A few things you should know:
This fic is a Harry Potter story painted with colors of Dickens' A Christmas Carol. I'm not the first to think of this idea. I did not read beyond the synopses for any other similar fics, so any similarities are purely coincidental.
I know: the timeline is all messed up. Ultimately, I decided to forgo the order of certain canon events if it served the story better, so more important things happen on/around Christmas. It's best read with a vague-at-best comprehension of significant events in Deathly Hallows. If anyone's interested, I can post a breakdown of canon conflicts (that I know of) at the end of each chapter. As you'll see, the events in this story do not change what would have always happened in the canon storyline.
That said, I tried to keep everything else as close to book canon as I could in terms of characterization. I headcanon a lot and rectify my own ruined timeline in a bunch of places. Cursed Child is a play, not a book, and in my opinion it is also ridiculous, so you won't see anything from that in Stave Four, sorry.
On that note, Ch. 4 will go some dark places. I've posted a trigger warning for implied sexual assault mention. It's not heavy on the detail at all, but it's there for your comfort. Please let me know if I need to tag anything else.
What I hope this fic has done is make a little bit more graceful the transition from Snape We Know And Hate to Snape Who Harry Named His Kid After. It is five chapters long, the same as the Dickens source material, and I'll have all chapters posted by Christmas Eve this year. I hope you enjoy.
(Also posted on AO3 under same name.)
Albus was dead: to begin with. There was no doubt whatsoever about that. His heavy marble tomb lay still next to the vast, glassy lake; the school had seen his mangled body on the lawn after his violent ejection from the astronomy tower; and every witch and wizard in the world knew: Severus Snape had killed him.
Mind: in the months close of his death, his name was very much alive on the lips of magic-folk everywhere. You couldn't walk down a block of Diagon Alley without hearing his name in a solemn whisper, or seeing the man's mysterious smile, crooked nose, and twinkling eyes on glossy advertisements for Rita Skeeter's wildly popular biopic of the most famous wizard since Merlin. Now, just seven months later, his was a name that spelled out revolt and rebellion, a name the meek dare not mutter, a name you didn't say if you didn't want the ministry to raid and posses your house or your loved ones to go missing in the night. It was the most taboo name next to that of the ministry's Undesirable Number One, and second of course, to the Dark Lord himself.
Snape knew he was dead? Of course he did. He'd witnessed the last twinkle to leave Albus Dumbledore's eyes, felt ever trapped in that deep and knowing look, and Snape had sworn he'd seen a flicker of childish fear cross the old wizard's face, just for an instant as Snape prepared himself for the most important curse he'd ever cast. He had been Dumbledore's sole executioner, his triple-agent, his thrall, and at the very best of cases he'd been something like a friend. And though they had planned it out for over a year in advance, and it had now been nearly seven months since his death, Snape was still haunted by the event, ever as much as the night he had killed him. It was something that none around him ever could have guessed - years of masking sorrow, guilt, fury, terror, and remorse had given him the upper hand in that respect. Since he had been appointed Headmaster of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, the school year thus far had consisted of him ferreting himself up in the headmaster's office – his office, now – never daring to appear in the Great Hall for meals or in the stands for Quidditch matches, which these days lacked the spirit and audience that had once made them a hallmark of the school year. He'd summon the elves to bring bland trays of food, if his stomach could handle it, but scarcely ate, growing thin and more sallow by each passing week in a way that not even his wardrobe's swaths of black could hide. To the outside observers, however – to the Death Eaters now at his employ, to the students and staff of Hogwarts that remained after the bloodiest summer in Hogwarts history – Snape's absence aided in keeping his air of cold intrigue and impassibility. Few students had even seen the new headmaster since his brief address at the Sorting Hat ceremony; he was rarely seen and only seldom heard since. Only the Carrows were allowed to invite themselves up to Snape's lofty office, though they tended to outstay their little welcome in a matter of minutes. Snape could turn them away as he pleased; he was headmaster, and, more importantly, the Dark Lord's right-hand agent. His seldom-spoken will was to be treated as law.
Snape knew the Carrows did not care for his presence. The pair had taken to bypassing permission and disciplining students by their own methods; methods that did not stand well with Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, and Hagrid – and sent them pounding on his office door, mustering up the courage to speak to him on behalf of the students' well-being. He would be forced to ignore them, idly arguing the opposite point or sitting in his musty office in silence until they blustered away in angry tears. Once, when he ventured down to the base of his staircase to change the password on the gargoyle that guarded the staircase to his office, he was accosted by a jolly Horace Slughorn, who charmingly presented Snape with a box of chocolates and a bottle of Firewhiskey in exchange for an audience with him in the headmaster's office. Snape coldly reminded him of the last time Slughorn had shared sweets and liquor intended for the headmaster with someone other than himself.
"I'm fresh out of bezoars, Horace," he'd told him, and watched the plump man's rosy cheeks deflate with terror and embarrassment, as though he was suddenly standing in the company of a dementor, and leaving a sputtering Slughorn weakly mumbling about "not meaning any harm," and "just trying to chat."
But what did Snape care! Solitude was the very thing he desired, was it not? The masquerade was taxing enough already, without having to oversee the only wizarding school in the country. That he met with the school's old teachers at all was a directive of the Dark Lord himself: Hogwarts was a stronghold, and its occupants were insurance. Hostages. There was even talk of cancelling the trains home for the holidays to keep a better hold on their investments. But it was inevitable that students would rebel – particularly the Gryffindors – and it was inevitable that the rebels would have to be punished as example. Professor McGonagall and the others provided enough aid and protection in their own secretive ways, when they could. That much he knew for certain. In some cases, he could allow such actions to pass. The die had been cast on his part; the others would have to sort themselves out in this mess. He'd facilitate them as long as the Dark Lord demanded it, while waiting for Potter to surface for air somewhere. Perhaps today, perhaps a year from now. Perhaps never. Perhaps the boy was dead already - that was the smart thing to be these days. But Potter never was the forward-thinking type, and Snape had always been pessimistic on the boy being able to piece together Albus Dumbledore's convoluted schemes, whether he had help or not.
So, Snape waited. He fruitlessly played both parts; to what end, he could not foresee. Keep the peace but rule with an iron fist was so much simpler on paper, and it was so much simpler to refuse help when he wasn't being directly asked for it in the first place. And so, he stayed to his tower.
Not long after the first snow had spattered the grounds, a disturbance shook the castle so fiercely that Snape felt the tremors up in his office. Little puffs of dust came floating down from the rafters, and the headmaster's portraits gave little cries of surprise around him. Snape set down his book and crossed to the window, where he could see steam rising from several shattered windows of the Great Hall. He squinted his eyes, but the sunlight on snow was blinding.
All but the most stubborn portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses had jerked awake. (Dumbledore's, of course, was empty. They had rare occasion where it was safe for them to talk - not that Snape was in any mood to speak to him, anyway.)
"That was another of those portable swamps, I'm sure of it!" said Headmaster Gagwilde, clearly delighted.
"Nonsense," said Headmaster Trimble, "those Weasley twins are gone by now, surely. Graduated almost two years ago, didn't they?"
"They certainly left with a bang," giggled Headmaster Mole. "But, no, too early to finish their last year."
"Incidentally, they've since started a joke shop," sniffed Headmaster Nigellus. "I could hear all sorts of their noises coming from my other portrait in Grimmauld Place; I'd recognize them anywhere. Gagwilde's probably right. As if this castle hasn't suffered enough defacement already."
Headmaster Dippet gave a great harumph of distaste. "I say! I would never have tolerated that kind of mischief back in my day!"
"Oh yes, Armando," drawled Headmaster Nigellus, "we all know what kind of mischief was allowed to pass in your days as headmaster."
"Enough," said Snape, his icy voicing severing the Professors' amusement into silence. How anyone had ever done any real work with their incessant chattering overhead was beyond his comprehension. He swept his cloak over his shoulder and left the office, gliding down the spiral staircase and making his way swiftly down the corridors to the Great Hall. Snape knew when he was close – the smell was a muggy bog on a summer's day, overpowering in heat and stench. As Snape rounded a corner, warm and muddy water flooded over his ankles. The corridor ahead was an unnatural pitch-black. He withdrew his wand.
"Aqua evanesca!" Snape incanted. Water around him seemed to raise and evaporate, but more simply flooded in its place. He heard shuffling and shouting coming from the Great Hall, from beyond what seemed to be a swirling wall of solid darkness.
"Ventus," said Snape, but the darkness just swirled, thickening. He tried again: "Finite! Obscurojinx recanto!" The powder settled and dissolved, clearing like rainclouds. White light stabbed through the shattered windows, and the terrific devastation was visible at last. The Great Hall had been the site of that morning's breakfast only minutes earlier; now it was overgrown with reeds, moss, and ankle-deep in muddy water. Students and teachers alike were drenched, squinting at the sudden relief of darkness. Food, books, clothes – the tables, and even the curtains were covered in the dark bog-muck. Some of the braver students began to laugh at themselves, and especially when they caught sight of the Hogwarts staff in the same mucky state they were in.
"OUT," Snape commanded, magically raising his voice with his wand to his throat, striding carefully through the mud. The laughter stopped abruptly. The students were surprised to see the Headmaster at last. "Teachers are to meet with me. All students, form a line at the door. Professor Flitwick, have the prefects see to cleaning the students. Mr. Filch, you will inspect the cleaned students for restricted propaganda." Silence lapsed into whispers, none too troubled - this was not the worst that could have happened to them. There were sucking noises as students trudged and toiled toward the entrance. Any joy they'd harbored at the incident had evaporated completely, and cries of "Scourgify!" echoed across the hall from the prefects as the rest of the professors clustered around Snape.
"Who is responsible for this?" he asked.
"It was that bloody Army!" Alecto Carrow growled, her underbite making her look like some kind of vicious dog straining at the end of a leash.
"Be specific." Some part of Snape suspected that mischief of this scale couldn't and wouldn't have been pulled off without some kind of connection with Potter. If he were here in the castle -
"I saw three stand up, one at each gap in the tables," Amycus. "Someone gave Creevy a signal and he started snapping away - got himself another ruddy camera, don't know how. Everyone was looking at the flashes and the blast came from behind us."
"So you didn't see anyone," said Snape.
"Didn't have to," said Amycus. "Always the same crowd, isn't it? Longbottom, Lovegood, Finnegan - "
"And the Weasley girl," Alecto cut in, through gritted teeth. "I saw her duck out just before everything hit the fan. Probably was her who threw down the Darkness Powder."
The DA's previous attacks had largely been vigilantism, saving students from punishments and the like, but this was outright mischief. A distraction, thought Snape. It was looking more and more as though Potter had made it into the castle, for whatever reason he did not know. He would have to plan his next moves carefully, though Potter's presence did not seem to be of mind for Amycus and Alecto just yet.
Snape's gaze wandered over to Minerva McGonagall, who was helping Horace vanish several large bullfrogs that the swamp had procured.
"Minerva, as the allegedly responsible students are in your House, I expect your prefects to deliver Longbottom and Weasley to me for questioning and disciplinary sentencing."
Professor McGonagall looked confused. "Headmaster," she said, "Longbottom and Weasley are my prefects."
"Then the responsibility falls to you alone. Professor Flitwick, I expect you to bring me Lovegood, so long as Alecto attests that she was involved –"
"She was," Alecto nodded darkly.
Snape nodded dismissively. "Minerva, if those students do not come to me by your bidding, I will have Amycus and Alecto assist you to bring them by force. Understood?"
The professor's lips drew tightly together. "Understood," she said. When Professor McGonagall disliked someone, she made little effort to hide it from them. With the Carrows, that little pretense was never afforded to begin with.
"Very well," he said. "Get to it, then."
They dredged away. Flitwick stood in the middle of one of the center tables, concentrating deeply, muttering complex charms as the mud and water started to ripple and swirl around him, raising up in the air like a cyclone, sailing out the open window and spattering on the frozen surface of the lake. Dark stains seeped into the cracked ice. Professors McGonagall and Slughorn set to repairing the windows, shards of shattering glass collecting in midair and fusing back together in the mangled frames with squeaking cracks. Filch was checking pockets, leering in student's faces and watching carefully for any outright conspiratory behavior.
Snape turned to leave, caring not that there was a great deal of cleaning to do. He glided out of the Great Hall, his cloak still muddy and flapping behind him like clumsy wings.
"Veritaserum," he spat at the gargoyle guarding the entrance to his office, but the stone creature was already off the pedestal – someone was just there. Someone was in his office. Potter. Panic drove through him like a stake in his heart. What was he to do if the boy and his friends attacked him? "Where did they come from?" he demanded of the stone creature, and it pointed to a great tapestry down the long corridor where Snape knew there to be a secret passage. He slid past the creature and hurried up the stairs, slowing toward the top, quieting his steps as he heard voices coming from within the open office door.
"Alohomora – argh! It won't open!"
"We should ask Professor Dumbledore!" said a young man's voice. "Professor? Can you help us? We're here to help Harry Potter –"
"Everyone, stand back," said a lofty voice. "Expulso!"
Snape felt the force of the charm even from the staircase. Glass shattered and fell to the stone floor. At last, he knew: they were there for the sword.
"Got it!" came the boy's voice again: Neville Longbottom. More glass tinkled on the ground, and the sound of metal on metal came from him pulling the sword from its holder in the case. "Good thinking, Luna."
"Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure," she took the time to say, evidently as a thank-you.
"Quick, give it here, Neville – the charm."
"Oh – right –" There was some scuffling. "Professor Dumbledore – could we ask you – how can we help – "
"Well, you have the sword, do you not?" Dumbledore said. "What you do not have is time!"
"He's right," came Ginny Weasley's voice. "We need to go! The charm won't work on it, but we'll just have to hide it somehow–"
"Should we take the Sorting Hat, Headmaster?" asked Luna Lovegood. "Just in case?"
"In case what, Luna?" asked Neville.
"Well, you see, there's a legend I've read about, in which - "
"Fine, grab it!" said Ginny Weasley. "Let's go!" Their footsteps pounded towards the door, which burst open, Neville first, carrying the sword in front of him, attempting to withdraw its length underneath his robes. The Lovegood girl saw Snape first and gasped, freezing guiltily in her tracks.
Their looks of horror were priceless. Snape nearly cherished them.
He could see the cogs working quickly in their heads: how would they get out of this one? For one small moment, he saw the impulse in Longbottom's eyes – he would use the sword to his advantage, and attack –
But before he even dared the chance to move, Snape flicked his wand, and the heavy sword flew out of Longbottom's hands and sank deep into a wooden rafter far above their heads. Their wide eyes followed the path of its motion – all of their hope, all they had worked for, just out of their reach.
Ginny Weasley had her wand in front of her. She had only a second's hesitation, but it was more than enough for Snape. "Stupef-"
Snape's shield charm appeared wordlessly in front of him with an upward sweep of his arm before the word had even reached her lips. In the close quarters of the stairwell, the curse rebounded and hit Ginny square in the chest. She slumped back, thumping her head on the railing, sliding down a few steps as she fell. Luna Lovegood gasped.
"Ginny!" Neville cried, but Snape was at him next, he restrained the boy as shining, black ropes snaked out of his wand and bound him tightly, even around his mouth. He tottered and fell over, eyes bulging in shock. Luna flattened herself against the wall. Snape turned his wand on her, but she did not flinch – on the contrary, her glassy eyes were fixed upward at the quivering sword, as though realizing something.
"I'm disappointed in the lack of cleverness from a plan formed by a Ravenclaw," Snape said, disarming her and catching her wand as well. "A diversion, followed by a quick attempt at snatch-and-grab? Exerting brute force to any that got in the way, including a teacher? Seems, overall, rather – witless," he emphasized.
"Well, the sword didn't respond to our summoning charms," she explained, her voice not without a warble of fear.
"Give it here, then."
"Give what, professor?"
"Headmaster. I heard your plans to take the Sorting Hat. Where is it, then?"
"I don't have it. Neville grabbed it, I think." She looked dubiously down at her friend, who was still bound and gagged. "Did you take the hat, Neville?"
With wide eyes, the boy shook his head. Snape saw his eyes flicker to Ginny Weasley, her robes sprawled around her. He knew the hat wouldn't respond to a summoning charm either, so he kneeled and began to search for it.
"There it is," said Luna, her voice unusually hard. "Her left side pocket, see?"
The Lovegood girl plunged a pale hand forward and snatched her wand back. With a flick of her wrist, Snape did not have time to deflect as he was yanked into the air by his ankle.
He let out a scream of rage, cut short by as she cast a spell to gag him, his lips clamping together as though glued shut. He was helpless - the wands he'd collected clattered uselessly to the floor when he was pulled up by levicorpus.
"Ennervate!" said Luna, and Ginny began to stir. She freed Neville from his binds and he helped Ginny to her feet. Snape watched helplessly from above, breathing heavy with fury through his long, hooked nose.
"Witless," repeated Luna, looking up at him. "That wasn't a very nice thing to say."
"Luna," said Neville, "The hat?"
"Oh, I have it," she said, and pulled it from where she'd stuffed it away in the hood of her cloak.
"Er," said Ginny, eyes wide as she realized that Snape was bobbing above her, hanging from the ceiling like some overlarge bat with his angry, beady eyes bearing down on them. "What's happened?"
"Long story," said Neville, before Luna could start in. "We need to get the sword and go."
There was an awkward pause as the three tried to work out how to get it down from the ceiling.
"We could hack the beam in half?"
"No way, the whole tower could come down…"
Luna looked down at the lifeless Sorting Hat in her hands. "If it's true what they say about the sword… Here, Ginny, try it."
"What?"
Impatiently, Luna took her friend's hand and plunged it inside the hat. Ginny's eyes widened and she pulled on something heavy. Up above them, next to Snape, the sword vanished, and reappeared as Ginny Weasley pulled it, in its full glory, out of the tattered old hat.
"How…?" Neville asked, his mouth wide.
Ginny laughed and said, "Look! I'm a true Gryffindor!"
"How lovely," said Luna. "Let's go."
There was the sound of sliding stone from below, and Snape could hear Alecto and Amycus harping on Professor McGonagall, their footsteps echoing up the tower.
"I swear, woman, if you're hiding them somewhere in that tower –"
"Search it yourself, if you so desire!" McGonagall cried. "If you think I'd harbor them over some simple act of vandalism - "
There was no avoiding them this time. Snape watched Longbottom stow the sword beneath his robes; Lovegood tucked the hat away in the bucket of her hood once more. McGonagall stood between the guilty parties and the Carrows, committed to hearing their stories before doling out punishment. Ginny Weasley spun some story about how they had left to go to the library just before the explosion happened, and then went to find the Headmaster to try and inform him because everyone else was at breakfast. A stretch, but it made them out to sound like heroes.
They might have gotten away with it too, had not the mud from Snape's cloak and boots began to trickle and drip down onto their heads below him.
The Carrows detained the students, who were helpless this time, and Professor McGonagall reversed the Lovegood girl's jinxes on Snape - but not, he noticed, before a slight and hesitating calculation.
Snape knew that from her standpoint, after what had happened to Dumbledore, she and him were now on opposite sides, ideologically speaking. But he'd learned from careful observation that she could be counted on to keep her place at Hogwarts. The presence of Death Eaters on the staff had not budged her from her from her neutral stance as an educator. She challenged Snape and the Carrows, but did not openly defy them - as Snape had briefly expected that she might. After careful thought on the matter, Snape had concluded that she compromised that part of herself in order to remain a resource to the remaining students at the school. What use would she be, after all, outside of its walls? An insurgence would only prove to target Hogwarts and all its occupants. She could not protect the children, her children, from anywhere else but here. Snape knew that she understood that. From his experience in wizard's chess she had always been a formidable opponent, always looking for the bigger picture and thinking five moves ahead.
He had his suspicions that perhaps she was helping the student resistance even more than she let on, but until the Carrows or anyone else dredged up any truth of it, he was content to remain passively ignorant.
"Headmaster! You found them – ?"
"Sneaking into my office," he said, straightening himself. He fought to keep his composure, telling himself that the girl's use of levicorpus hadn't been anything personal - it was just a useful spell. Still, it forcibly summoned all his terrible memories of times the jinx had been used on him in his youth. "They stole the sword of Gryffindor and the Sorting Hat, and then attacked me."
"But - why?" Professor McGonagall asked of her students, who had been gagged by magic.
"A ploy, I think," Snape had no choice to explain, "to try and help Potter."
The Carrows looked murderous, as if they wanted to start their disciplinary practices right here in the stairwell.
"What'll it be, Headmaster?" Alecto said, her eyes falling on Ginny. "The Cruciatus? We could do it in front of the students, at mealtime… set an example for the others…"
"I don't think so," said Professor McGonagall, moving between the Carrows and the trio.
"Enough," said Snape. "As headmaster, I will be determining the final punishment for so serious a crime." He paused. The Carrows looked blood-starved, but the three students, even tied up, looked just as defiant as Professor McGonagall. "I will need time to think on this. Until then, they are to serve detention in isolation from one another. Wands will be held by me. And be sure to keep their locations discreet - I don't want any daring rescue attempts from their little Army."
"How long?" asked Amycus.
"As long as I deem it necessary."
"But - Headmaster," said Professor McGonagall. "On Christmas Eve…?"
He could tell from the tone of her voice - she knew she was asking for something she knew she would not get.
"On Christmas Eve," he said icily. "On Christmas Day. Through the New Year, if I decide it. Have the kitchen send them scraps and water. But I'll thank my staff to respect my decision while I carefully determine what deems proper punishment. Now, go."
They cleared away, leaving him with the coveted items. The sword of Gryffindor felt too heavy in his hand. When he had finally retreated into the office and shut his door, Snape looked up at the portrait of Professor Dumbledore. It was empty. The rest of the headmasters were in their usual states - dozing off, reading, writing important letters that no one would ever read. He thought wickedly about setting fire to Dumbledore's portrait. How easy it would be, with just a flick of his wrist, and the rest of the portraits might not ever perturb him again. A pile of ash might be more useful to him than his old mentor's had been thus far. He spent the day and afternoon reading in his stiff chair, ignoring the hopeful silence that came from the headmaster's portraits, as they were all starved for details.
Much later in the evening, a knock came from the door, and Snape knew it must not be the Carrows, evidenced by the lack of clumsy bickering.
"Enter," Snape said. It was Professor McGonagall.
"Minerva," he said, "are the students situated in their detention chambers?"
"Yes, Headmaster," she replied, and fell quiet. Her fingers crossed in front of her, and she drew near his desk and took a seat, despite not having been asked in. This made him uneasy. "Mr. Longbottom has been placed in an unused office in the dungeons; Miss Lovegood has been given residence in a room off the old third-floor corridor; and Miss Weasley has been taken to the hospital wing to treat her injuries; after which she will be put up in one of the astronomy tower classrooms."
"And the Great Hall?"
She gave a wandering glance up at the portraits, and her eyes passed over Dumbledore's empty frame. "Yes, it's been taken care of. The house elves are cleaning the residual mess as we speak. Professor Slughorn was worried about some of the tapestries being ruined, but I think the elves' magic can reverse the damage."
"Very well," said Snape. "You are dismissed, then."
"I actually came up here, Headmaster, to ask if you might wish to join us in the teacher's lounge tonight after supper," she said.
"Whatever for?"
"Well, for Christmas Eve, of course," she raised her eyebrows. "The old staff are keeping with the yearly tradition. Filius is all talk of a Gobstones tournament, and Pomona insists on music..."
"I don't think it is the place of a Headmaster such as myself to join in on that type of merriment."
McGonagall let out a little sigh and inclined her head. "Severus," she said, "I say this coming from a place of mutual respect - which, while I might not call us friends, I feel that we have always harbored for one another. I have always admired your teaching habits as an artifact of your specialty. I realize, additionally, that we all must keep up certain – appearances to those surrounding us, but I simply thought – perhaps because it is Christmas – I thought I might arrange a cease-fire, only if for tonight."
Snape eyed McGonagall closely, cold fear creeping over his body that she might know or suspect his true purpose. Such knowledge could certainly jeopardize all that they had been working for. No, he told himself, surely, she was trying with every resource she had available to protect her three students from the worst of what punishment might come to them.
Truthfully, a night of joyous merriment in the spirit of Christmas was not Snape's custom anyway, but music, a hot glass of buttered rum, a belly full of food, and some enchanting music to fill his ears would not be unwelcome to stave off the oppressive dark of the season. But this was not a liberty of the life he had chosen to live. Dumbledore's empty portrait seemed to gape down at him, making him heavy with guilt and disdain, reminding him that he was to live the life of a Death Eater, he was to live, breathe, eat, and sleep as a Death Eater, and something as pedestrian and routine as Christmas was not an excuse for him to break character and further threaten the thousands of innocent lives that were already at stake.
Snape fixed her with his cold eyes and leaned forward in his chair.
"Get out of my office, Minerva."
Her head bowed, but not in defeat: Snape could see that it was pity in her eyes. She opened her pursed lips to say one thing more, but was interrupted by another knock at the office door.
"Enter," Snape said.
Lucius Malfoy opened the door. At the sight of the professor, he asked, "Severus – am I interrupting something?"
"Minerva was just on her way out," Snape said. She nor Lucius did not acknowledge one another as she left. When the door clicked shut, Lucius drew anxiously toward his desk, and Snape was finally allowed to get a good look at him. The man was gaunt, more pale than ever with a tinge of sickly yellow in his eyes and bony cheeks. Silvery-blonde stubble sprinkled his usually clean-shaven face, and his hair was disheveled, not its usual sleek pallor. Unusually, however, Snape noticed he was dressed in his finest robes, and fitted with an impressively large emerald brooch choking his thin neck.
"Severus," Lucius breathed, apparently struggling with many things that he wished to say all at once. "Er – how have you been?"
The question required Snape to hide his puzzlement. He was sure he'd never been asked such pleasantries by someone like Lucius Malfoy. He supposed that Lucius must have come to bear some kind of news from the Death Eaters, but whether that news was good or bad, he could not easily determine.
"What brings you to the school, Lucius?" Snape asked, ignoring his question. Despite being a Death Eater and being poised to lord perfectly over his peers, Lucius' son Draco had not returned to Hogwarts at term. From Snape's view, his being here was unwarranted and highly suspicious.
"Ah –" Lucius started, and busied himself with something within his traveling cloak. "Yes – well – several reasons, but first things first – "
He withdrew from under his cloak a black wooden box tied with a silver ribbon, and presented it on the desk. "A Christmas gift, from my family," he explained cautiously. "Open it, if it pleases you."
Snape flicked his wand, and the ribbon unfurled itself and the lid on the box swung back. Inside, laid in a bed of velvet, was a pair of matching goblets, shimmering with an ethereal light, with ornate designs of many serpents twisting round one another with eyes of inlaid emeralds.
"These," Lucius said, taking one from the box, "Have been in the Malfoy family for six centuries." He held it up, and it caught the light of the fast-fading sun coming from the windows. "We wish for you to have them now. Naricssa and Draco both send their greetings –"
"What is your real business here, Lucius?" Snape asked, losing his patience.
"Let's discuss it over a glass of mead, shall we?" He procured a bottle from beneath his robes and used his wand to generously fill both goblets while pulling up a chair for himself. Lucius raised his glass to Snape and took a long drink of the dark mead. Snape cast a charm to detect his own cup for poison, but it was safe. He allowed himself a small sip, and once he was done, Lucius began to speak to him, the note of fear and panic in his voice now more pronounced.
"Severus," Lucius said admirably. "We have been friends for a long time."
This was debatable. Snape did not say anything.
"I come today to ask for your help," Lucius went on. "As you know, my family has not been an object of the Dark Lord's - ah - favor ever since the disaster at the Ministry two years ago-"
"Your disaster," Snape corrected him, and took another sip of mead.
"Y-yes," Lucius faltered. "And although we are – immensely grateful for your intervening in Draco's mission last year –"
"I took an Unbreakable Vow at the request of your wife and her sister, Lucius. I was cornered by Narcissa's sentimentality and Bellatrix's ire. I tell you again, I hardly had a choice."
"All the same, Severus – your actions allowed our only son's life to be spared, but your triumph didn't quite convince the Dark Lord to overlook Draco's... cowardice. As such, we are... rightfully... suffering the consequences."
Snape could already tell the direction this conversation was taking him, but he played clueless and allowed himself another drink of mead and a glance around the room to relax his eyes. Dumbledore's portrait was still empty, although he had no doubt that he was probably listening somewhere off the side of the frame. What a luxury, Snape thought bitterly, to just come and go as he pleased. Ever the same, even in death.
"I come to you today, Severus, to put my family further in your debt and ask that you give us means to return to our Dark Lord's favor. Any of us will take any kind of special assignment-"
"The Dark Lord has given you a special assignment, Lucius," Snape said.
With Lucius' fury came, also, his courage. "What – giving refuge to snatchers and werewolves? Keeping worthless prisoners? Our estate turned into New Azkaban... it's hardly fitting... and a danger to our family..."
"I think the idea might have been punishment for your family, Lucius," Snape pointed out.
"Of course you're right," he stammered, falling back into his oily and submissive manner. "I understand his intentions completely, I do. And of course we deserve it, and the Dark Lord is merciful. But Severus... if you could do anything, give me some kind of new assignment, or at least express confidence in my family to the Dark Lord..."
"You come to Hogwarts in secret," Snape said, setting down his goblet and starting to rise in his chair, "Behind the knowledge of the Dark Lord, and ask that I lie in order to get the him to no longer distress your family with the consequences of disappointing loyalty?"
"No – n-never lie to the Dark Lord, I would never – "
"Did you ever stop to think, Lucius, that if your actions today were ever relayed back to him, that he would see them as a sign of disloyalty?" Snape stood from his chair. "Do you know how the Dark Lord handles traitors, Lucius?"
Lucius Malfoy had lost his words completely. He stood from his chair as well, trembling from head to foot, and bowed his head. "I am sorry, Severus. I should not have come. Please... forgive me."
"I do not think it fair for Narcissa and Draco to suffer from your momentary lapse of all comprehensible judgment," Snape said, alliterating every syllable, "but be assured that you will all regret the day you approach me or anyone else like this again. I will not allow the Dark Lord to suffer a traitor."
Lucius' gray eyes stayed on his feet, growing watery. "Thank you, Severus..."
"Leave. Now."
Lucius nodded and strode for the door after a short, respectful bow in Snape's direction. He stopped at the door and whispered, "Happy Christmas, Severus," before sidling out and down the staircase.
The sun was just about to slip away completely behind the distant mountains and the castle would be drenched in darkness. The tower was cold, and Snape felt chills rake his flesh, even under his several layers of robes, just as a flash of scarlet and gold, like fire, engulfed the outside of the tower.
He strode to the window, searching the pale skies, ears open – listening for the song, for that ethereal singing...
He checked each window of the circular room. The sky was empty, and though stars were starting to show on the horizon, he saw no signs of life beyond the foggy windows. But he was sure he'd seen it: Fawkes, the phoenix, as clear as day, appearing in a burst of flame, circling the tower with that chilling, mournful song. Snape returned to the goblet Lucius had given him, once again checking his mead for any evidence of tampering, but once again, he found nothing.
He locked his door, and felt queasy as he settled once more in behind his desk. The dark blackened over his windows, and he could hardly see the stars outside. On his desk, a solitary candle was lit with great fountains of wax dripping down the sides and coagulating on the holder. A greater chill seemed to descend upon the tower, but Snape did not make to warm himself, as he felt suddenly as if his chair behind his great desk was the only safe place in the room.
In front of him was a book that documented the methods and reigns of dark wizards throughout wizarding history, a book that Dumbledore had suggested he study in his free time in order to become better acquainted with the dark arts. But Snape was not reading, he was staring blankly into the darkness beyond the edge of his desk. He did not know how long he had been dozing off, or whether he had actually fallen asleep at some point. He was startled awake when he heard the sudden grinding of stone come from beyond his door, somewhere below.
There came the clap of distant footsteps up the spiral stairs, straight up to the headmaster's door. Snape's mouth grew dry; he stood and gripped his wand inside of his cloak. Every one of the headmaster's paintings was completely empty, each portrait like a gaping hole.
After what seemed like an eternity, the footsteps stopped just outside the door.
There was a very pregnant pause.
Snape jumped as the lock turned itself, screeching like nails on a chalkboard. The heavy wooden door flew open, slamming against the stone wall, sending the whole tower shuddering. Cold air rushed in from the staircase, and the candle on Snape's desk leapt up several inches in the air, as if frightened as well.
There, in the doorway, stood the ghostly pale figure of Albus Dumbledore.
Snape found himself unable to move, or even breathe. It was not Dumbledore as he had seen him last, but rather, he looked like the constructed charm that guarded Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place: composed of dust, very thin, but nearly as tall as the doorframe, his eyes blank and his expression fathomless and terrible.
"I killed you," Snape managed to whisper, wishing that something, anything would make this spirit go away.
"Indeed," Dumbledore – or whatever the spirit was – said, and when he spoke, his voice seemed to fill the tower. He was like a ghost in his transparency, and yet unlike a ghost in his stretched proportions, his terrible and ghastly visage that seemed to bear down on Snape like a crumbling tower. He gathered his courage, and his will to speak.
"Dreadful apparition," he said, "why do you trouble me?"
"Because I must, Severus." It was his face, the very same. Dumbledore, in his usual sweeping robes and with his long, silvery beard. A great chain encircled his body, and hanging from it, a number of ponderous tomes, knowledge that would weigh heavy on the mind, their pages flapping with each step. His body was transparent, and Snape could see the old man's hair falling down his back as well.
"Can you sit?" Snape asked.
"I can."
"Do it, then."
"Truthfully," said the apparition, "I'd find it difficult to return to this side of the desk." His mouth twisted in amusement, but Snape had none to share. As an afterthought, the spirit finally took a seat, the headmaster's desk stretching an eternity between them.
"You don't believe in me," Albus - the ghost - observed.
"I'm not sure if I do or do not just yet," said Snape.
"Why do you doubt your senses, Severus?"
"I know of no magic like this," he said, but it was only half true - if Dumbledore's theories were to have been believed, there was one such stone that would have known a similar power. But that stone was gone now - in the hands of Harry Potter, at best; in the clutches of Lord Voldemort at worst. He might not have known either way. How like his old mentor to have his plans tend on the delicate strings of luck and chance. "Have you sprung to life from your portrait? I would have preferred a guarantee against such a thing."
Dumbledore gave a smile that was more of a grimace. "I have no doubt of that. Is it not comforting, in a way, to know that there is still some mystery left in this world?"
"It seems a luxury only the dead can afford," Snape replied.
"Man of no imagination, do you believe in me or not?"
"I do," Snape decided. "It seems that I must."
"You have asked for my help after my death many times before."
"And you have ignored me. You lied to me in life; what difference is there in death?"
"We men of muddled morals - in death, we wear the chains of which we forged in life. I made mine link by link, yard by yard, knowledge obtained and sustained by me, but seldom used for the betterment of those around me. Of my own free will, I forged this chain, and of my own free will, I wear it. Is its pattern strange to you?"
Snape found himself trembling for more than just the cold.
"Or would you know," Dumbledore pursued, "the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? Why, it was full and as heavy and as long as this when you started your position as Potions Master. The way you treat your students, I daresay you have labored on it since. It is a twisted and ponderous chain."
Snape took a deep breath and straightened up, as though he could feel it weighing on him already. "Lecture me then, you beholder of moral hindsight! Or have you come to help me? I have asked for help, and you yet to give it. Which will it be?"
"I have no help to give," said Dumbledore, with his mysterious smile.
"You always said that death was the next great adventure for an organized mind. Well? Is it all you imagined?"
Dumbledore jumped to his feet, giving a cry of agony, of fury. His mouth grew long, unnaturally wide, stretching to grotesque proportions. He drew up in height, and Snape gripped the arms of his chair with terror as the angry spirit lorded over him. His chains rattled and shook with great clamor, and Snape found himself hoping that someone would hear and come calling, that perhaps the spirit would leave.
"Hear me!" said Dumbledore, his voice louder, deeper, as he bore down upon the cowering Snape. "My time here is almost gone. I have seen your struggle many and many a day. I am sending help to you, Severus." He drew a breath, and to Snape's relief, he began to sink back to his normal size. "A chance for reflection. For penance."
A furrow crossed Snape's brow. What help could that possibly be?
"You will be haunted," Dumbledore went on, his voice returning to normal, "by Three Spirits."
"I'd rather not," said Snape.
"Without them, you cannot hope to shun the path you tread. Remember - this is the life you chose - this is the life you swore to. And it is not yet over. Count yourself blessed for that."
"I cannot," Snape said. He did not need reminding that Dumbledore had spared his life all those years ago, when he had defected to try and protect Lily. In her absence, Snape had been tasked instead with protecting her son, the Potter family's sole survivor. At least, that's what he had thought until Dumbledore made it clear that he was only being protected for… well, no time to think about that now. In this dreadful war, seeing the way things had come to pass, who he could and could not save… he wished that he had left all of it behind. It was a bed he wished he had never made, and Dumbledore's reminders that he must lay in it did not bring him any solace.
"Expect the first of the spirits tomorrow, when the bell tolls one."
Dumbledore's spirit rose to its feet, and Snape stood, suddenly angry. "Is this it, then?" he snarled as the apparition turned its back to him and started for not the door, but the tall window overlooking the lake. It jumped open more and more with each step he took. "Is this the design of your grand plan? Is this the best that the mind of the great Albus Dumbledore could have come up with?"
The spirit turned to him once more. "Severus…" he said, his voice unimaginably weary. "Please…"
And Snape's breath caught as the apparition fell backward out the window. Snape gave a cry and rushed forward, looking out onto the vast grounds.
The air was filled with phantoms, floating and wandering in restless haste and moaning as they went. They were different from the usual Hogwarts ghosts - everyone of them wore chains like Dumbledore's apparition; some were linked together - none were free.
But whether these phantoms faded into mist, or the mist enshrouded them, he could not tell. They and their voices faded together, and the night grew black and silent once more.
Snape closed the window and double-checked the lock with his wand. From the emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or his glimpse of his former mentor from the beyond, or the lateness of the hour, much in need of repose, he went straight to bed without undressing and fell asleep in an instant.