I have three New Years Resolutions (one is already broken, surprise surprise). But another is to update every Monday this year. Best of luck to me!

Please enjoy my latest creation.

-Cori


Harry Potter and the

Stone of Dreams


– Act 1: Foundations –


.

-1- Harry -1-

October 31, 1985

.

"Of all the stupid holidays…"

Harry curled up in the darkest corner of his cupboard, listening to his uncle rant and rave about today's holiday. While it had been Dudley who had brought the topic up, it had been Harry who had suffered more from the resulting explosion.

"No! No son of mine is going to do anything of the sort!"

He could hear Dudley crying from his room upstairs. Then there was the quiet voice of his aunt, trying to calm the larger man down with soft placations. Harry reached up a hand to touch his cheek, feeling the hot skin from his uncle's absent backhand.

"I don't care if it's a common holiday and there's no harm in it," Uncle Vernon fumed loudly, his bulk stalking past the tiny broom closet. The floor shivered and shook with his footsteps.

Harry shrank back from the shadow looming through the slats on the cupboard door, his five-year-old mind not quite understanding what was happening. His uncle – while large, scary, and threatening – had never hit him before. Harry pulled the thin blanket over his head.

"I'm not buying a costume, and certainly not that sort of costume."

"Of course not, Vernon," Aunt Petunia said. Harry could hear her quick footsteps move past the cupboard door. "I'm sure Duddy was just confused."

"It's the boy's fault, it is," the man complained. "We should have had him out of here before this. He's contaminating our son with that nonsense."

"You know why we can't do that," came the soft hiss of Aunt Petunia. "We'll just have to keep them separate."

"The boy will have to learn," Vernon muttered. "I'll keep that nonsense out of my house…"

As their voices calmed and moved away into the house, Harry peeked out from under his blanket, wiping quiet tears of pain from his face. His eyes alert and on the slatted door, Harry wondered nervously if it was going to be wrenched open, a beefy hand ready to reach in and grab him.

Over and over in his head, Harry was wishing. It was the same wish he'd had for as long as he could remember. I wish someone would come and take me away. He used to long for his parents to show up, but lately he'd taken to hoping for anyone.

Nobody ever came. It was becoming part of his reality. Everyone else's wishes and dreams might come true, but not his.

As time passed and supper crept closer, Harry closed his eyes. He could hear his relatives moving around the house. Their feet made different sounds against the floor: his aunt's frantic, quick-paced clicks, his uncle's heavy plod, his cousin's slow, unsteady tread. At some point, Dudley must have been allowed out of his room – the TV was on and playing cartoons loud enough for Harry to listen in. Harry reached up a hand and prodded his cheek. Although the pain from the slap had faded quickly, his jaw still felt sore.

When it became obvious the rest of the house had started to eat without him, Harry sighed and pulled the blanket back over his head. His eyes felt heavy as he curled up in the corner. Listening to his thick-set uncle continue to rant about Halloween and all the stupid people out celebrating, Harry let out a low breath and felt his body shudder. And he wished.

He wished like he never had before. A new level of fear of his uncle and the soreness in his jaw lent the desire a fevered pitch. And overhead, a full Halloween moon glowed just over the horizon, gleaming down on the house and sparkling through the slats in the little broom cupboard.

I just wish I were somewhere else.

As he curled into a tight, little ball, there was a strange feeling growing just behind his heart. It welled up quickly, roaring through Harry's mind like a wave. Harry gasped and jerked his eyes open, instinctively trying to grab on to something even though his body wasn't moving.

Then, quite suddenly, he was moving. Harry found himself flying backwards through the air. He got a split second view of his body still lying asleep on the small mattress. A snake – too large to logically fit inside of such a small broom cupboard – curled up next to him opened red eyes.

The snake hissed darkly. "Avada…"

And everything was gone. Harry hit the floor hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Sprawled on the cold ground, he lay still a moment as his lungs struggled to bring oxygen to his battered body. Wiggling his fingers and toes and fighting with a growing pain in his head, Harry slowly crawled to his hands and knees.

The room he found himself in was nothing like number four, Privet Drive. It was darkly colored. Large gray stones seemed to make up the walls, floor, and ceiling. Thick wooden tables stained a million colors crowded the room and heavy-looking black pots rested in stacks near the sinks. No electric lights hung from the ceiling. Instead, large torches lined the walls, flickering with fire.

Mouth falling open in amazement, Harry settled back on his heels. One hand came up to rub at his head, attempting to sooth the pain in his forehead, even as he found new things to stare at.

As his hand came down from his head, Harry finally caught sight of his skin. It was a dim sort of blue. Harry stared at his fingers. Moved them around. Watched the floor through his hands.

Through his hands.

Fear sparked inside of his five-year-old brain. This was definitely one of those things his uncle would turn red about – one of those things that wasn't normal. And while Harry wasn't the smartest child in Surrey, he was well aware of the fact that people shouldn't be able to see through their hands.

"Aunt Petunia?" He hesitated when he couldn't hear his voice, curling his fingers into fists. "Aunt Petunia!" This time it was meant to be a scream, but still nothing came out. His mouth moved, air was forced from his lungs, but the sound refused to make it past his throat.

Caught in a spiral of fear and frustration, he lashed out with a foot. His heel should have caught on the nearby table, making a nice sound, but it didn't. Instead, his foot went right through.

Harry found himself staring fearfully at the table, then at his slightly-blue and transparent foot, then back at the table. Nothing in his young mind could understand such a situation.

Bang.

Harry flinched at the sound, jerking around in time to see the door to the room slam shut behind a tall, young-looking man. He was stalking into the room, long hair dangling around his ears, black robes billowing around him like smoke. Anger boiled in his eyes. "It's a bleeding simple concept," the man snapped, pulling a stick from his robes and pointing it at the black pots.

Harry barely noticed when the pots jumped and started to clean themselves. He watched the man closely, his brain trying to make sense of this new thing.

"Had I known students were this dense and indolent…" the man trailed off with a dark groan, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "Why did I let myself get talked into this job?" The man stooped to pick up something off the ground – a little glass jar with a strange orange liquid. He stared at it, shaking his head, then pointed his stick at it and the jar vanished.

By this point, Harry had determined that he must be in some sort of really strange dream. That would explain his hands and the man's magic stick. He felt the tense fear that had grown in him earlier start to fade. He trained his attention back down on his hands, flexing his fingers.

"And what in Merlin's name…"

Harry blinked at the man's voice and looked up. The man was standing over him, black hair around his face like a veil as the man peered down at him. Harry waited a beat, then tried for a small smile up at the dream-man.

"There's a ghost of a child in my dungeon," the man said softly, his eyes closing and his fingers tensing into fists. "Yet another thing Dumbledore forgot to mention when he offered the position."

Harry waited for the man to open his eyes, turning over the idea of being a ghost in his head. He wasn't entirely sure what being a ghost entailed, but it sounded like a fun way to pass the time.

"Do you have a name?" the man drawled sourly.

Opening his mouth, Harry attempted to give his name, but nothing name out. His mouth moved, he could feel the air coming out, but the noises were refusing to be heard. After a moment, Harry just shrugged.

The man shook his head and turned away with a muttered, "Excellent."

Harry climbed to his feet, unsteadily finding his balance. He winced as a wave of pain rushed through his forehead. Once he was steady on his feet, Harry followed the dream-man towards the other side of the room.

Unfortunately, the man noticed. "No," he said, pointing a long, bony finger in Harry's direction. "You're staying here. I'm owling an exorcist."

Harry blinked at the finger, then up at the man with a small smile. The man seemed to hesitate at the smile, then twisted on his heel and vanished through a second door. Harry stood still a few moments, watching the door and waiting for the tall man to return.

But there was only so long he could stand in one place. Harry reached out a hand and ran it through a nearby table. His heart beat loudly in his ears, not quite sure what he thought about the sensation it caused. There was something cold and fizzy about putting a hand through something.

He reached out a hand and did it again, then sunk his whole arm into the table. Retrieving his arm and examining his fingers closely for damage, Harry glanced at the table with a speculative gleam in his eye. It was all just a dream, after all. He took a step towards the table, then another, then another, until he found himself standing inside the table itself. With the table being about as high as he was tall, the table seemed to pass through his forehead.

The table was a cold feeling racing through his head. The almost electric sensation caused his nose to itch. Harry stood still, turned around in a circle, and found himself giggling silently. Stepping out of the table, Harry walked through the next without hesitating. Then started to run.

He made it through all the tables, stopped, and raced back at full-throttle. Unable to stop when he reached the end of the line of tables, Harry found himself tumbling headlong through the wall. He sprawled onto a new floor, his feet still sticking into the other room. Looking up, he found the tall man sitting at a desk.

Harry was just about to open his mouth to call out, forgetting he couldn't make any noise, when the strange stone room disappeared around him. It circled and spun and changed color until everything was black except for a sliver of light coming through the slats in a cupboard door.

Eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness, Harry realized he was back in his cupboard in Surrey – awake. He reached out a hand and pressed it against the wood of the stairs, wishing it could go through, like it had in his dream. A heavy, disappointed sigh leeched from his lungs as he sank back against the thin mattress and pulled the blanket back over his head.

It had been a good dream.

.

...

.

-2- Severus -2-

November 12, 1985

.

Severus sunk into his chair, glaring down at all the grading he still had to do. He'd made it through the first year's abysmal essays on the properties of dittany – only barely and it had taken several strong cups of tea – and a stack of fourth year work was up next. The fourth year's been working on poison antidotes for several weeks and, while a part of him was hopeful the essays would actually show what they'd been learning, Severus had a strong cup of tea ready just in case.

Grabbing his quill and the first paper, Severus sighed and leaned backwards in the chair. Blaming his latest group of second year Gryffindors, he put his feet up on the corner of his desk and studied the scrawling lines. There was no way he'd written so messily as a-

His thoughts broke off as a sharp twinge raced up his arm. Severus froze.

Slowly setting down the paper and pen and putting his feet back on the ground, he pushed the sleeve of his robe up to eye the spot where the Dark Mark had been inked. With the demise of the Dark Lord four years previous, the Dark Mark had faded and no longer looked like the tattoo that sent most people running. It looked more like a random collection of scar tissue. Severus knew what to look for, though, and he could still make out the outline of the skull and the eyes of the snake.

He forced down a shudder and let the sleeve drop. "What caused that?" he muttered darkly, rubbing at his arm, not for the first time wondering if he could perfect a time travel potion.

With a sigh, he reached forwards to pick up the essay again when he caught sight of a little bit of pale blue sitting near the wall. Letting the half-graded paper stay on the table, he laced his fingers together and studied the young ghost with slightly narrowed eyes.

The childish spirit didn't notice, too busy running his hand through a wall over and over.

Severus slid open a drawer on his desk and fingered the letter that had come back from the exorcist he'd owled when the specter had first appeared. The letter had been uninformative and blandly dismissive. Apparently child-ghosts pass on quickly, most don't last more than a few weeks and, if it wouldn't be too much of a bother, don't owl back unless the ghost is actually causing problems. Severus could barely bite back a sneer at the thought of the pompous exorcist and the flippantly scribbled letter.

Reaching up to massage his arm, Severus watched the ghost lose interest with the wall and start to wander around the small room. Maybe the two were connected – the reappearance of the boy and the twinge in his arm. Perhaps the child was some victim of the Dark Lord, come back to haunt him.

"Wonderful," he grumbled sourly.

The ghost glanced his way with a smile, lips moving soundlessly as the boy chattered – no doubt filled with inane comments that Severus, thank Merlin, couldn't hear.

"There's that anyway," he muttered as he picked up the paper to continue grading. "At least you're quiet and can't break anything."

Intent to finish the fourth year essays before the dinner bell, Severus buried his nose back in the messy scrawl, leaving the ghost to its own devices. But as he started writing comments in the margin, he found himself glancing back up at the ghost now and then.

At one point, as Severus was nearing the end of the second essay, he looked up to see the boy staring at a jar full of eyes. Severus quirked an eyebrow when the child peered closer and closer, his nose nearly touching the glass. Without a second thought, Severus reached his fingers for the wand under his sleeve and tapped it gently on the table with a whisper of a spell. On command, all the eyes turned to stare at the boy. The front eye blinked lazily.

The young ghost jumped, scooting backwards until he was nearly out the room. Severus snorted softly, shaking his head when the child turned wide eyes on him. After a few moments, the boy's eyes turned accusatory, one finger coming out to be silently shaken in his direction, mouth moving.

"Keep your nose out of my potions ingredients," Severus told him frankly, putting the wand back into the holster in his sleeve. "You're an unwanted distraction, not a dinner guest."

Arms crossing, the boy sulked over to a corner, sinking to the ground. Severus was going to go back to his grading, but the child's pout caught his attention. There was something familiar about it. Setting the essay aside, Severus focused on the boy.

The child was extremely skinny – which was not unsurprising in a ghost – with messy dark-colored hair and eyes that were startlingly large. Despite the pale blue that permeated the specter, his eyes looked almost green. In fact, they were unsettlingly familiar as well.

The eyes, combined with the pout and the defeated slump of his shoulders, brought back memories of a young woman with the same look, the same posture when things didn't go her way.

Severus found himself narrowing his eyes and searching the boy's forehead for any hint of a scar. He knew there was no way the vaunted Boy Who Lived could be dead without the magical world being in an uproar, but the similarity with Lily Potter had caught him off guard.

The ghost blinked and looked away, suddenly vanishing from sight.

"And stay away, if you don't mind," Severus said to the empty office, tapping his fingers on the stack of papers he should have been nearly half-way through by now.

He eyed the small calendar on his desk, finding the date he'd marked for nearly two months from now. That would be the day the snobbish ass of an exorcist would be down here to rid his office of the dead boy's presence if the child didn't 'pass on' on his own. Whether or not the woman actually agreed to come, Severus didn't quite care. Two more months.

Grabbing his quill and the paper he was nearly done grading, Severus gazed down at the lines. Finding himself unable to focus, Severus sighed and scribbled a note to himself on a spare piece of parchment. The similarities between the ghost and the Boy-Who-Lived were too great to ignore. He'd need to discover where that shrew of Lily's sister and slunk off to in the past few years. Perhaps it would be a good idea to check in on the boy, just in case.

.

...

.

-3- Harry -3-

November 22, 1985

.

Harry was sitting up on the lowest branch of the tree, watching Duddy-kins playing with his new toy truck. There hadn't been any holiday that Harry knew about – Christmas was nearly a month away still – but the large boy had gotten a gift anyways. As usual, Harry watched, wondering what Dudley had done to deserve the toy.

He winced when Dudley drove the truck into the trunk of the tree over and over. The blonde boy grinned up at him as he smashed the truck again, this time much harder. Harry scowled.

"Wanna play, boy?" Dudley called up.

"No," Harry answered. "I got better toys up here."

Dudley made a dark sound, his face twisting into a confused frown. "No, you don't."

"Uh-huh." Harry reached clumsily for the next branch up, pulling himself to a standing position and teetering wildly. "Come see."

To Harry's surprise, Dudley actually reached for the branch Harry was standing on. It was easily within the boy's grasp. Dudley pulled himself most of the way up, his shoes scrabbling at the tree bark, before his grip gave way and he dropped heavily to the ground.

Harry froze, watching with wide eyes as Dudley's face screwed up into a red, wrinkled mess. When the boy let out a howl, Harry grabbed for the next branch up, pulling himself up higher and higher, hoping desperately to get out of his aunt's reach before she arrived.

"I would recommend against going any higher."

Harry hesitated at the voice – one that was just a little familiar, and certainly not the angry, chirping pitch of his aunt. He looked around, then slightly down towards the fence. A man was standing there, in a long leather coat, black hair tied behind his head. Coal-black eyes watched him from behind a sharp nose.

"You'll fall," the man continued after a moment, ignoring the sobbing boy on the ground completely.

The man was definitely familiar, although Harry couldn't quite place him. "Who're you?" he asked, climbing down a branch.

"Passing by," he drawled, eyes shifting. "Petunia."

Harry felt his blood run cold at the sound of his aunt's name. He twisted around, but not fast enough. Long, bony arms had already snagged him from the tree and set him non-too-gently on the ground. "In the house, now," she hissed in a tone that brokered absolutely no argument.

Harry ran.

"And you. You and all your kind stay away or I'm turning the boy out on the street before dark," her voice continued, pinched and carrying until the door clicked shut. Harry made his way to the cupboard and curled up inside, hoping his aunt would be so wrapped up in caring for Dudley that she would forget him if he stayed out of the way.

The sound of a lock sliding into place on the door ruined that plan. "Grounded," came her hissing voice. Harry thought there was some new note of terror to her tone. "Wait until your uncle gets home."

Harry wrapped himself up in his blanket and lodged himself as far under the stairs as he could go. Listening to his fuss over Dudley and whatever non-injury the boy had sustained, Harry closed his eyes.

The falling, flying sensation came quickly this time. Harry reached out with a hand to grab something – anything – but the cupboard vanished out from beneath him. There was the snake again, curled up near his body, and Harry found himself in the strange dungeon classroom.

Breathing shakily, Harry peered around the now familiar-looking room. The tables were lined up across the room, the stack of pots cleaned and ready. The dream-man was standing over a cauldron in the front of the room, gazing down into it.

Slowly picking himself up off the ground, Harry walked over to the man and peered into the cauldron. It was filled with a bubbling, green goo. Harry wrinkled his nose, then looked up.

"You!" he said, his voice still not leaving his mouth.

The man's coal-black eyes and sharp nose turn slightly in his direction. "Back again, are you?" the man drawled with a shake of his head.

Harry's brain buzzed as he attempted to work out how the man could have shown up at his real house in Surrey, but the thoughts gave him nothing but a headache. He reached up a hand to rub at his eyes, then decided to let the idea drop. Dreams did strange things sometimes.

The man moved across the room, grabbing little glass jars as he went and stashing them into pockets. Harry watched, surprised that the man didn't make more noise as he walked. By the time he was back at the cauldron, Harry was sure the man had collected more jars than his pockets could possibly hold.

Pulling one of the jars out of his pocket, the man picked out a few strange-looking leaves and crumbled them into the green goo. The goo abruptly turned a bright, bloody red. Harry felt his mouth drop open slightly as he watched.

The man was counting softly to himself, now and then stopping to stir the mixture, then adding something new. The goop turned several spectacular shades of purple before settling on a fuzzy color that made Harry's eyes hurt to look at.

"Why are you still here?"

With a blink, Harry peered up at the man, who was slowly stirring the cauldron filled with the un-color of goo. "Can I watch?" he asked, but frowned when nothing but silence came from his mouth.

The man scowled darkly. "Can you at least tell me your name?"

Harry tried, but ended up just shaking his head, taking a small step back away from the frustrated man. When the black eyes narrowed dangerously, Harry retreated from the cauldron to find a place on the floor a dozen feet away. He brought his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around his legs, and rested his chin on his knees.

"People should die with ID tags on them," the man grumbled as he turned back to the potion. "Then I wouldn't have to travel around England to check on brats." He turned back abruptly, shaking a long finger in Harry's direction. "One more month, you know, and I'm getting that exorcist in here."

Not understanding what the man meant, Harry just smiled slightly.

The man sighed, shook his head, and picked the stirring rod out of the cauldron. Most of the rod was gone – the part that was left hissed and steamed. The man glanced at the remains of the stirring rod, gave the smallest smirk, and whispered, "Perfect. A couple hours to cool and that's done."

Grabbing another cauldron, the man started to set up for a new set of goo. Quickly, flames were licking at the black pot and strange things were being placed inside. The man moved smoothly and quietly, not bothering to check any of the books scattered around the room. Harry yawned.

"Now if only these were slightly higher quality," the man was muttering in his silky voice, so softly Harry couldn't quite make it out, "I'd have this done faster. And if these leaves weren't so bruised already."

Harry's eyes felt heavy as he watched the man pick through jars on the shelves around the room.

"What in Merlin's name happened to this?" The man was holding up a jar to the light, a heavy frown on his face. "Useless annoyances…"

There was something soothing in the man's quiet rant. Harry found his eyelids feeling heavier and heavier until sleep claimed him. Curled up on the stone floor of the strange dungeon room, Harry – oddly – felt safe.

A sharp banging sound jerked him from his sleep. He hit his head sharply on the bottom of the stairs. Rubbing at the sight, Harry peered tiredly around at the cupboard under the stairs. "No supper!" His uncle's booming voice made Harry wince. "And stay out of the bloody tree!"

.

...

.

-4- Severus -4-

December 8, 1985

.

There were two times of the year Severus truly and absolutely despised. One fell in early May – the anniversary of his mother's death and his ill-fated plan to join the Dark Lord.

The other was Christmas. A holiday filled with stuff. Pointless well-wishes and wasted gifts on so-called friends. Severus was well aware of the story 'How the Grinch Stole Christmas' – the headmaster had gotten it for him the previous year during his 'make Severus a teacher' campaign. The book had come wrapped in red gift paper that sparkled with little golden baubles.

Severus had incinerated the wrapping paper, read the book, and then incinerated the book as well. The message had been loud and clear and completely unwarranted. Christmas, for some people, simply wasn't a holiday worth celebrating. The headmaster couldn't seem to understand.

So, during the monthly staff meeting to talk about the worst of the students, Severus could do little more than cross his arms and scowl as he listened to the other professors banter back and forth about the list of gifts they'd purchased, or were in the process of getting before the holiday arrived. Severus didn't have a list, so he joined in the conversation with a few well-placed glares and scowls and a steady, stone-cold silence. He wasn't going to take part in a silly waste of time.

By the time the rest of the teachers actually got around to talking about the lackluster students they were there to discuss, Severus had lost all semblance of patience with the holiday – even though the actual date was still weeks away. Thus, when Minerva McGonagall spoke up with a Christmas plan during a small break between going over Gregory Flint's most recent low test scores and the lackluster performance of a sixth-year Hufflepuff, Severus momentarily lost his control of his tongue.

"Perhaps we should do a Secret Santa this year," Minerva mentioned.

Before Flickwick could do more than nod his head and Trelawney open her mouth with some complaint about attempting to do a 'Secret' Santa when one possesses the third eye, Severus growled out a dark, "No."

Several of the other professors frowned subtly at this. "But it's the holidays, Severus," the headmaster mentioned. "I know you're not fond of them-"

"I signed up to be Potions Master at this school, not," he glared, meeting a few peoples' eyes, "Santa Claus."

Albus Dumbledore sighed, shaking his head. There was a glitter in his eyes when he fixed them onto Severus's. "It'll be good for you, my boy."

Severus scowled and fixed his arms rigidly over his chest, looking away and biting the inside of his cheek. He knew what those words meant. He'd heard them six months earlier when signing the contract to join the school. He'd heard them a few months before that when he agreed to be hauled before the school's board of directors so the headmaster could explain why Severus was the best for the potions position.

He figured he'd be hearing that phrase a lot in the coming years. It was going to get on his nerves rather fast.

"I think we should give it a try," the old man said, addressing the rest of the staff. "Minerva, if you'd put everyone's name on a slip of paper? I'm sure we can find a hat."

Glaring at the wall, wishing the meeting could just be about the students they'd come to discuss, Severus was the first to notice a small, pale blue head stick itself through the door. He blinked, letting his rigid posture settle slightly.

The head, which was attached to the child-ghost who had been haunting his dungeon the past few months, smiled when it found his gaze and walked into the room. The boy peered closely at everyone, watching the adults busily pass McGonagall's hat around the table, then sidled along the wall to where Severus was sitting.

Tearing his eyes away from the ghost, Severus glanced up at the other professors. Nobody seemed to notice or care that the young boy was there. The child was just tall enough to peer over the top of the table at them. Short, but definitely noticeable.

"Your turn, Severus," came the headmaster's cheery voice.

Severus glanced at the hat which was being held out in his direction, grabbed a slip, and distractedly passed the hat on. There was still no comment about the ghost that had moved over to stand at Severus's side.

Eyes narrowing slightly, Severus watched as the professor next to him, Bathsheba Babbling, put an elbow right through the ghost's head. The boy noticed, turning a bewildered look on the woman, but she seemed none the wiser.

When the adults continued their conversation and paid the child no attention at all, Severus quietly muttered, "Interesting," and turned his attention back to the meeting.

…which was breaking up. Several of the professors were already on their feet, smiling and wishing each other a pleasant holiday. Severus drummed his fingers on the table, annoyed by the realization that the teachers were ignoring the students they'd come to discuss in favor of a silly holiday.

"W-will you be going h-h-home for the holidays, S-Severus?"

He turned to look up at the resident Muggle Studies professor. Quirinus Quirrell was extremely pale, but the man managed a slight smile while wringing his hands. The man's gaze never flickered down to the child by Severus's side. "I have too much to do," Severus informed him stiffly.

Minerva McGonagall walked up beside Quirrell's chair, her eyes sparkling under her reclaimed hat. "The teachers that stay always get together on Christmas Eve for a staff party. You're more than welcome to come."

"I'll remember that," Severus said, getting to his feet and heading towards the door.

"He's far too quiet," he heard Minerva mention as he pulled the door open and stalked into the hallway. "I think that's the longest conversation we've had all school year."

When Albus's voice cut in with a, "We're working on it," just before the door clicked shut on their conversation, Severus stiffened. He shot a dark scowl over his shoulder, then started striding down the hallway. A lone student scrambled out of his way.

The door to his classroom blew open, then slammed shut behind him. Severus stood in the middle of the room, glowering at anything and everything he could lay his hands on. Slowly he relaxed, breathing deeply, pushing the anger and frustration back. "I can handle my own life," he said, his voice back to its normal smooth tones. "I don't need meddling old men working on things."

Turning on his heel, intent on finding a cup of tea and a book to read, Severus stopped when he found the little ghost standing near the door, peering up at him with those wide, almost-green eyes. The boy looked slightly intimidated, taking a small step backwards as Severus approached.

Severus paused, rearranged his expression into something a bit more neutral, and stepped up to the boy. "People put too much stock in talking," he told the ghost. "Remember that."

Mouth moving slightly, the ghost nodded, wrapping his arms around his skinny chest.

"I like quiet," he said, more to himself than the small spirit. Then he eyed the boy. "Does wonders for you. Only child I can get along with."

A smile crept onto the ghost's face.

Severus sighed and pushed the door open, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his robe as he walked towards his quarters. The ghost child started to follow, but disappeared abruptly somewhere near the old set of armor.

A bit of paper in his pocket caught his attention and Severus brought it out, peering at it in the flickering light of the dungeon hallways. Albus Dumbledore, it read. Severus shook his head as he remembered the Secret Santa thing. Crumpling up the paper, Severus sent the slip to the same place as the ill-thought-through present from last year. Besides, he wouldn't have put it past the old man to have changed all the slips of paper to his name.

With the end of term feast in a mere two weeks and the students leaving for their holiday, Severus couldn't wait for the quiet of the Christmas break.

.

...

.

To be continued...