~Prelude~

It was the last day of classes before the winter holidays and every student in Hogwarts was eagerly awaiting the end of their last class, anxious to run out and join their friends in the newly fallen snow. For some, the hours flew by like a feather on a breeze. The students in Professor Flitwick's class were gleefully enchanting paper stars to shoot across the room, emitting a trail of golden sparks in their wake. Hagrid's students were all gathered around the fireplace inside his hut, observing the behaviors of the recently hatched infant Salamanders as they frolicked in the blazing hearth. Even Professor McGonagall had abandoned her usually stringent lesson plan, choosing instead to entertain her impressionable first-years with legendary tales of epic wizarding battles and the mystic origins of Christmas folklore. But Harry, Ron and Hermione were among the unfortunate few stranded in the freezing dungeons, sitting through a grueling double potions segment with the Slytherins.

To make matters worse, in retribution for their dismal failures on earlier assignments, Professor Snape had them all doing remedial potions work. Today, they were constructing an extraordinarily complicated anti-venom that was going to be collected for a grade by the end of class. Save for the sounds of crackling flames underneath the cauldrons and the faint chopping of ingredients, the room was completely quiet. No one dared speak or even breathe loudly. Even the Slytherins had ceased their traditional jeers and catcalls out of fear for their head of house.

Snape had been in the foulest of moods for the past week, finding any and every excuse to dock points from unsuspecting students. On this day, he seemed at the very pinnacle of his contempt. He stalked impatiently between the tables, silent as a shadow. His black robes billowed about him like smoke as he walked, stopping only to suddenly loom menacingly over a student's shoulder or peer disgustedly into their cauldron. Poor Neville didn't stand a chance.

"Longbottom," he hissed, breathing down his neck, "What exactly do you think you are doing?"

Snape's ominous pacing and searing glances had made Neville so nervous that it was almost impossible for him to focus, and now with Snape leering over him, he was positively petrified. "I…I'm ch-chopping my asphodel roots, sir."

"No, you're not," he snarled. "You were supposed to slice the roots, not incompetently hack them to useless bits. Ten points from Gryffindor."

Neville hung his head in shame as Snape moved down the table, his brow furrowed and his lip curled. Snape was on the prowl now. Nobody was safe from his wrath. Not even…

"Miss Granger." Hermione looked up from her work, braving a defiant stare into Snape's cold black eyes. There was no way he could find something wrong with her work; it was near perfect. "It's so wonderful to see that you have finally abandoned your usual schemes to assist Mr. Longbottom with his pathetic work. Now you can fully devote to perfecting your own over achieving status. You must be so thrilled to be finally free of all that dead weight."

Hermione, her jaw hanging loose, completely at a loss for words, glanced apologetically to Neville, but he wouldn't look at her. He just sat mute and picked at a burn on the table as Snape continued his hunt. Ron began to frantically fumble through his bag, pulling out random papers and ingredients in the hopes that if he seemed busy, Snape would overlook him. But he didn't need to worry. Snape had bigger and far more important fish to fry.

Harry had his head bent low, scrutinizing his notes, checking and double checking every detail of the instructions. He had cut his asphodel roots with the utmost care and precision. He had minced and measured the exact amount of dittany, and the flame under his cauldron was just right. He was NOT going to mess this up. He was not going to give Snape that satisfaction.

Harry bent lower and began to meticulously prepare the foxglove, the key ingredient in the anti-venom. Diligent and painstaking, he was so focused that he did not hear the soft tap of boots making their way across they flagstone floor. Nor did he notice those boots stop dead center in front of him. He was not aware of the shadow that lingered above him, nor the faint impatient drumming of long fingers on his desk. Harry heard and saw nothing but his work, so it was quite startling to him when a voice suddenly rang out like a gunshot, echoing through the dungeon.

"POTTER!"

Some of the braver Slytherins snuck a stifled snort of laughter as Harry jumped, sending his neatly measured bowl of foxglove soaring through the air. Fortunately, many years of Quidditch practice had heightened his reflexes and he was able to catch most of it before it hit the ground. Refusing to look up at Snape, he set to picking the now worthless pieces up off the floor.

"Such insolence will not be tolerated, Potter. Twenty points from Gryffindor!"

"WHAT?" Harry yelled, dropping the foxglove he just retrieved.

"The next time I call on you," Snape sneered "you had better respond the FIRST time, do I make myself clear?"

"I… No."

Snape's eyebrows shot up so high they threatened to disappear into his hairline. "Do not dare defy me, Potter. That is another five points from Gry-"

"No!" Harry panicked, standing up. "I meant that… just… what do you mean 'the first time'?"

"Your name, idiot boy. Your name!" Snape spat. "The next time I call your name, you had better-"

"But you only called me once!"

"No," said Snape, his voice a deadly silk. "I called on you near five times before you so gracefully decided to acknowledge me. Do your ears need cleaning out, or are you honestly so sure of yourself that you do not feel the need to listen to your superiors?"

Harry's face was burning in anger, but he managed to maintain control as he sat back down. "No sir," he said through clenched teeth. "Sorry sir. It won't happen again."

"I highly doubt that," Snape said, smugly clasping his hands behind his back. "You're far too much like your father."

Harry resumed his work, trying to regain his focus, to close out Snape and his gloating.

"Yes, so very like your saint of a father," Snape growled, now pacing the dungeon floor, addressing the class more so than Harry, it seemed. "He, too, felt that he was too good and too great for rules. Too good for anything, or anyone."

Harry took a deep calming breath and set about re-chopping his foxglove, purposefully hitting the wood of the table with as much force as possible in an attempt to drown Snape out. He was baiting him, and Harry was determined not to bite. Affecting the slightest of smirks, Harry shot a look up at Snape, gathered his freshly chopped foxglove and dropped it with an impudent flourish into the cauldron.

Snape stopped mid sentence, staring at Harry's cauldron… whose contents had just turned an almost phosphorescent shade of yellow. "Potter," Snape murmured icily. "What did you do?"

"I… I don't know…" Harry frantically searched his notes. "Yellow? It can't be yellow! It should be blue!"

"Harry…?" Hermione called timidly.

"Wait!" he said, still searching his notes. "I just… I… No." To his horror, Harry realized that he had jumped a step, forgetting to stir the potion two times counterclockwise, thus creating a very deadly poison.

"Harry!"

"WHAT is it, Hermione?" Harry turned and saw that his cauldron was now producing a heavy mist, a suffocating and malodorous vapor.

"Everybody out!" ordered Snape as the noxious cloud poured from his cauldron and began to fill the room. But before Harry could shake himself from his stunned stupor, Hermione dashed in front of him, throwing something into his cauldron, which immediately stopped fuming and turned an innocent shade of white.

"No… No need, Professor," Hermione panted, clearly out of breath. "It's… okay… I just added dried fluxweed… it should be alright. Totally useless now, of course… but at least…" One seething glare from Snape was all that was needed to render Hermione completely speechless. He then rounded on Harry.

"Mr. Potter… celebrity, hero, and saint…" Snapes eyes were full of loathing and so narrow that they looked almost closed. "Are you really so desperately in need of people to save that you need to create your own natural disasters?" Before Harry could retort, Snape emptied Harry's cauldron with a furious wave of his wand. "Thirty points from Gryffindor for yet another failure."

The room was suddenly filled with the Gryffindor's despairing cries and moans, especially from Ron, who was yelling and beating the table in Harry's defense. But when the storm subsided, leaving Ron red in the face and many other students white in shock, Snape was unfazed. He strode over, the evilest of grins just barely visible in the shadow of his swaying black curtains of hair, and peered into Ron's cauldron.

"Tsk, tsk, Weasly. So close… so very close…" And Snape made Ron's anti-venom vanish, just as he had Harry's. "But it is unfortunately just one more shameful failure. That's a zero, for the both of you"

"But that's just not fair!" It was Hermione's turn. Her eyes were glowing in indignation with her hands balled up into fists by her side. "His potion was just fine! It was nearly as good as my own!"

"Always the best, never second to anyone," he snorted. In one deft swish of his wand, Snape banished her potion as well, his face gleaming with malice. "Well, now you are among equals for once. Zero points." Hermione's face fell, the once blazing fire within her completely put out and her eyes brimming with tears.

The room turned into a tempest of shouts and threats, most of it stemming from Harry, who had finally lost it, and Ron, who had toppled his stool over jumping to his feet in anger. The two Gryffindors raged and roared like lions, hurling every insult, profanity, and swear they could think of at their Potions master until, finally he silenced them.

"ENOUGH!" The room stilled once more, encased in an almost tangible silence. "Potter. Weasley. You have detention everyday starting at after breakfast at eight o'clock, and you will not be released until I am satisfied. You too, Miss Granger." Hermione looked up, mouth agape, eyes bloodshot. "Dried fluxweed…? Ingenious. Tell me, do you constantly travel with such a ready supply hidden up your sleeve, or do you just simply enjoy the thrill of stealing from other people's personal collections?" Hermione blushed underneath his steely glare. She chanced a glance to the corner to see that, in her haste, she had left the doors to Snape's office standing wide open. "I do not, nor have I ever approved of anyone breaking into my private stores, no matter how much glorious Gryffindor heroism propelled the action Therefore, detention, tomorrow morning. Be on time, or don't ever bother returning to this classroom again." With a swish of his cloak, he turned on his heel and glided over to his desk. "Oh, and fifty points apiece from Gryffindor for your insolence. Clean up your things and get out of my sight. NOW!"

*************************

Snape was merciless in his punishments, taking full advantage of the trio's break from classes to really push their limits. He worked them for hours on end, breaking only for lunch or to berate them for their incompetent work. Half of what he ordered the three of them to do was mindless and unnecessary, designed only to make the time slip by irritatingly slowly. They were made to re-organize massive amounts of dusty, rarely used texts that were already almost perfectly alphabetized to begin with. Then they had to sort, re-label and shelve dried potion ingredients from the chaotically cluttered student's ingredients cupboard, and, without magic, scrub and polish all the desks and cauldrons in the classroom. Such mundane labor turned minutes into hours, and hours into days, especially when the clock in the classroom 'mysteriously' ceased to work.

But those chores were a godsend compared to the other half of their tasks. It was as if Snape had vindictively gone out in search of the most weird, creepy and downright disgusting things on the face of the planet, had them placed in somewhat leaky jars, and then made sure that at least one in every three needed to be relocated to a better, less confining container… manually.

It was the day before Christmas and Harry, Ron and Hermione were still stuck in the freezing potions classroom, gutting some odd, slimy thing that none of them wanted to identify. Nobody was talking, mainly because they were feeling too queasy to risk opening their mouths. So the room was, as usual, silent. The only sound to be heard was the sick squishing of the slimy gelatinous creatures and Snape's quill ruthlessly scratching away at some hapless student's essay. Finally, sounding like the most holy choir of seraphim, the bell rang for lunch.

"You may go," Snape said without looking up from his work. They immediately scrambled to leave. Even though none of them really had much of an appetite, Christmas was beckoning just outside the door, and they were eager to greet it.

"I'll see you three tomorrow morning at eight o'clock," Snape said. "Be sure to bring your dragon hide gloves."

Harry, Ron and Hermione nearly collided into each other as they skidded to a halt at the door. "Pardon, sir?" Hermione asked hesitantly.

"You'll be sorting out expired scorpion stings from the good ones," said Snape, still not looking up. "So bring your dragon hide gloves. You are going to need them."

"Tomorrow, sir?" said Hermione aghast. "But tomorrow is Christmas!"

"Eight thirty, then."

"But I was going home for Christmas!" Ron complained. "All of us were!"

"Yes, Professor," Harry chimed in. "We're all expected to be at the Burrow this evening! Mrs. Weasley will be furious if we don't show up!"

"And how is any of this my concern?" The tone in Snape's voice was deadly. It was a dare, but Harry saw his chance and took it.

"Have you ever been on the receiving end of a Molly Weasley homemade Howler, sir?" Snape halted his writing. His quill rested poised above the parchment, allowing the red ink to steadily drip into a tiny pool in the margins. "They're horrible. Ron can attest to that."

Ron shook his head vigorously in agreement, catching on to Harry's gambit. "Honestly, sir, it's dreadful. And it's not the worst she can do. Believe me, I know. Once you cross her path, there is little hope of going ba-"

"Silence," snarled Snape, turning to face them, his eyes narrowed and fierce. "I've heard enough. You can have your ridiculous holiday." Their faces lit up in triumph as Snape slowly turned away, resuming his work. "But it will cost you." Their faces fell, dread sinking in. Snape could barely suppress a snicker as he added the linchpin to their fate. "Come the 26th, you will be in my office at precisely 7 AM and you will not leave until 7 PM that night. Also, I will expect your essays on the varying properties of snake venom and their respective antidotes to be on my desk first thing that morning."

Hermione went white. "But sir, that essay isn't due until next week!"

Snape nearly laughed at the sight of her sheer panic. "Then I highly suggest you start writing it now."

"But…" Harry spluttered, incensed. "You can't… I can't… There isn't…"

"Oh, I'm sorry Mr. Potter," Snape crooned derisively. "Will you be too busy trying to save the world? Can't you fit it into your demanding hero's schedule?" Harry opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Snape snorted, "Why do you even bother?"

Eyes cast down, Harry's shoulders fell. His mouth remained slightly open, unable, or just unwilling, to argue anymore. For a moment, Snape looked him square in the eyes, calculating, looking for something that no one else could see or know.

Abruptly, he threw down his quill and rose from his chair. "Go on. Get out." he snapped, vehemently waving them away, his cloak flying about him. "Get out of my sight, you miserable little wretches!" he rushed them out the door, looking positively alarming. "Go on! Away with you! GO!" The three ran pell-mell into the corridor and disappeared round a corner, leaving Snape standing in the doorway, seething with anger.

*************************

Snape skipped dinner that evening so as to avoid the absurd holiday merriment of the staff, and barricaded himself in his office in an attempt to finish grading papers. The solace of his isolation was broken, however, when a sharp rapping on his door suddenly commanded his attention. Before he could respond, the door flew open, revealing a rather irritated Professor McGonagall, clutching a piece of parchment in her hand.

"Good evening, Professor," he drawled sarcastically. "To what do I owe this auspicious visitation?"

"Professor Snape," she began, trying to keep her tone civil, if not steady. "I was filing my end of the year report when I stumbled upon this!" she said, brandishing the somewhat lengthy parchment in front of his face. Snape recognized it as the student behavior referral he had written up on the last day of class.

"What of it?" he asked, tempering a sneer.

"I, of course, knew something was amiss when my house was suddenly in last place for the house cup…" A smirk flickered over Snape's face. "But this is just outrageous!" she blustered, her face blotching red. "Over TWO HUNDRED points? THREE undefined periods of detentions? And all in ONE DAY! I simply will not stand for it!"

"How I discipline students who misbehave in my classroom is my concern, not yours, Minerva," said Snape coolly.

"But from the way you put it, people would assume they blew up the school! You cannot possibly…"

"I cannot what, pray tell?" he retorted, cutting her off. "I am still very much in my right to deal out punishment the way I see fit!" He glared at her, challenging her to contradict him. After a moment's pause, he looked away and continued his work, scoffing. "Those little miscreants deserve everything they got," he murmured. "Especially Potter. He gets away with far too much! And since I'm the only one in this blasted school who refuses to over-favor our supposed hero..."

"But of all days… detention on Christmas?"

"Oh, I am so sick of hearing that!" he snapped, glowering at her. "Such a pathetic excuse! It's one simple day out of the year, no more. What difference could it possibly make?"

McGonagall lingered for a moment, studying Snape. Her face softened. "Severus," she sighed. "Potter has a hard time ahead of him. All of them do, and you know it. We can at least let them enjoy it while they can."

"Yes, well I had a hard time too," he shot, "and you don't see me trying to wear it as some bloody badge of pride."

"Considering how glorious your past was, Severus," McGonagall shot back "I don't think you could if you wanted to." If looks could kill, Snape would have struck McGonagall down. But she continued undaunted. "Given the circumstances, you could try to be a little more giving."

"And you could try being a little less invasive, you meddlesome old bat," he grumbled. McGonagall stood frozen, gawking in the light of such disrespect. "Now if you don't mind, Professor, I have papers to grade."

With an exasperated tut, she turned and left the dungeons, slamming the door behind her.

The candles in Snape's office slowly burned down to flickering stubs as the night went on. His ire, fueled by Professor McGonagall's audacity, had him grading essays with ever increasing severity. By the time he was finally finished, the papers were so covered in red ink they looked as if they were bleeding. Weary and utterly vexed, he stared down at his work. He sat there for a long time, completely lost in thought, looking at the papers but not really seeing them. Out of the corner of his eye, one of the marks seemed to twist and contort, moving like a snake across the page, joining with others in the shape of an open mouthed skull…

Snape shook himself from his reverie and, blinking, checked the page. No, it was nothing, just a trick of the light on his somnolent eyes. Closing his grade book with a snap, he made his way out into the chilly corridor down to his private quarters. He entered into his rooms, and hung his work robe habitually on the hook near the door.

The house-elves had already been in that evening, rekindling the fire in the hearth so that it now cast dancing shadows all over the bookshelf covered walls of his sitting room. Making his way across the room, Snape noticed that they had also left him a small plate of Christmas cookies and pies on the table by his armchair. He picked up the cheery present, plate and all, and threw it disgustedly into the trash. He opened, instead, one of the cabinets on the wall and withdrew a small glass and an unadorned glass bottle full of amber liquid. Seating himself in his chair by the fire, he poured himself a small shot of the whiskey, watched it spin lazily for a moment in his glass, and downed it. He then poured himself another, larger, shot, which he ignored, taking a giant swill straight from the bottle instead.

Several hours later, the roaring fire had reduced to nothing but a meager collection of tiny fluttering flames, oddly illuminating the still full shot glass sitting on the table and the nearly empty bottle resting in Snape's hand. He was staring into the fire, feeling and thinking absolutely nothing as the dying flames glinted in his half-opened eyes. Then he heard it, a knock on the door… a most annoying knock… to the unmistakable beat of jingle bells. Rolling his bloodshot eyes, Snape relented to the intruder. "Come in, Professor."

Albus Dumbledore stepped over the threshold, carrying a plate of food and a small ornately wrapped present. "Merry Christmas, Severus," he greeted genially, closing the door behind him. "We missed you at the Christmas Eve party. So sorry you couldn't make it," he said as he crossed over to him, setting the food on the table next to the shot glass. "May I?" he asked, indicating the shot. Snape gave no reply. "I'll take that as a 'yes'," and Dumbledore threw back the shot. "Ah… it just warms the insides doesn't it? But then again…" he noted the bottle in Snape's hands "I'm just preaching to the choir, aren't I?"

"Did you want anything, sir?" Snape asked curtly.

"No, not really," he replied. "Just wanted to make sure you got your Christmas present, and a little food. I noticed you weren't at dinner tonight."

"I had papers to grade."

"I figured as much," said Dumbledore, a faint smile appearing under his beard. "Well then, at least you will be able to make it to the feast tomorrow afternoon. Actually, more like later today as it is already well past midnight."

"I'd rather not."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow at Snape, feigning utter incredulity. "Why ever not, Severus?"

"Because," Snape growled "I do believe I might shove a whole Christmas turkey down the throat of the next person who foolishly tries to enlighten me with this absurd notion of holiday cheer."

"I'll take my chances," chuckled the headmaster as he handed Snape his gift. "Go on, open it."

"Maybe later," he said, and returned to staring broodingly at the fire.

Dumbledore cleared a space on the table and sat on it, facing Snape. His eyes were focused, serious and far less jovial. "Severus," he said. His voice was calm, but there was a sense of urgency in his tone. "I understand that life has been hard to you. I also know how dreary these times are becoming, and that they are only going to get darker, but you need to at least try. We all need to try to remain optimistic, to keep hope."

"Hope?" Snape's head swiveled drunkenly on his shoulders as he tried to focus on Dumbledore. "What hope? Honestly, this damned Christmas has everyone talking of hope, of cheer and love. It's sickening. Everyone lolling about in their bovine happiness... just lining themselves up unknowingly for the slaughter. We are on the eve of war and this so-called HOPE is softening people to think we stand a chance. That we can win."

"Do you honestly think we can't, Severus?" Dumbledore questioned.

"I don't know anymore," Snape exhaled, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair. "Even if by some divine providence we manage to prove victorious, I, for one, would like to be among the lucky few who are blissfully removed from the torment of this world in the process. So far as I'm concerned, I've already played my part… and a great deal of good that did."

Dumbledore looked grave. "Your young friend Regulus used to think the same way, did he not? Look where it got him."

Snape turned suddenly in his chair, his face contorted in a vicious rage. "DON'T YOU DARE SPEAK ABOUT HIM!" he roared. "It's your fault he died. You got to him. It was you who made him think he could change events!"

"Severus," Dumbledore said, trying to calm the enraged younger man in front of him. "Listen to me; you don't know what you're talking about. I…"

"NO! IT'S YOUR FAULT! It's your fault that he tried! He was so young and stupid, just like his brother! You knew how reckless he was, and yet YOU gave him this absurd thought that he could win alone. This ridiculous HOPE!"

Dumbledore's eyes had lost their shine. They were cold and hard, just as mean as the eyes staring back at him. "…Or is it that he died, Severus, because you did not have enough hope in you to help him?"

Snape lurched to his feet, his long nose inches away from Dumbledore's, and breathed, his voice a deep and venomous whisper, "…Get out." The look on his face was indiscernible in the failing light, but the sound of his words carried such hate and pain as Dumbledore had never heard before.

"Severus, I…" Dumbledore began, his face wrinkled in concern.

"OUT!" he bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth onto Dumbledore's half-moon spectacles. The headmaster, for a moment, didn't move, but then, with a sad bow, turned and left the room.

Snape turned his back to the door and seized the whiskey bottle. He threw his head back and began chugging what little remained.

Outside the door, Professor McGonagall stood waiting. "Do you see what I mean, Albus?"

"Yes, I do, Minerva," Dumbledore sighed, "and it is even worse than we thought."

McGonagall's shoulders dropped as the two of them began walking up the stone staircase leading out of the dungeons. "Something must be done, and soon."

"I know…" he replied. "I know."