A Yuletide Carol

Author's Note: We wish you a merry Christmas…and a happy new year.

Chapter One

Dumbledore was dead to begin with. There could be no doubt about that. His murder had been witnessed by the boy-who-lived himself, his body seen by McGonagall, over a hundred students and the Minister of Magic himself. Old Dumbledore was as dead as Crumple-Horned Snorcack (unless of course you pressed the matter with a certain young Ravenclaw girl who was determined to prove the existence of such a creature.)

Of the fact that Dumbledore was dead Severus Snape was unequivocally certain—he had killed him himself not even a year prior. Most of the wizarding world knew this, and hated him for it; though truth be told Snape and the old man himself had been partners in this crime. While much of the world mourned their beloved headmaster they hated their new one, for everything that he had done as well as everything that he seemed to be.

Severus Snape was a cold, bitter man who seemed much older than his years. He had just barely reached forty, but carried the weight of many more years. He had sallow skin and a long hooked nose, and greasy black hair that reached to his shoulders. His eyes were as black as writing ink and as cold as ice.

He had taken up residence in the old man's quarters several months before but had done little to change the space since his death. On the well-polished and possibly ancient old desk there was an assortment of whirling silver gadgets—an empty cage stood in one corner, unmoved though its occupant had disappeared the day of Dumbledore's funeral and not returned since. On the wall there were dozens of paintings of headmasters, many of them nodding off as evening settled closer to dusk.

Dumbledore's portrait was watching him keenly as he wrapped up his business for the evening. Snape glanced up at it, and when the portrait saw that he was looking quickly busied itself with doing something else, out of frame. Snape sniffed, looking back at the letter he was writing. He had barely set pen to ink when there was a loud rapping at his door.

Snape's head shot up, his hand reflexively going toward his wand. When it opened a crack and a Death Eater—someone whose name he hadn't learnt yet—peeked in, he made an impatient gesture and the door opened wider, allowing the man to enter along with the young man he had in tow.

He glanced down his nose at the boy. "Mister Longbottom," he said slowly and succinctly. "What have you done now? You are aware that any further insubordinations and I shall have to report you to the Ministry…you really are becoming quite unstable…."

"I didn't do anything!" shouted Neville defiantly, struggling at the Death Eater's iron grip on his robes. Snape made a small gesture and the man released him. Neville straightened his robes, dusting them off as if they'd been infected by the man's touch.

"This boy was caught defacing the common room of his dormitory," said the Death Eater.

"What are you talking about?" said Neville. "I didn't do anything!"

"You put up decorations that are strictly against school code," the Death Eater growled.

"But it's Christmas! You can't punish me for putting up a tree and some tinsel!" he said. He was glancing from the Death Eater to Snape and back again, as if certain that somehow between the two of them somebody was going to buy his story. But it wasn't to be the case.

"You know what I decreed," said Snape darkly. "All recognition of the holiday has been banned from Hogwarts. This expressly forbids your…tree and tinsel."

"But…but sir!" said Neville.

"What do you want to do with him?" said the Death Eater, grabbing once more at his collar. Snape took a deep breath, and then glanced at the pleading in the boy's eyes. He thought of him suddenly, over the past several years. A fairly harmless boy, although he had grown troublesome ever since the term began. With a sigh Snape motioned for the both of them to leave, stating, "There's no reason to punish him so long as he doesn't do it again. And make sure that all common rooms are examined for the smallest trace of anything sparkly, colorful, or tied up in a big pretty bow."

The pair was whisked out of his office and, with a sigh, Snape leaned back in his chair. "Dumbledore, what am I to do?" he said.

"Generally doing your best counts for something," said the portrait opposite him. Snape ignored this comment and continued on with his work, scribbling out a missive and putting it aside to send later. He was just about to start another letter when there was a second knock at his door.

Growing more and more impatient, he growled out a quick 'who is it' as the door opened to reveal the pale, drawn face of Draco Malfoy. Now here was a singular case—though the boy was from a wealthy family, and of noble blood, Snape himself had had more occasion to oversee his wellbeing than the boy's own father, who was a long time follower of the Dark Lord. But he had no feelings of affection for him—except, perhaps, in that he wished the boy to do well in life, especially as it reflected back on him.

"What can I help you with?" said Snape.

"Uhm…sir?" said the boy. He was glancing down at his shoes. "I wanted to ask your permission, sir. For a gathering of sorts. A…a meeting to…to…discuss the coming of the New Year."

Snape paused in writing his second letter, thinking for a moment. "A meeting?" he asked.

"Y-yes, sir," said Draco.

"And will there be food and drink at this meeting?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," said Draco.

"And music? And perhaps dancing and games?"

"Uhm…yes, sir."

"Then perhaps rather than call it a meeting you call it a party…although I'm certain you know that such things are no longer allowed in this school."

"Professor, I…"

"NO!" Snape roared. Draco stood suddenly at attention, a tinge of pink on his cheeks. Snape picked up his quill and started writing again. "There will be no parties, and if I hear of any every single person in attendance will face expulsion from my school. Are we understood Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco nodded, and turning very quickly he left Snape alone. The hour grew late as he finished up his business and turned from his office, making his way through the empty corridors and toward the owlery, which overlooked the expanse of land that the castle set on and the village far below.

He was tired as he captured one of the few owls who had not left for her evening meal. And so it was that he was not certain if it was dream or reality when he first heard a whisper at the corner of his consciousness. It sounded so family that he thought it must his imagination, or some form of waking dream…perhaps even a student playing tricks on him, as they were so often prone to do.

But the voice grew louder, and though it made no sense at all he become suddenly certain that it was Dumbledore's. He turned quickly from the owlery, and as he approached the door was certain he saw the image of the old man's face ingrained in the wood of the door. But when he approached it there was nothing there…not even a trace of magic to tell him that some form of spell was being used to play with his thoughts.

He shook his head—he was tired, and worked up because of all the student's protests about Christmas. Worked up too because it had been too long since he heard word of the whereabouts of Potter and his tagalong friends, who were off on some task he wished he knew more about.

So he left his office for the night and made his way to his quarters. The room was dark, despite the fireplace that sat at the center of the room. He did not light it, by magical or any other means, as he changed into his long Emerald green dressing robe and sat with a small glass of Firewhisky on his sofa.

"Surely I've gone mad, or there is something else at work," he said to himself, thinking again of what had happened.

But there it was again…a whisper and a rattle. He sat up straight, glancing about the small room for something—anything—that could prove that this all wasn't just in his head.

And there he was, standing at the door as casually as he might have when he was alive, but bound in heavy locks and chains nonetheless. The chains rattled and clanked as Dumbledore moved forward, screeching metal on metal as he came closer to Snape.

"I am quite disappointed in you, Severus, though the blame for much of this rests with me," he said, folding his hands together (over a heavy iron padlock) across his midsection.

"Wh-what magic is this?" said Snape, hand gripping his wand. He thrust it out in front of him. "R-riddiculus!" he shouted. When nothing happened to the image he tried it again, until the old man waved his hand.

"I'm quite sorry, Severus, but I am no boggart. Nor am I a mere figment of your imagination. A phantom if you will…"

"A ghost? But that is impossible, Albus, a man of your ability…"

"Ability does not equate to happiness. May I have a seat?" Severus stared at Dumbledore, or at the ghost of the man that had once been, as uninvited he sat down. He waved his hand and flames shot up in the fireplace, bright scarlet and gold. "Much better. A little light wouldn't hurt to bring the color into your skin, Severus."

"And what concern have you with my skin?"

"I may be old but I like to think that until the day I died I was fastidious in my appearance…" said Dumbledore.

"What I mean…what I'm trying to say, impossible as it is, is that…Albus, quite frankly, you're dead."

"Ah, and there's the sticking point," said Dumbledore. "I am dead, quite dead, as you well know."

"But…how…"

"The how if it is not as important as the why." Dumbledore lifted up one of the thicker chains that were binding him. "You see these, Severus, these chains which bind me so solidly to this world. They each represent something that I left undone…in some cases because I assumed it was not my place, in others because…alas…I deemed them unimportant."

"Things you left undone? And what do these things have to do with me?" asked Snape.

"Ah, Severus. You are truly a great man…or, at least, you could be great if only led to see what the actions of your past have done. No—" he stopped him, putting his hand up. "I don't mean your involvement in the wars—or not just that, at the very least. I have come to tell you, Severus, that you will be visited by ghosts."

Dumbledore stood. "At the stroke of twelve expect the ghosts of Christmas Past. At one, expect the ghost of Christmas Present. And at two the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. Now it is time for me to go…I have other appointments, tonight, which I hope you will learn about in due time."

His chains rattled as he made his way from the room. Snape stood staring at the door, which the ghost of Dumbledore had smoothly disappeared through, and felt his skin begin to crawl. "Oh, Bother," he said in annoyance. And going to his bedroom he turned down the blankets and laid himself down to sleep—in hopes that all would reveal itself an impossible dream.