A/N: Merry Christmas all! Here is the Harry/Snape Christmas fluff I promised! It has no relation to Unexpected Effects; different worlds entirely. It's not entire impossible this guy might get a sequel one day, but I'll have to see how it goes. I'm juggling a million stories right now, and I'm just not sure.

But in the mean time, enjoy and have a very Merry Christmas!

1

Severus Snape.

Harry was going to kill someone. It was as simple as that. It could be Professor McGonagall, whose writing stared up at him, mocking him. It could be Severus Snape; he wouldn't have to do this if the man was dead. It could be himself; he wouldn't have to do this if he was dead, either. And he was pretty good at dying and coming back to life—he was, after all, The-Boy-Who-Lived-Twice. So he'd just off himself, spend a few days with Dumbledore in King's Cross, and then come back when this whole mess was over.

Yes, that sounded good.

Maybe more reasonably, he could owl Hermione and beg her for help.

Severus Snape.

Really?

Really?

"Trade you?" Harry whispered to Neville.

"Who'd you get?" Neville asked, glancing around the table. There weren't many options. "I don't even know who this is."

Harry glanced over his shoulder. "Second year Slytherin," he said, nodding towards the girl.

Neville looked disgusted. "A Slytherin? You still want to trade?"

"Yes," Harry said. "It's my gift to you, not having to deal with a—a Slytherin." Technically he wasn't lying; Slughorn was head of house, and he had long ago graduated.

Neville narrowed his eyes. "You got someone worse than her. A professor, right?"

"Yeah," Harry replied. "Please?"

"Who is it?"

Harry carefully kept the paper folded and under the table. "Doesn't matter. Please?"

"I'm not going to trade if—"

"No trading!" Professor McGonagall announced, looking pointedly at Harry. "And no sharing who you got! The whole point is that it's a secret."

Harry groaned quietly, slipping the piece of parchment into his robes. "Why?" he moaned. "Why are we doing this? Why me?"

Professor Slughorn, who was only a few seats down from Harry, gave him a conspiratorial wink. "I'm not supposed to say, but a certain portrait of a certain headmaster suggested the idea while our current headmistress was a wee bit suggestible, if you know what I mean."

"Of course Dumbledore would be behind this," Harry muttered, though the idea of an intoxicated McGonagall was almost enough to make him smile.

"Don't worry, Harry," Slughorn continued. "Whoever you got will be lucky to receive a gift from the great Harry Potter."

"Doubt it," Harry said under his breath. But he forced a laugh and said, "I'm sure you're right, professor."

"I would not be adverse to steering you in the right direction," Slughorn said, still in that conspiratorial voice.

McGonagall shot him a withering look. "Do not encourage the students, Horace. I'm sure Mr. Potter can think of something on his own."

Harry fingered the piece of parchment in his pocket.

Severus Snape.

Somehow, he doubted it.

2

Harry's first stop after breakfast was the Owlery. He quickly penned a letter to Hermione explaining the situation and sent the owl away to the Burrow, trying to remember why he'd decided to stay at the castle instead of join his friends at the Weasleys. It was a blur of Neville begging him and having some peace and quiet and something about wanting to spend as much of his last year at the school as possible.

All idiotic in the face of this torture.

He went to the common room where, to his great surprise, he found Neville flipping through a potions book.

"What're you doing?" Harry asked, flopping into a chair. "Willingly doing potions? You?"

"I dunno, she's a Slytherin," Neville said. "I can handle something simple. I was thinking maybe a draught of something cheerful or relaxing or something?"

"Oh. Yeah, that sounds good," Harry replied. He might be tempted to steal the idea if he didn't have the potions master himself. Yes, technically the title now belonged to Slughorn, but that was hardly the point. The point was that there wasn't anything he could make that would be impressive enough, that wouldn't get critiqued and torn apart and possibly land him in detention.

"Now that we're alone, who've you got?" Neville asked. "And d'you think there's hingulat powder in the potions cupboard? I don't fancy asking Slughorn to use his private stores." He shuddered. "Or Snape."

"There should be," Harry said. "And I'm not telling. I'm not telling anyone. I'm not putting my name anywhere near this. I'm not getting expelled Christmas morning."

Neville gave him a weird look. "Fine then. How about helping me with a Lotion Potion? Hand and face cream. It looks pretty simple."

"Sure," Harry replied. "Maybe I'll get inspired in the dungeons."

Neville marked the page and they started down. "Inspired by the dungeons? Have you got Slughorn?"

"If only," Harry said. "He'd be easy. Just get him a picture of myself and I'm set."

"Conceited dungeon bat," Neville said with a laugh. Then he looked horrified. "Dungeon bat? Is it Snape?"

Harry didn't answer.

Neville burst into laughter. "Oh, Harry, I'm sorry. It's not funny. It's just—" More laughter.

"It's not funny," Harry grumbled. "We're doing your lotion. Your nice, easy lotion. That she'll like, because she's a girl, and girls like lotion."

"You'll think of something," Neville said, still trying to contain a smile. "It'll be fine.

"Out of all the things it's going to be, fine is nowhere on the list."

3

Brewing the lotion was surprisingly relaxing. All the ingredients smelled good, most of it was just simmering, and Neville hardly needed any help at all. No explosions, no melted cauldrons, just one slipup involving too much hingulat powder and that was easy enough to fix.

Then Snape swept into the room. Neville squeaked and looked away and bumped the flame, causing it to flare up and catch his sleeve on fire. Harry quickly put it out with a jet of water, turned the flame down, and gave the lotion a few quick stirs until it wasn't bubbling anymore.

Snape sneered at him. "Ever the potioneer, Longbottom."

"He's making his Christmas gift," Harry said angrily, knowing he was overreacting. "He was doing great, until you showed up."

"Watch your tone, Potter," Snape said icily, disappearing into the potions cupboard.

"What is he doing here?" Neville hissed.

"Getting ingredients, apparently," Harry whispered back. "Stir." He shoved the stirrer into Neville's hand, and then when Neville didn't do anything, guided his hand in a circle until he could manage on his own. "Keep your eyes on the potion. You'll be fine."

"Right," Neville said, looking steadfastly at the creamy potion.

Harry, on the other hand, was fixated on the man in the potions closet. He was terrifying even from here, when all Harry could see was the vague swish of black robes in the shadows. Of course terrifying wasn't the only adjective Harry could think of, but it was the only was he was willing to admit, especially when Neville was cowering next to him.

No matter how deliciously dark and mysterious he was.

Snape emerged, holding a small jar of what appeared to be pickled organs. "What are you two imbeciles doing down here?"

"Christmas, I told you," Harry answered. "Neville's making a Lotion Potion."

Snape stalked over, though Harry thought it might be a bit more like gliding. He leaned over the cauldron, Neville physically shaking next to Harry.

"This is not obviously incorrect," Snape said. "If your mistake is not noticeable until the potion is in use, I dread Christmas morning even more than I usually do."

"It's perfect," Harry snapped.

Snape raised an eyebrow at Harry. "If you are so sure, you will have no problem testing it?"

"Not at all," Harry replied, taking the challenge. He scooped a small handful of the potion and rubbed his hands together. He smirked, maintaining eye contact with his professor. "Absolutely perfect."

Snape glanced down. "Your hands are turning red."

Harry let out a pent up gasp and started shaking them. "It's hot," he said. "Really bloody hot. Merlin, you made me reach into a burning cauldron to prove a point?"

Snape smirked. "I made you do nothing, Potter. Your own stupidity led you to make such a decision."

He looked down at his hands. Small blisters were starting to form. "Neville, can you finish on your own?" he asked, wincing in pain. "I think I've got to go to the infirmary."

Neville looked at him pleadingly. "I—I guess, if you have to."

Snape let out an annoyed sigh. "I do not trust Longbottom alone in the potions lab. Potter, give me your hands."

Harry stared at him. "What?"

"Just do it."

Very nervously, Harry held out his scalded hands. Snape took out his wand and waved it over his hands with a wordless spell. They returned to their normal color, the blisters receded, and a pleasant coolness replaced the burning. Harry sighed in relief.

"Thank you, sir," he said gratefully. Then he firmed himself. "If you were wondering, my hands are smooth and smell of lavender."

Snape rolled his eyes. "You are fools. If you bring any harm to that cauldron, detention for both of you and thirty points from Gryffindor. Each."

"There won't be a problem," Harry said tightly. "Sir."

"Five points for lip," Snape replied. "I will do you a favor and remove myself from your presence before you offend me any further." He swept out of the room, and Neville let out a huge sigh.

"I hate him," he said. "I hate him, I hate him, I hate him."

"I know," Harry said, regaining his bearings. "But you're fine, and my hands aren't burning anymore, and your potion is flawless."

"I can't believe you talked back to him like that," Neville said, sprinkling in a few lavender buds.

"Um, yeah," Harry said, feeling a little guilty. "Your lotion looks good. I'd turn off the heat if I were you."

Neville flicked it off. "I brewed a successful potion," he said, sounding awed. "And you were aiming for detention, weren't you?"

"No," Harry said. "That'd be stupid." He paused. "Alternatively, I was, because I need more time to scope him out for gifts."

"In detention?" Neville asked, pouring the lotion into a jar.

"I don't know," Harry muttered. "It seemed like a good idea."

"If that seems like a good idea, your gift is going to be hopeless," Neville replied, cleaning the station and hovering the cauldron away. "Then again, you've never been one for good ideas. They always seem to work out, though. You'll be fine."

"I have no ideas, good or otherwise," Harry said. "I can't believe we're not allowed to go to Hogsmeade for this."

"Come on, let's get out of here before he shows up again," Neville said, tucking the jar into his pocket.

4

The days were sneaking by. There were now three days until Christmas. Hermione had owled him back a few days ago, more commiserating than giving any useful suggestions. In fact, entirely commiserating with no useful suggestions at all. Neville refused to talk about it because he refused to talk about anything to do with Snape if it didn't have to do with how to survive him. A day after the letter from Hermione came a letter from Ron. It was enchanted, and all it did was laugh at him. It followed him around, refusing to be banished, cursed or set on fire. Eventually it tired itself out and Harry took the opportunity to throw it in the fireplace, where it finally caught and burned into a pile of ash.

Harry was getting a little frantic. He spent his meals sneaking looks at Snape, trying to get an idea, any idea at all. But he didn't talk, he wore entirely black like always, and gave no clues whatsoever. Plus Harry had a suspicion Snape was starting to realize he was being stared at, and that was going to end very badly on Harry's end.

He was coming around to Neville's idea of brewing a potion, no matter how bad an idea it was because at least it was an idea. But after looking through all his books, and all the books in the library, including in the restricted section—all he had to do was tell Slughorn he wanted to do research and he had a note—and everything that seemed impressive enough took longer than two and a half days, and those that could fit in his timeframe were not only pathetic, but some too difficult to attempt. Harry had forgotten that he wasn't actually good at potions at all, and had slinked out of the library in shame.

After a dinner full of uneventful spying, Harry returned to his room and turned it upside down looking for something, anything he already had that would make a suitable gift. Of course Snape would like something from his mother, but he was absolutely not letting go of the few things of hers he had. Other than that, suddenly everything he owned seemed really childish and immaterial.

Harry went to bed early and anxious.

Unfortunately, the next morning there were only two days to Christmas. Harry was not thrilled with the passage of time. He also wasn't thrilled with Neville, who was perfectly cheerful, didn't have to worry about Christmas, got a letter from his Gran who was spending the holidays in Australia where it was hot and warm, and spent the day working on Herbology homework, which didn't even count as homework as far as Harry was concerned. Nothing did if it involved smiling.

However, it inspired Harry to do his homework as well, and he spent the day writing essays and reading chapters. And sneaking glances at Snape during meals. He looked even more displeased than usual, no doubt because Christmas was the next day and he was programmed to hate anything that could possibly be construed as happy. On the other hand, his surliness only made Harry more determined to find the perfect gift and win him over.

Which only had to do with making him not hate Christmas and absolutely nothing else.

But so Harry worked on homework, which was very productive and guilt-free. He went to sleep late, staying up with Neville to do Herbology.

Then suddenly it was Christmas Eve, and Harry still didn't have a gift.

"Neville," he said desperately, pulling his book away from him. They were sitting in front of the fireplace in the common room, Harry still in his pajamas. "I don't have a gift. I don't have an idea for a gift. I need your help."

"Harry, if I knew how to make Snape happy, I would have done it by now," Neville said, grabbing his book back. "Don't blow up a cauldron. He doesn't like that."

"Oh, yes, I'll get him not blowing up a cauldron," Harry said irritably. "I'll just jot it down on a piece of parchment, yeah? Merry Christmas, Snape, this piece of paper is symbolic of me not blowing up a cauldron."

"Well I don't know!" Neville said. "Maybe you shouldn't have left it to the last minute! We've had since Saturday morning, and Christmas is Thursday. That's six days. I know it's not months and months, but you didn't have to leave it until Christmas Eve."

"I've been thinking," Harry replied angrily, slouching into the couch. "I can't think of anything. My mind is empty. Empty."

"Fill it with Snape-related stuff," Neville said. "I can't believe I said that. But put Snape into your mind."

Harry sat up suddenly. "That's it! Neville, you're brilliant! Thank you!" He sprung up off the couch, raced down to the dungeons and knocked on Slughorn's door.

He didn't answer.

Harry knocked louder.

He still didn't answer.

Harry slammed his fist against the door.

He still didn't answer.

Then Harry realized he was probably at breakfast. He took the stairs up two at a time and ran into the Great Hall. The professors, Snape included, and the few students who stayed behind stared at him, and Harry realized he was still in his pajamas. Plaid flannel pants and an old tee shirt, covered in stains and ripped in a few places.

Harry cleared his throat. "Um, Professor Slughorn? Could I borrow you for a moment?"

"Of course," Slughorn said, looking confused. "I assume from your attire and enthusiasm you cannot wait until I have finished breakfast?"

"Um, it'll just take a minute," Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. Out of everyone staring at him, he swore Snape's gaze was boring holes into him. "Please, sir?"

"All right, I suppose I can spare a moment for Harry Potter," Slughorn said, standing up and following Harry out of the Hall. "What is so important, dear boy?"

"Do you have a spare vial?" Harry asked. "I need it for the Secret Santa."

"That's why you pulled me out of breakfast?" Slughorn asked. "Of course I have a spare vial. There's a box in my office, go right in and take whatever you need."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said, excited. "I'm sorry to interrupt your breakfast."

"No worries, I'll get back to it," Slughorn said, clapping Harry on the shoulder and going back into the Hall.

Harry went back down to the dungeons, still almost-but-not-quite running. Feeling a bit like a thief, he let himself into Slughorn's office and looked around. There were books, and ingredients, and photographs of former students, and plenty of vials, but they all had things in them. Feeling even more intrusive he started going through the drawers in Slughorn's desk. Finally, in the bottom one, he found empty vials. All kinds of empty vials in all shapes and sizes.

So many vials, in fact, it was impossible to pick one. Snape was very particular, he no doubt had a special type of vial he always used and would be horrified to own one not in that exact shape. But what, exactly, was that shape? Harry thought back, trying to remember seeing him with one, and came up blank.

What if some of these were special to Slughorn? There were a few shapes he only had one of; were those off limits? Would he be upset if Harry took one? What if those were the ones Snape liked best, and that's why he was low on them? Or what if they were the ones that were universally hated by potions masters everywhere, and he didn't bother to keep them in stock?

Eventually Harry settled on the plainest vial he could find. A few inches tall, an eighth of an inch in diameter, with a flat bottom so it could sit easily on a shelf. Armed with his vial, he sprinted back upstairs, all but running into Neville on the third floor staircase.

"What's wrong with you?" Neville asked. "Are you okay? You look a bit—manic."

"I'm fine," Harry gasped out. "I just got inspired. Had to find a vial, y'know. What are you doing?"

"Breakfast," Neville said slowly, like he thought Harry might be insane. "The Great Hall is only open for another ten minutes, and I want to grab a bite to eat before they close."

"Brilliant idea," Harry said, joining him as he walked back downstairs.

"So what is this grand gift of yours?" Neville asked. "Presumably that's not just a vial from Slughorn's stores?"

"Can't tell you, it's a secret," Harry replied. Then, with a crushing, sinking feeling, he realized he still didn't know. He knew what, yes, but not which what. Which what was the important part. Merlin, he had been stressed about vial shapes? Who cared about vial shapes when he had to decide which what?

It might be a good idea for a gift but without knowing which what, he was screwed.

5

Harry though the best way to decide which what was to focus on something else entirely, and let it come to him while his mind was otherwise occupied. Which is why he played wizard chess with Neville from breakfast to lunch, and then worked on homework until dinner—that was one thing about spending all his time with Neville, a lot of homework got done. After dinner there was a students versus staff snowball fight, and while at first it was awkward, Harry came to decide that pelting Professor Trelawney with snowballs was incredibly restorative, and taking one to the face from Professor McGonagall made him take everything a lot less seriously.

Until he was back in the common room, drinking hot chocolate and staring vacantly into the fireplace. It was nine o'clock on Christmas Eve and all he had was an empty vial. It sat before him on an otherwise empty table, mocking him. His wand lay next to it, also taunting him.

We're here, they said. We're here waiting for you. We're here, watching as the minutes tick by, waiting for you.

Harry thought he might be starting to go crazy.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Neville finally burst out. "I give up. It's a vial. Are you giving Snape air for Christmas?"

"Yes," Harry replied absently.

"Really, Harry, what are you doing?"

"Neville, if I knew that, I wouldn't have this look on my face," he said, gesturing to his expression. "Abject terror."

"And utter humiliation," Neville supplied helpfully. "Hmm. Hope? And—wait, that's the look you got just before you kissed Cho. This isn't the only Christmas gift you're worried about, is it?"

"Knock it off," Harry replied irritably. "I'm trying to focus on Snape."

"At least tell me who it is?" Neville asked. "I won't tell anyone, promise."

"Snape," Harry said, not really thinking it through. He froze. "I mean, I'm thinking about Snape. His gift. For the Secret Santa. Goddammit Neville, I'm trying to figure this out."

Neville fell into silence.

Harry retreated into his thoughts. This had seemed like such a good idea. He was still convinced it was. But—but it just wasn't. Wasn't working out. Any memory that was personal enough to make a good gift was either filled with hatred or, worse, other things. He could go with something embarrassing about himself, Snape would get a kick out of that, but he'd already seen most of those memories fifth year. Not that he hadn't made a fool out of himself since then, but he didn't think a memory consisting of him falling down the stairs was very Christmas-y, and while the time he came out to Ron and Hermione might amuse him, Harry wasn't willing to share that. That wasn't even embarrassing so much as incredibly awkward.

Also, now that he thought about it, it would definitely send the wrong message.

The fact that it would actually send the right message wasn't the point at all.

"Are you making something to go in the vial?" Neville asked. "Because that's a pretty small vial, and it's really late to brew anything."

Making something.

He could make a memory.

Right now, a special Christmas memory.

"Neville, you're a genius," Harry declared, putting the vial in his pocket and grabbing his wand.

"Why do you keep saying that?" Neville asked, exasperated. "I keep saying nothing at all, and then you say I'm brilliant or something and run off with no explanation."

Harry, who was already halfway out the portrait hole, grinned. "Just take the compliment and don't worry about it."

Neville mumbled something unintelligible as Harry left.

6

Harry slipped into the Great Hall, closing the doors behind himself. He was relatively sure he wasn't allowed to be in here outside of meals, and it was entirely possible he'd be down here until after curfew, but he'd just have to risk it. The candles around the room weren't lit, but the giant Christmas tree at the far end of the hall was still twinkling, and that gave him more than enough light.

He crossed the hall and looked up at the giant tree. How was he going to do this? How does one go about purposefully making a memory. It seemed really awkward.

"Okay," Harry said, addressing the tree. "This is the beginning of my memory. It's Christmas Eve in the Great Hall—shit." He cut off. "Well, that probably got me detention. Anyway, Christmas Eve, festive tree." He turned around, facing the empty hall. "So I guess I'm thinking of this like a video recording which is why I'm not facing the tree, so the imaginary camera in front of me sees me and the tree."

Goddammit. This was awful.

"Okay, so, this is my Secret Santa gift for Professor Snape," he continued, feeling entirely daft. "Professor, I know you're not one for the holidays, and I don't really know why I thought a memory of me standing in front of a tree making an arse of myself would make it better, but, um." He rubbed the back of my neck. "Maybe I should just stop talking. My point, I think, is that the tree is really beautiful, and not everything about the holidays are bad. And, I guess, to give you something to laugh at, since I'm utterly bollocks at, um. Talking, apparently."

Merlin's beard.

"To be honest, I don't remember exactly what my point was. I know it had to do with the tree and the lights and merriness and such."

Thinking, thinking, thinking.

"And, well. I know this is too personal and you don't want to hear it, but, well, thank you for letting me see your memories. I know you were dying and you didn't think I'd have to see you after I saw them, but it meant a lot to me. I'm going to stop talking about that now, though."

Okay. Harry could do this. Really. Um. As long as he didn't accidentally profess his love, he'd be fine. He thought that would be fairly hard to do by accident. It would make a sort of interesting Christmas gift, though, if suicidal. The first time when he decided he didn't hate Snape, back in first year when he found out he had been protecting him and the philosopher's stone and not trying to kill him or steal it. The slow movement from not hating to neutral to actively enjoying him. Fourth year during the Tri-Wizard Tournament, how much he'd wished he could go to Snape for help. Which was stupid, really, because he had Moody—or thought he had, but that got too complicated. Maybe, though, if he had Snape back then, he would have noticed what was going on, and the whole thing wouldn't have—

No, that wasn't helpful to think about.

Fifth year, during those awful Legilimency lessons, constantly terrified Snape would see something he shouldn't. Like maybe, for instance, how having him in his mind was terrifying and awful and made him feel violated and slowly turned into the high point of his week, when he could, just for a few moments, surrender himself completely to Snape. He didn't realize it until after the lessons were over, long after, but that was probably when any sort of not-entirely-platonic feelings started.

Well, um. More than probably. Hence being petrified of Snape seeing something he shouldn't.

Sixth year, where he could hardly look at the man. Torn between something he refused to call love and something else he easily labeled as suspicion and fear. He should have said something then, but really, when? And how? "By the way, sixteen year old boy you hate here, I'm in love with you." That would be a fun conversation. But the way Snape had looked at him when he found Malfoy bleeding on the floor of the bathroom, the surprise and hatred and utter, irrevocable disdain. After that it was impossible. Every time he even thought about opening his mouth to say anything, that look flashed through his mind and he thought better of it.

And, well, of course. The obvious. When Snape had shushed him in the Astronomy Tower. When Snape had killed Dumbledore. All of the hatred and betrayal from first year had come rushing back, and for weeks he wouldn't even speak the man's name. Then the sneaking suspicion that maybe things weren't all they had seemed. Dumbledore had trusted him completely, had told Harry over and over again to believe in him. The shush, that had looked entirely genuine. He could have cursed Harry silent, but he didn't. It was dark, yes, but he could have sworn there had been a look in Snape's eyes, and definitely not one of murder.

So, though he had kept his suspicions to himself, it hadn't come as a surprise in the slightest when he saw the evidence in the Pensieve.

Watching him die in the Shrieking Shack. Panic and terror and, more than anything else and entirely personal, his heart breaking. It was stupid and pathetic and clichéd, and there were so many other things to worry about that night, so many dead to mourn, but that had left him numb and reeling and all but incapable of completing his task. If it weren't for the need to hide it, to make sure Ron and Hermione didn't see, he might have just stayed in the Shrieking Shack for the rest of the night.

His first night back at Hogwarts for his eighth year, the Welcome Feast, when he had Snape sitting at the staff table like always. He had stumbled, nearly fallen over completely, and then nearly sprinted over and hugged him and never let him go. But the way ahead was blocked with returning students, and Ron was still holding him up in case he tripped over himself again, so that hadn't happened. Which was good.

Really.

Then this year. Harry was of age this year, he didn't have that excuse to hold him back. He knew Snape was good. He finally had his coveted Defense teaching position, and while he wasn't any less cold or difficult because of it, he didn't seem quite as withdrawn, and seemed to hand out fewer detentions than before. There were times when it almost seemed like a good idea, to tell him. Thankfully he came to his senses before doing anything.

Because doing something was a bad idea.

A. Bad. Idea.

"Sorry, I zoned out for a minute there," Harry said suddenly, shaking himself. "Anyway. Merry Christmas, Snape. Try to be happy, okay? Just for a little bit, for me. You vowed to keep me safe and take care of me, and today that means being happy. Even a little bit."

Harry stopped talking. Then he cursed.

"Bloody hell, how do I turn off a memory?" he muttered. "I can't turn off a camera because there isn't one, I just need to, er, stop. Thinking. I guess."

Doing his best, Harry cleared his mind. Quickly, before anything could escape or he could bather on, he touched the tip of his wand to his temple and drew out the memory. It floated elegantly into the vial, and he corked it.

Harry lifted the small vial, filled with gently swirling smoke, and appraised it. Was this good enough? It was basically just a Christmas card, and Professor McGonagall had made it perfectly clear that "just a card" wouldn't cut it. But it wasn't exactly just a card. And it gave Snape something to smirk at, seeing as how Harry hadn't gotten out a single coherent sentence the whole time.

He put the vial back in his pocket and snuck up to Gryffindor Tower. Neville was still in the common room, reading through a Quidditch magazine.

"Did you find the perfect gift?" he asked. "Am I as brilliant as you thought?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "Well, mostly. I think I might have made an idiot of myself, but Snape will enjoy that."

"How undeniably, unfortunately true," Neville said.

"Have you got any wrapping paper left?" he asked. "I used up all of mine on that giant box for the Weasleys."

Neville summoned the paper. "Here. It's self-wrapping. Just put the gift on it and it'll cut, wrap, tape and bow itself."

"Brilliant," Harry replied. "I'm a disaster at wrapping." However, even immaculately wrapped, it looked very small and sad. A cylinder with a tiny bow on top and a tiny, unlabeled gift tag. Harry jotted his name down and sent the package up to his room. "If I mysteriously disappear after breakfast never to be seen again, assume that Snape killed me."

"That bad, eh?" Neville asked.

"I haven't the slightest idea," Harry replied. "The man's impossible."

"And again, undeniably, unfortunately true."

7

The Christmas gifts sat in the middle of the table, arranged elegantly with a swish of Professor Flitwick's wand. The idea was to get everyone excited, to build up the suspense, but Harry just got more and more nervous as breakfast dragged on. Everyone else—with the exception of Snape, of course—was happy and cheerful, and Harry was left in peace to have a very quiet, unnoticeable anxiety attack.

After what seemed like hours, the food disappeared, and Professor McGonagall announced it was time to open gifts. She waved her wand and each gift floated over to the proper person. Harry had a moment of completely irrational but surprisingly convincing panic that his gift was from Snape, but of course it wasn't. Instead Professor Flitwick had shrunk one of Hagrid's Christmas trees, complete with tiny ornaments and pinpricks of light. It was quite beautiful, and enough to distract Harry long enough to genuinely thank his professor.

Harry felt eyes on him. How was it Snape's gaze had a physical weight? Regardless, he summoned his courage and looked over at the older man. Snape was looking at him with a confused, complicated expression Harry didn't understand. Then he looked away and slipped the vial into his robes.

"You and me and potions masters," Neville said quietly. "Slughorn got me Thirty Brews in Thirty Minutes: Potions for the Wizard on the Go."

"Yeah?" Harry asked, looking over at his friend. "That actually sounds pretty useful."

"I know, I'm surprised." He flipped through the pages. "Ooh, peppermints. Want to brew with me? We'll get candy!"

"Maybe later," Harry said, glancing at Snape again. He was in the process of excusing himself when Professor McGonagall spoke up.

"Didn't you get something, Severus?"

"Foolishness," he replied. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have essays to grade."

"On Christmas?" Slughorn asked. "Surely even you can take the day off!"

Snape shot him a withering look. "Some of us understand the concept of responsibility. Enjoy your—" He looked down at the homemade wreath that sat before him. "—foliage." He left the hall in a swirl of black robes.

"Okay, I'm nervous as—as—" Harry broke off, realizing the professors were most certainly within earshot. "—a really nervous thing. I'm going to go back to bed."

"Don't let him get you down," Neville said, looking at Harry sympathetically. "I don't think he could get himself a gift he likes, let alone you. It'll be fine."

Harry wasn't at all sure about that, but he nodded, and took himself and his tree up to his room. He got under his blankets but didn't make a real effort to sleep, instead watching the twinkles from Flitwick's tree. It really was a wonderful gift. So were the gifts from his friends he'd opened with Neville before breakfast. All he needed to do was to calm down. He wasn't going to let this ruin Christmas.

Because spending the day in his bed with his curtains draw didn't mean ruined at all.

Almost no time at all passed before a note whizzed into his room and landed on his pillow in front of him. Taking a deep breath, Harry unfolded it.

Come to my office immediately.

Well then. He had been embarrassed by how stupid he'd seemed, and a little—or maybe more than a little—mopey about not being able to spend Christmas with Snape, which was pathetic, but he hadn't thought either of those things would get him in trouble. Maybe it was detention for being in the Great Hall when he wasn't supposed to be. Perhaps it was too close to "just a card" and he felt cheated, though that sounded incredibly stupid and unlikely, given who it was. Or maybe Snape just wanted to mock him. In any case, delaying the inevitable wouldn't help, and would probably just make it worse, so he gathered himself and set off to his office.

It was probably just nerves, but the closer he got to the second floor the more he felt like he was missing something really, really obvious. Not something he should have brought with him, there wasn't anything that could protect him from Snape, but something about his gift. That's what this must be about. Whatever he forgot.

But no, he hadn't forgotten anything. He was just nervous.

Right?

Right.

Still, Harry was nearly paralyzed when he stood in front of the wooden door, hand poised to knock. What was it? It was important. Really important. But no, it didn't exist. He was just psyching himself out.

Right?

No, wrong. He was sure there was something.

Wasn't he?

"Mr. Potter, stop wasting my time and open the door."

Harry jumped. Still trying to remember what he forgot he went inside, opening the door as little as possible and closing it silently behind himself. He kept his gaze on the floor and his back pressed against the door in case he needed to make a sudden retreat.

Snape's eyes bore into his forehead. "Are you going to stand there like an imbecile or take a seat?"

"Um," Harry said eloquently. "Can you tell me why I'm here first, and then I'll decide?" He risked a glance up at his professor, and saw he had raised an eyebrow.

"Imbecile it is," he said, though he sounded more amused than anything else. "The memory you gave me was quite—quite something. I had not realized your inability to form a coherent sentence held true even in your mind."

Harry flushed. "Sorry, professor."

"Far more interesting," Snape continued, "were the words you left unsaid. Clearly you are not aware that Legilimency can be used within a memory."

"Sir, I don't—" Harry broke off, eyes widening and all color fading from his face. "Oh—oh Merlin. I'm so sorry, I didn't think—"

"Clearly not," Snape interrupted. "Kindly remove your hand from the doorknob and have a seat. At the very least, do not run screaming from my office. I did not bring you down here to humiliate you—you have done a fine job of that on your own—but to have an apparently much needed conversation."

"N—no," Harry stammered. "No conversation. I'll just, um. Leave."

"Sit," he repeated. "Please."

Please? Please?

This was the beginning of a long, drawn out, intensely awkward conversation in which Snape told him in surprisingly polite words just how much he hated Harry and why he would never, ever, ever want to be involved with him. Harry was not interested in such a conversation, not even in the slightest.

"I think it would be a lot better if I didn't do that," Harry said. "I'm just going to do that running away and screaming thing, if that's okay."

"I cannot force you to stay," Snape conceded. "Nor can I take points or give detention for a—social conversation."

Social? Oh, yeah, right. Definitely social. "Okay, conversation," Harry started, voice unnaturally high and fast. "I humiliated myself even more than usual because you pried into my mind, which is possibly not my fault, I'm not really sure, I'm not thinking clearly, so you can enjoy my mortification and watch it over and over again and I promise I'll never speak to you again if you promise we can forget this ever happened."

Snape rose out of his chair and walked to the other side of his desk. There was still an entire room between them, but Harry was not at all pleased with this development.

"You are not interested in hearing what I have to say on the matter?" Snape asked.

A little, tiny spark of something approaching hope flashed through Harry. "Um. Am I?"

"Perhaps," Snape replied.

Perhaps. That was an unpleasant, very Snape-like answer. "Okay," Harry said, not wanting to say that at all. "Okay, go." He was looking at the floor and rubbing the back of his neck furiously.

"I feel the need to address your previous statement before I say what I had planned," Snape said. "It is most certainly not my fault, Potter. You were the one who stood there doing nothing in the middle of a memory addressed to me. I do not know what you expected me to do. I assumed you were clever enough to use your unavoidable awkwardness to tell me something, but evidently I was wrong."

"I wasn't that awkward!" Harry protested. "I mean. I had to give you a gift. What did you expect me to do? I tried to think of something reasonable but that was all I could come up with, and I'm not exactly used to intentionally making memories. Do you have any idea how hard it is to do that?"

"I spent nearly twenty years of my life as a spy," Snape said dryly. "I believe I know exactly how to make a memory."

"Okay, yes, well," Harry stammered. "I haven't done that. So, um, I was awkward."

"You are always awkward, Potter."

"That's my point!" Harry exclaimed. "I'm always awkward! You shouldn't have read anything into it. Unless you've been using Legilimency on me all these years without my knowledge."

"Of course not," Snape said irritably. "That would be a gross violation of your privacy."

"And this wasn't?"

"You gave me the memory," Snape replied. "I assumed I was allowed to look at it."

"Yeah, but." Harry took a deep breath. "Did you call me down here to argue, or did you actually want to talk?"

"I find they are one and the same when it comes to you," Snape said. "However, that does lead into what I meant to say. How is it you could possibly be interested in me? I yell at you, I demean you and I have spent the majority of our time together treating you as unpleasantly as I can without getting fired."

Harry flushed and looked away. "Well it's not always that. You've saved my life a lot."

"If you are predisposed to develop feelings for anyone who saves your life, I am afraid you will quickly become enamored with anyone you spend any amount of time with," Snape replied with a smirk.

"Yes, yes, I get it, I almost die a lot," Harry said, brushing the insult off. "Look, I don't know, okay? It just sort of happened. Believe me, I've spent a lot of time trying to make it not happen."

"It seems to me it has progressed beyond 'just sort of happening'," Snape said, and now they were having the conversation and Harry really wished they could go back to just yelling at each other. "Since you were fifteen, I believe?"

Harry closed his eyes. "It doesn't matter. Tell me what you wanted to say. Get it over with."

"Get it over with?" Snape asked quietly. "What do you expect I am going to say?"

Harry was at a lost for words. "That you hate me?" he tried. "You're hideously embarrassed by what you saw and you never want to see me again?"

"I was going to say neither of those things," Snape replied. "Would you prefer to stand there and guess for the rest of the day, or would you be interested in letting me finish a sentence or two?"

Harry felt something inside him break. "You know what?" he snapped. "I don't really want to hear what you have to say. I see no scenario that ends well for me, and while I suppose there must be a part of me that enjoys being yelled at and berated by you, because god knows why else I'd like you, I'm not interested in it right now, not about this. So I'm going to go, and I'm probably going to do the running away and screaming bit, and I would really prefer we never talk about this ever again."

A moment passed.

"You are still standing in my office, Potter."

"Yeah, well," Harry said firmly, like those words created a meaningful sentence.

"You are waiting for a direct reply before you leave, yes?" Snape asked. "Otherwise you would commence with your running and your screaming. Perhaps you believe hearing it in blanket terms will cure you of your pathetic obsession."

Harry felt like crying. "I really wish you were wrong," he said. "Just do it quickly, would you?"

"I will not," Snape replied, advancing from the desk towards Harry. "I do not disagree that a direct reply will not benefit you, but I have no intention of 'curing' you of anything."

The spark of hope exploded. Everything went into overdrive. "What?" he choked out.

Snape continued to cross his office, stopping only a few inches in front of Harry. "If you had let me speak in the first place, this argument would not have been necessary."

"I'm listening," Harry said, barely speaking.

Snape leaned forward, leaning his hands and elbows on the wall. Harry had thought he had been close before; he had been wrong.

"You are not the only one who has kept secrets, Potter," Snape hissed. Harry could feel his breath on his face. He smelled like black coffee. "But I, unlike you, have control over my thoughts, even while dying, and I kept hidden what I did not mean you to see."

"Which was?" Harry breathed.

"Stop. Talking."

Then Snape's lips descended onto his.

He tasted like black coffee, too.

And, thankfully, was fully capable of holding him up when his legs stopped working.

The end.

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