DECK THE HALLS

By Bellegeste

Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of JKR and her publishers. No copyright infringement is intended. My stories are merely a tribute to JKR and the pleasure her books have given me over the past few years.

Author's Note: Some of you may have been expecting Lost Perspective IV (Post Mortem) to appear as the sequel to LP III (Repercussions). Yes, that would have been the logical way to do it. However, LP VI (Deck the Halls) is an alternative sequel… And as it is set at Christmas time, I thought it would be more seasonal to upload it now.

OK. 'Deck the Halls' follows on quite closely from Repercussions. (So we are still in a Severitus situation - Snape is Harry's father.) If you remember, Repercussions took place at Hallowe'en, when Luna prompted Harry to make contact with Sirius by going through the Whispering Archway. This story offers an alternative to the traditional twelve days of Christmas, beginning on 14th December, and following the characters through until Christmas Day itself. There are some references back to earlier events in the LP series, but nothing that should stop you reading this if you haven't already read the rest. Obviously, it helps if you know who Braque, Quig etc are, but it's not crucial to the plot! Enjoy! Happy Christmas! Happy 2005!

DECK THE HALLS

CHAPTER 1: A CHRISTMAS INVITATION

Saturday 14th December

"Christmas! This is going to be the worst Christmas ever," said Harry with a glum sigh, adding a sparky wand and an unrealistically tall, crooked, red, bobble-hat to the latest in a series of cartoon Santa doodles, which now filled the entire left-hand margin of his parchment.

"It will, if you don't finish that essay," muttered Hermione.

She unwound another foot of scroll, and settled down to write again, her concentration fully focussed, unavailable for distraction. 'Transfiguration versus Transubstantiation - discuss the differences, benefits and disadvantages of each method'. She actually enjoyed this theoretical stuff; she even understood it. Harry stared morosely as the paragraphs emerged, fully-formed, well-argued, rationalised and neat - annoyingly neat, not a blot in sight - from the busily scratching tip of her quill. How does she do that? Frustrated, he flicked the feathered end of his eagle quill across his forehead, tickling, soothing, a delicate, winged muse stroking his brow with inspiration - if only! - noticing, too late, the negative splatter of inky snowballs which had appeared on the page and were melting generously into the parchment. Feeling uninspired and ignored, Harry began to sketch a reindeer in the opposite margin…

He kept shooting hopeful glances at Hermione, but she was once more engrossed. After a minute, Harry got up and crossed the tower to the window. Dejectedly he stared out at the stark winter landscape. If they wanted a white Christmas it would have to hurry up and snow. A sudden movement caught his eye.

"Hey, Hermione, come and look at this!"

"Hmm? Not now, Harry."

"But it's Ron and, er, Neville, I think. They've gone bonkers. Come and see!"

"What are they doing?" Hermione paused, mid-sentence, but stayed seated.

"They're sort of leaping about in the herb garden. Waving their arms. Dancing round in circles. Or stamping something to death. It's like a kind of war dance…"

"Ron and Neville?"

"Yes, hurry up!"

"Is Luna with them?" Hermione sounded like a bored GP, obliged to go through a list of banal and obvious questions.

"Luna? No, not that I can see. Why?" Harry didn't get the connection.

"Are they naked?" Hermione asked next.

"What?!!"

"Are they beating tom-toms, brandishing tomahawks or shrunken heads? Are they smeared in wode, quick-lime or any peculiar, Ravenclaw substitute for body-paint? Are they wearing exotic feather head-dresses with chicken bones stuck up their nostrils?"

"What are you on about?"

"Really, Harry! It just sounds like Luna's conned them into performing one of her weird tribal rituals. It's probably some symbolic, pagan rite to appease the Vegetable Spirits in case we eat too many Brussels Sprouts at Christmas. Or maybe it's an ancient fertility dance - I wouldn't put it past her to sacrifice a few male virgins to Ceres or Gaea."

With a disparaging sniff Hermione bent over her essay again.

"You don't like Luna much, do you?"

She didn't answer. Harry peered through the gloom to observe the ritual slaughter of his classmates by the High Priestess of Ravenclaw, but the herb garden was deserted. Ron and Neville had disappeared.

Hermione was now scanning through the reams of her completed essay, her lips pursed in a thoughtful moue which might have been mistaken for a pout, but for the glow of intellectual complacency that warmed her face with an almost maternal satisfaction.

"There! That's finished. McGonagall'd better like it, or I'll …"

"What? Spell her with Petrificus and force her to listen while you read the blessed thing out loud? Or were you going to frame it?" With deadlines looming, Harry was apt to be prickly.

"Don't take it out on me, just because I've done my homework and you haven't." Finally Hermione looked up, her face clouding with disapproval at the sight of his scroll. "Oh, Harry, what sort of a mess do you call that? You're going to have to start all over again." Her wand, poised to erase the page of scribbles, arrested in mid-air. "Why've you drawn a dog with a tree coming out of its head? Oh, a reindeer is it? Sorry! What were you saying about Christmas?"

"I'm dreading it. Just me and Snape, alone? I'd almost rather be at the Dursleys'."

"You know you don't mean that, Harry. This is your first Christmas together, as a family - OK, it's a small family; just the two of you - but it'll be special. You'll have a great time." Even to herself, she didn't sound convincing.

"How? He's hardly full of seasonal goodwill, is he? Can you imagine him getting 'festive'? It'll be like having Christmas in a morgue."

"Stay here then. You've done that before." Hermione was as practical as ever. Harry thought about it. In the past, he had stayed at Hogwarts during the Christmas holidays - any excuse to avoid going back to No.4 Privet Drive - but that excuse no longer applied. And besides, Ron wouldn't be staying behind - the Weasleys were planning a big family get-together: Bill and Charlie had both promised to put in an appearance, and even Percy had threatened to allocate them an hour or so of his precious, ministerial time in honour of the occasion. Fred and George would be in charge of the 'entertainment'…

Harry longed to be included in the cheery, chaotic bustle of the Weasleys' family celebrations. 'Home' Christmases, in his experience so far, demanded fanatical observance of Yuletide party etiquette and colour co-ordination, down to the last strand of tinsel. At Privet Drive the annual Christmas countdown had begun in earnest in October, planned to the last dainty, silver-plated spoonful of Sherry trifle, the miniature mince pies and campaign 'Turkey', each stage of manoeuvres being ticked off on Aunt Petunia's glossy checklist, culminating in Dudley's pre-dawn assault on the presents beneath the tree, followed by the militarily correct luncheon, perfect in every Delia detail, a showpiece of suburban seasonality.

Christmas with the Weasleys would be so different. Harry pictured it in his mind: an image of abundance and generosity, sharing, comfort - the archetypal family Christmas, gift-wrapped with love, with bows on. The embodiment of all the Christmases he had never had. Each time he thought about it the picture grew a little rosier, more homely and cosy, steeped in tradition, plump and swelling like rum-soaked raisins, bursting with goodness. There would be a house brimming with people and laughter; harassed, happy, busy, crazy, frantic, affectionate people; the kitchen would be warm and welcoming, heady with the rich, fruity steam of Mrs W's mulled wine and spicy pumpkin punch - there was always a bubbling vat on the go; interesting, unidentifiable, sniffable things stewing in pots; jars of pickles and preserves and bottled fruit, cooling racks piled high with home-made pies and buns and scones, begging to be sampled; freshly baked bread; puddings bonneted in their muslin mob-caps, tied and ready for steaming; the enormous turkey, so huge that it took both Fred and George to lift it onto the platter, trussed for the oven, layered in bacon, stuffed to excess with traditional sage and onion at one end, pinky, sausage forcemeat at the other, with the chestnuts and chipolatas fighting for space in between; garden produce, newly picked or cut or dug, festooning the drainer, still muddy, waiting to be washed and scraped and boiled into English vegetable oblivion. There would be garlands and holly with berries, mistletoe strategically placed, paper-chains, cards, candles, a haphazard tree, twinkling with gloriously mismatched, multicoloured baubles… There would be bowls of nuts that you could dip into between meals – walnuts, brazils, almonds, hazelnuts – with Mr Weasley's real, Muggle nut-crackers which always exploded the shells into a zillion spiky shards; and precarious, orange pyramids of uncounted Satsumas which you were allowed to eat without asking…

Harry would be gathered into the embrace of this endlessly kind, easy-going, good-natured family, and he would feel a part of something; he would feel that he was wanted.

And then there was the prospect of spending Christmas with Snape. Try as he might, Harry could not envisage it as anything other than a cheerless, hungry (and, in Harry's book, food played a significant part in Christmas celebrations) ordeal. 'Quality time' with his father never scored highly on pleasure, relaxation or even nutrition. It wasn't that Harry wanted to avoid being with Snape himself. It was the whole Christmas thing. It raised such unachievable expectations - he was bound to be disappointed. Even if Snape were to don a red robe and whiskers and fly round the estate distributing largesse and 'Ho-Ho-Ho-ing' - and Harry fervently hoped he would not - the jollity would be forced, unnatural. For all Harry knew, his father might not celebrate Christmas at all - Christianity did not, after all, sit comfortably with wizard belief and practice. Perhaps it would be business as usual at Snape Cottage on December 25th.

"I can't very well say I want to stay here," Harry answered Hermione, "because he'd think that was rude. He'd be bound to take it personally. I don't want to upset him."

"Really? It's never stopped you before," she commented tartly. She still hadn't forgiven him completely for his inconsiderate behaviour at Hallowe'en, when his thoughtless disappearance had strained his father to the uttermost limit of emotional endurance. Harry hadn't been there; he hadn't seen Snape suffering.

"Oh, give it a rest, Hermione. That was weeks ago. I was wondering…" Harry adopted his most winsome, puppy-dog expression, and Hermione waited for the inevitable request, whatever it might be this time. "I was wondering if you might like to… or, that is to say, if you would think about, er…oh, never mind, it doesn't matter."

"Just spit it out, Harry!" she exclaimed. How did he propose to wheedle her into letting him borrow her Transfiguration essay this time?

"I was wondering if you'd think about spending Christmas with me. Me and Snape. For, um, Christmas. At Snape Cottage…"

"What?!!" That wasn't what she had been expecting at all.

The door of the Sixth form annexe crashed open to reveal Ron, red-faced, mud-stained and with large, dirty, wet rounds on both knees, spreading up his jeans. Trailing behind him, almost as grubby, was Neville Longbottom.

"Please… think about it," Harry whispered.

"Ha! Found you at last! Guess what?" Ron grinned at them, self-important with his news.

"God, Ron, you're filthy! If you've got to come here straight from your revolting tryst with the Mud Goddess, at least crack the dirt off first. Is a little 'Scourgify' too much to ask? Am I being unreasonable? You're just making extra work for the house elves."

"Oooh, moody! Keep your hair on! You're worse than my Mum. Don't you want to hear what I've got to tell you?" Ron was deflated.

Hermione did, but she didn't want to give Ron the satisfaction of knowing that she was curious. Neville shuffled forward, apologising.

"We've been digging up Shark-Lily rhizomes for Professor Sprout," he explained. "They burrow down in cold weather, you know, dig themselves in to the sub-soil. How far down did we have to go to get those ones today, Ron, about three feet?"

"Easily! Three yards, more like!" Ron was not a man for detail.

"And then you have to tamp the soil back down again really hard," went on Neville seriously, "otherwise the roots reach up through the earth and grab your ankles. They can yank you right down underground."

"Tamping, eh?" murmured Harry, not sure whether to believe them or not. He eyed them curiously for tell-tale remnants of chicken feathers.

"Anyway, guess what?" Ron tried again, bursting with news.

Hermione turned deliberately to Neville,

"Shark-Lily? That's a new one on me…"

She knew Neville would be unable to resist her cue. He'd become quite passionate about Herbology - it was the one subject he had a real flair for - and it only took the merest hint of interest to launch him off into his favourite topic.

"Lilium Sphyrnidium. It's a variable hybrid of the genus – very dramatic looking indigo flowers in late summer. The name comes from 'Hammerhead' - like the shark, you know. I think it's to do with the appearance of the bulb, it has these sticky-out, hammer-shaped projections like the shark's head – the growing points are at each end, where the eyes would be… or it may be because, if you eat it raw, it gives you the most blinding, thumping headache. Sprout says it's essential to blanche the bulbs before using them in potions…"

"What do they do?" pressed Hermione, wickedly keeping half an eye on Ron, now apoplectic with impatience.

"They have soporific properties. Very potent. Madam Pomfrey uses them a lot in Sleeping Draughts; and Snape - well, Merlin knows what he uses stuff like that for…"

The thought of Snape reduced Neville to silence.

"Sorry, Ron, did you want to say something?" At last Hermione granted him an audience.

Stung, Ron was momentarily tempted not to bother. It wasn't as though his news was exactly earth-shattering, after all. But his natural ebullience won through.

"Guess what?" he said for the third time. He put a comradely arm round Neville's shoulders and paraded him forwards. "This budding botanical genius here - " Neville squirmed with embarrassment. "has been awarded a grant by some top-notch herbological honchos, to do a research project into, er, what was it, Nev? Something to do with plants, anyway."

" 'Cellular degradation, devolution and transmogrification of plant-based structures due to contamination of viral, magical, bacterial or parasitical origin'," Neville quoted, quietly proud.

"Meaning?" Harry asked. Maybe the others understood this, but he was only taking subsidiary Herbology, and it all sounded very complicated.

"Plant problems. Hex-mould, blight, Jinxy-mildew, pests, Bundimun infestation… that sort of thing," admitted Neville. Suddenly the project didn't sound nearly so impressive. The others weren't sure whether to congratulate him or commiserate.

"That sounds really interesting. Well done, Neville! Professor Sprout must think you're a star," said Hermione kindly.

"Ah, but you haven't heard the best bit!" Ron couldn't restrain his glee, even at his friend's expense. "Because Nev'll be working with all sorts of insecticides and experimental fertilisers and stuff, Sprouty says he's got to do Potions again. She's persuaded Snape to let him join in with you lot in the NEWT class. AND he's got to do remedial Potions with Snape to catch up on what he's missed this term…"

Harry's ears pricked up. At last! Someone who really did need remedial potions. It was definitely time for commiseration.

"Private tuition with Snape!" Ron gloated.

Neville's expression became bleakly suicidal.

End of Chapter. Next Chapter: A BIRD OF ILL OMEN – Draco receives an unusual message; Neville has problems with Potions; strange things begin to happen at Hogwarts…