find he could think rationally again, after that one moment of fear. Potter was eleven years old; at that age one thinks oneself immortal. What use would he have for the Philosopher’s Stone?
Potter still stared raptly at whatever Erised reflected. He reached out again.
“Mum? Dad?”
It was barely a whisper. So that was what he saw. Lily and that twerp. Obviously. The boy wanted his parents. Especially since he didn’t know his father. It was a good thing the mirror didn’t fulfil the desires it showed. The reality of James Potter would be a sad disappointment.
But not the reality of Lily, of course. She would be quite an improvement on that sister of hers. Snape remembered Petunia all too well. Naturally the boy was pleased to see his mother.
Only, he didn’t sound pleased. Surprised, was more like it. ”Mum? Dad?” It had been a question. A wondering question, as in, “Mum? Are you my Mum?” rather than, “Mum, what are you doing in a mirror?”
Harry had never seen his mother, then? Never seen a picture of Lily? Petunia - Lily’s sister! - had never shown him a picture?
Snape remembered the spiteful, pinched face of the girl Petunia. It was possible. There were mitigating circumstances, even. Raising Potter’s brat couldn’t be an enviable task. But still. Lily. Her own son didn’t know her at all.
Snape took another good look at the boy, who still stared into the mirror, but now with a wide smile on his face.
He couldn’t step up behind him to drag him back to bed where he belonged. For what would Erised reflect when he, Snape, appeared in front of it? Not James Potter, that much was certain.
But.
But there was always the chance that it would show Lily and …
It was bad enough that Albus knew. Snape had no intention whatsoever to relive his past, even though Erised would show the desired acceptance of his suit, rather than the reality of rejection.
Snape considered his options.
Actually, he thought, all things considered, it might not be such a very bad idea to let the boy have his night. It would save him, Snape, the humiliation of a lifetime.
Well, not perhaps the worst humiliation of his life. But still not one he was willing to risk for the Potter spawn.
Potter kept staring and smiling, oblivious to his surroundings. And Lily would want her son to know her.
Soundlessly, Snape retired and made his way to his own rooms.
It was only when he was in bed that he remembered his original plan: to deliver Minerva’s present.
Ah, well.
Tomorrow, then.
December 28th, 1991
For the fifth night in a row - of all good days of the year, on Holy Innocents Day, Severus Snape sat alone in his Hogwarts office. His mind dwelt on Christmas Past.
“Long Past?” you may inquire.
No, Reader. Snape’s past. More precisely: this past Christmas of the year 1991.
You will be glad to hear that Snape had not suffered a major personality change. He was still as introvert a colleague, as sarcastic a teacher, and as greasy a git as the good old castle knew, or any other good old dwelling, street, or village in the good old Wizarding World.
You will not find him making a Laocoon of himself with his stockings, or trying to shave while dancing, either. He valued his nose too much for such nonsense.
He merely mused that this year he had learned a thing or two during the Festive Season.
The secret of Flitwick’s successful gifts, for instance. Was that already four days ago? It seemed much shorter - as if everything had happened in one, long night.
During their drinking session Snape had thanked him again for his own, beautiful present. “What I do,” Flitwick had said, “is buy things as soon as I see them. I spotted that book on Les Herbes Enchantées in Aix-en-Provence this summer, and I thought of you at once. That’s Severus’s Christmas Gift in the bag, I thought.”
It was the most sensible idea in the world. Almost … yes, almost a Slytherin idea. Next year, that was what he would do, too. As soon as he saw something suitable, he’d buy it. One could spread expenses and avoid the December rush, all in one go. It might even save money, since he wouldn’t have to buy at Christmas prices.
And it was perfectly doable. It had happened to Snape, too, to think of his colleagues when he saw something on his holidays. Those slippers he had seen in Istanbul had made him think of Flitwick, for instance. Utterly comfortable they had looked, and beautifully-embroidered. The little shoe-shop had been a riot of colours, and the bronze-and-blue ones would have made a most suitable gift. Flitwick always wore slippers in his leisure hours.
Snape had just never thought about Christmas in the middle of summer, and he hadn’t bought the slippers since bringing back one gift for just one colleague would have been odd. But now he knew the trick, and this coming year he would be prepared. It would be good to have a special gift for Flitwick, not just because of the man’s own generosity, but because he had truly enjoyed the evening they had spent together.
“Come and see me again! Will you come and see me?” Flitwick had asked, and Snape had promised that he would.
Also, the Slytherin cake had been most successful. Snape rather thought he might add a pitcher of mulled wine next year.
No, perhaps not. If his students found it in the morning, they would drink it for breakfast. Not even Slytherin Manners would survive that. But he might pass by with the pitcher on, say, Christmas Eve. Supervise the students while they drank. Talk a bit. About this and that. Quidditch. What they planned to do on Christmas day. It needn’t be long - just ten or fifteen minutes. Stay longer and they’d start feeling embarrassed. So would he. Fifteen minutes of polite conversation and one goblet of mulled wine was more than enough - for all concerned.
Also, he had put a stopper in Dumbledore’s ludicrous idea to hide the Mirror in plain sight - in an old classroom where any idiot could find it. And any idiot had, as he had told Dumbledore with some asperity. On Boxing Day Potter had returned - as Snape knew he would - with the Weasley boy.
Snape had fetched Mrs Norris, with whom he had a reasonably affectionate relationship, and she had taken care of the little problem soon enough. Once the boys had spotted her, they had run for their lives. Snape hadn’t seen them leave, of course, but he had stood around the corner and listened to their hurried footsteps. Afterwards, he had gone to Dumbledore and had told him in no uncertain terms that the Mirror would have to go elsewhere.
He had taken the opportunity to slip in a comment about the need for Potter to see his parents. Dumbledore had been truly shocked to learn that the boy had never seen Lily’s picture. Snape wouldn’t be surprised at all if Dumbledore (anonymously, of course) would give Potter a wizarding picture of his parents for his next Christmas, now that the thought was planted in his head. That was how Dumbledore did his Christmas gifts, after all. Picking up stray hints.
Lily would want her son to have her picture. That was the only reason he had mentioned it to Dumbledore. The brat would like it too, of course - there was a downside to every well-laid plain. But the smile Snape had seen on his face as he saw Lily in the mirror had made him look slightly less like his father, and therefore slightly more human.
On the 27th, he had finally delivered his gift at Minerva’s office. He had stopped at the classroom that had contained the Mirror, and he had heard Potter’s voice ask a question and Dumbledore’s deep rumble in answer. Something about how no-one gave him - Dumbledore - socks. And how much he wanted them.
He had had a point. Snape had often wanted to tell him to put a sock in it, but he had never thought to make a present of them. And now Dumbledore expressed this wish? To Potter? Snape had found it odd at first, and then he realized that Potter had actually dared ask Headmaster Albus Dumbledore what he saw in the Mirror of Erised.
The sheer impudence of the brat was breath-taking.
Obviously, Dumbledore had hidden whatever his personal and highly private truth was, and had told Potter he wanted socks.
Not his heart’s desire.
But something he would like to receive, or it wouldn’t have been the first thing that sprang to mind when he needed to think of something he wanted.
Snape would remember it. If he ever ran into a pair of socks in a colour and design vivid enough to please his sartorially-challenged Headmaster, he would overcome his natural reluctance and buy the horrors. Dumbledore would like the gift. As much as Minerva had liked hers, perhaps.
For when Minerva had found his gift, she had been truly pleased. She had recognised his handwriting on the gift card and had thanked him most warmly. So warmly, in fact, that Snape had completely forgotten to mention the annual tartan handkerchiefs. They had been in a rather Slytherin-looking pattern this year, although Slytherin didn’t have a tartan - this was some clan called Abercrombie, according to Minerva. Clearly, some effort had been made, once again. But not much, as he had planned to point out.
But it didn’t matter that he had forgotten his jibe about tartans. He had still experienced fun, he supposed. Or at least a rather pleasant, tinkling sensation.
A bit like a warming spell, only better.
And Minerva had even invited him for drinks in her rooms. For this very evening.
He had accepted the invitation.
The Unholy Innocents were safe from Erised’s lures; Dumbledore had seen to that. The Stone was safe in the Mirror. His Slytherins still spoke of their Christmas cake.
So it was with an easy conscience that Snape could enjoy Minerva’s company and the discussion on Scrooge he was looking forward to. Besides, Minerva knew how to keep a good whisky, if any woman alive possessed the knowledge, and she knew when to serve it, too.
Snape thought of the excellent drinks ahead, and, briefly, of Ebenezer Scrooge, who wanted to have no further intercourse with Spirits, but would live on the Total Abstinence Principle ever afterwards.
More fool him.
Snape got up from behind his desk, extinguished the candles in his office, and locked up. The Seasonal Misery was well and truly past, and an evening with his old sparring partner lay ahead.
Delivering her gift had been a far more complicated affair than he had bargained for, but the evening ahead would be - dare he use the doomed word one more time, or would Fate interfere and once again scatter the collected inmates of Hogwarts on his path to prevent him from reaching the pleasures of Minerva’s rooms?
No. Minerva and he had planned an evening together, and he would like to see the witch, wizard, or ghost who would stand in their way.
The evening ahead would be fun.
All the rest was humbug.