CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - A CHRISTMAS APART

Charity awoke from an exhausted sleep as dawn was breaking, although there was barely any evidence of it in the rooms belonging to Severus down in the dungeons. She had mentally programmed herself to rouse early, before anyone else, so that she could sneak back to her own rooms without being seen as all she had were her gown and shoes, not so much as a hairbrush, to make herself decent in the event she crossed paths with a crowd of over-excited weekending students bound for Hogsmeade.

Predictably she felt dire – far too much champagne – but these were merely symptoms of some lowly, earthborn vessel that she no longer inhabited. Overnight she had regenerated into a new being that floated above the mortal plane, subsisting on nothing but air, light and the ravenous attentions of Severus.

His bed was scarcely bigger than a single, but it didn't matter because the pair couldn't stand to be more than an inch apart anyway. Nevertheless she wriggled to roll over under the weight of his arm so that she could look at him and tell him she needed to get up.

It was a shame to wake him, he was probably as exhausted as she was, and she stole a moment to stare at him, replay his words in her head for the thousandth time, notice how his eyelashes rested against his cheek when his eyes were closed, the faint shadow appearing on his chin, the lips finally allowed to rest having spent hours at work last night.

A few more kisses would hardly make a difference then, she thought, and reached up to gently place her own on his, amazed that a thrill went through her as she did, and she thought she could kiss him endlessly.

He responded before opening his eyes and half asleep started to run his hands over her, obviously deciding that if she was willing he was more than up to the task, but she smiled and gently pushed him back. "I'm just trying to wake you a bit. I have to go."

"What?" he grunted, now reluctantly lifting his eyelids and focussing on her.

"My room. I can't go sneaking back to my rooms when the kids are up and about. I have to go now."

"Stay here."

"But I haven't anything. Not a toothbrush, not my wand, nothing."

"Where's your wand?'

"In my room."

"Why?"

"Because how was I supposed to carry it last night? In my clutch?"

"Your what?"

"My purse. It's a little purse. It doesn't fit a wand."

"How did you lock your room without a wand?"

"I didn't. I thought I was going to be back in my room last night, Severus!"

He sighed deeply and she thumped him. He smiled. "Alright. Do you want me to go up to your room and lock your door?"

"No, I want to go up to my room. And I'm going now."

"No, stay. Stay here in my bed. Let's stay in bed together all day."

She could see from his face he was serious. And truthfully, she loved the idea. "I have to disapparate home tomorrow, don't forget."

"I know. So we have today. All day. Stay."

His black eyes locked on hers, his hair all dishevelled on his pillow, it was pointless resisting him. "OK," she grinned. "A day of lascivious sinning. But you go and fetch some things for me from my room and lock the door." She gave him instructions on where to find everything.

He sighed again and forced himself up from the bed. As he threw on a few items of clothing, she admired him silently from her vantage point beneath the covers. Who knew he was hiding that body beneath his layers of black?

Running his fingers quickly through his hair and putting on his winter cloak, he stood looking back at her at the bedroom door. "Don't move."

She smiled winningly and he gave her a stern look, then she heard him open and shut the front door.

She lay where she was for a few seconds, then she heard what sounded like vehement cursing coming from behind the door that Snape had just exited through. Concerned, because it sounded like he might have hurt himself, she threw on one of his shirts and raced to the front door, throwing it open.

"No! Charity, no -," hissed Snape, who was standing out there with his wand raised. "Go back in!"

"What is it? Are you alright?"

He moved to usher her back into the room, but it was too late. She'd seen it. Scrawled across the front of his door in red paint were the words Snape Fucks Mudbloods.

While her eyes had seen it and her brain obediently read it, her mind was addled from hangover and exhaustion. It took her a couple of seconds to register what the words actually meant. And then she reeled back, aghast, horrified, her hand over her mouth.

Snape hastened back into the room with her and slammed the door. He wrapped her in his arms. "It's just stupid kids, stupid kids, it doesn't mean anything."

"Oh my god!"

"I'll fry them. When I find out who did it, they'll be hung by their thumbs. But honestly, Charity, don't think anything of it, please don't dwell on it."

"When did they do it? It must have been after we got back to your room…?"

Mortification was swiftly followed by anger, and she spat out a few choice words of her own but then she felt weak, and sat down on his armchair, bent over, her face buried in her arms.

"It's too hard!" she moaned. "This! It's all too hard."

"No, no listen – this is not about you, it's not about us. It's the friends of Fetherington, it's just a stupid bit of childish revenge. Don't blow this out of proportion. It's just a Slytherin thing, I've seen it before. Go back to bed. Wait for me. I can clean it up in less than a minute."

She nodded her head dolefully, thinking what else could she do. He squeezed her hand, then departed once more. When she listened carefully, she could hear him outside the front door. After a minute, she heard his feet striding away. She waited a minute more, then went to the door and opened it herself – the locking charm allowed the door to be opened from the inside but not the outside – and saw that the graffiti had been completely erased. It was part of corridor duty, there was a reasonably simple charm that teachers knew to remove most media-based graffiti. That paint had gone, but no spell could remove the image blazoned on her mind's eye.

She ran a bath. He had soap, but no bubble bath, so she lathered herself up abundantly with the bar until he water ran milky white, then allowed the hot water to soak into her, almost dozing off. Scenes from the night before insisted on being reviewed over and over again, a technique her mind employed to extract every last drop of significance or intelligence from occasions that had registered high on the emotional Richter scale. And this one had just about made it to a ten.

The water was just starting to cool when she heard Severus re-enter the quarters.

"Charity?"

"Through here."

He stood in the doorway of the bathroom and, out of habit, immediately looked away. "It's alright!" she laughed. Then added, "I hope you don't mind?"

"Of course not," he turned to leave, and said with his back to her, "I've brought your things and locked the door. I'm sorry it took a bit longer than planned."

"Did you have trouble finding my things?"

"No – no that was fine. Filch wanted me."

"Filch?" said Charity. "Was it about the graffiti?"

"It's been removed."

"Did he see it?!"

Severus' shoulders slumped, and, stricken, she realised. "There was more?"

"I'll make tea," he answered, and left.

Feeling suddenly cold, Charity pulled the bath plug and dried off in a hurry. Her effects were in a bag outside the bathroom door and she pulled on her Turkish spa robe and socks, tied her damp hair into a quick topknot and followed Severus through to the living area. He had made the fire in the woodstove, with a kettle on top, which was now burning merrily and warming up his quarters, and he was setting out tea things in the kitchen.

"Where was it, Severus?" she asked. "The graffiti? Who else saw it?"

"We got it early, my love. I doubt anyone saw it."

"Why won't you answer me?"

"Because I don't want to ruin our day!" he said, heatedly, facing her. "Merlin knows, I get few enough of them. I dance like a puppet to any tune this godforsaken school asks of me. I am expected any day or hour the whims of circumstance require. But you – you have one day before you go again. You're always going. I don't want to waste it troubling over some…imbecilic prank; there'll be time enough for me to worry about it while you're gone."

Abject, he turned back to what he was doing, but couldn't seem to muster interest any longer and instead propped himself against the bench and hung his head. He looked like she felt. Exhausted and battle worn.

She went to his side and took his hand. "You're right," she said quietly, seeking his eyes. "You're right. Forget the tea. Let's go back to bed."

She led him back through to the bedroom.

Snow fell again that day, and third years and over spent several hours at Hogsmeade. Snape didn't care if they never came back. In his dungeon quarters, revived by Restoration Remedy, he and Charity simply wallowed, refusing to concern themselves with anything other than each other. She was beginning to learn how to blank out his Dark Mark, it was possible to see it but not consciously think about it, even when she accidently touched it and he recoiled.

They ordered food from the kitchen at dinner time, careless of whether their absence would be noticed in the Hall, and nobody enquired. Long after dorms were closed for the night, they rugged up to go for walk outside and get some air although it was very brief when they realised there was now several feet of snow on the ground.

Before they re-entered the castle, Snape pulled Charity to him and said, "Stay the night in my room."

"I have to leave tomorrow -"

"I know. But that's tomorrow. We still have a few hours…stay with me."

Mutely, she nodded and together like cave creatures they returned to his rooms and shut the door. Depleted, exhausted, Snape fell asleep almost the minute they were back in bed, the tempest inside him for once soothed and stilled by her presence beside him.

At noon the following day, Snape went with Charity to the Hogwarts Gate to see her off. She was going to disapparate to Diagon Alley, pick up Holly from Jason at the Charing Cross station then take the train to Trowbridge where her parents owned an older detached home on the outskirts, perfect for a family Christmas. She carried a case with her belongings, a handbag with her wand in it and the Faerie Call in its wicker basket.

He was in a mood. He was faced with two weeks of an empty bed, which having just discovered what it was like to have her in it was worse than if he hadn't. It is always worse being the one left behind. She would have the distractions of travel, and family, a week in France. And while he usually preferred Hogwarts when it was empty, this time he would feel purposeless and lonely in its cold, echoey corridors. She was forcing brightness, he could tell she was trying to keep things light, but he couldn't make himself. He wanted her to know how miserable she was making him by going. Again.

"I suppose I shall see you when I get back," she said, with a limp smile.

He looked at her grouchily, then reached inside his robes and withdrew from a pocket a scroll of parchment and a quill, which he handed her. "I have enchanted it. I will write at six pm each day. You write back on the bottom half with this quill, tap it with your wand and say Convey. I shall get your letter on my half. The parchment will clear just before six."

"Will it work in France?"

"I would trust it sooner than an owl."

"What if you don't write? Does that mean something will have happened?"

"If you haven't heard from me in twenty-four hours, then something may have happened. But it would have to be very serious and I think it highly unlikely. Don't lose this parchment, though. If I haven't heard from you I shall be frantic."

"I'll contact you by Floo if I lose it. But I won't. I'll carry it with me always."

He lowered his lids, transmitting his disapproval of this whole business. "I shall miss you terribly," he finally muttered.

Uncaring who saw, she dropped her things at her feet and threw her arms around his neck. "I'll miss you too. So much."

Then, before she started crying, she gathered her things and disapparated, the muffled crack all that remained.

Snape walked slowly back up through the snow to the Castle, feeling as though his whole body were transforming to stone. He would find solace in hunting down, remorselessly, the students responsible for the graffiti. Then he would let his instincts take over.

Later, as the train to Trowbridge pulled out from Paddington Station, Holly sitting beside her swinging her legs and wittering away, Charity took the parchment out of her handbag, curious to see how it worked.

"What's that mummy? Can I read it? Can I draw on it?"

"No. It's a letter. It's important to mummy."

She removed the bit of ribbon tie and unrolled it. The paper was divided into two halves and was blank except for three words in the top half, in Severus's handwriting: I love you.

Two hours and a car drive later Charity and Holly were brought home to Briggside, the name of her parent's Georgian two-storey home, twenty minutes south of the city. While it was a residential area, it was well to do, clean and quiet, and her parents had a lovely garden. As ever, her mum and dad were delighted to have family, and they adored Holly, indulging her completely, always lamenting quietly on the side that she didn't have a brother or sister. The house was all set up for a family Christmas, and as it was now twilight, her parents immediately set about getting Holly upstairs into her little bedroom, helping her unpack her things while Charity went to her guestroom which, as always, was impeccably arranged with goose-down bedding, plump pillows and comforting little table lamps, and soft, fluffy towels at the end of the bed. But she was pining. She couldn't believe in the space of an afternoon she felt completely bereft, as if Severus had died, not just a few miles away. She sat on the edge of the bed and got out the parchment again, and then looked at the clock. Barely 5pm – the sun went down so early in winter. There was a whole hour before he'd write. What would she have done if he hadn't thought of this parchment? She couldn't believe she hadn't thought of that before now.

Her mother knocked on the door and stuck her head around it. "Everything alright, sweetheart? Got everything you need? We're just about to pop the kettle on."

"Yes, Mum, everything's…perfect, thank you."

Her mum watched her for a second, telling in an instant that Charity was far from perfect.

"What's the matter love?"

Charity shook her head slightly and shrugged at the same time, unable to look at her mother in case she started crying. But her hunched shoulders were as obvious to her mother as if she'd written a treatise on the subject – her daughter was suffering.

Mrs Burbage bustled in and sat down on the bed next to her, putting a comforting arm around her shoulders and gathering her into a gentle hug. "There, there now. Whatever's bothering you, it will be alright, I promise. Do you want to tell me?"

"It's difficult Mum," replied Charity through a shaky breath. "I think I've messed things up."

"You mean with Holly? Your job? Has something happened with Jason?"

"No. They're all fine, it's not that."

Relieved, her mother relaxed slightly and jollied her leg. "Then why on earth are you so sad? On holiday, this close to Christmas?"

Her mother was right, she should have been jubilant, she should have been in with her daughter planning things to do, downstairs with her dad eating homemade biscuits with a glass of Baileys. But unable to explain things very clearly when a choking, hot lump was in her throat, she handed the piece of parchment to her mother, who took the mysterious document in her hand and peered at the words through her glasses as if she'd been handed the Deep Sea Scrolls.

"It's terrible Mum! I've gone and fallen in love!"

"Goodnight, beautiful girl," said Charity, kissing Holly on the forehead as the little girl lay snuggled in her bed with approximately a thousand soft toys and dolls. "It's late, big day today, lights out." She shut the bedroom door softly and stepped lightly along the landing to her own room, hearing her parents downstairs in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner.

She felt like an excited teenager creeping off to her room to talk on the phone. But this was the first opportunity she'd had to see if there was a message from Severus on the parchment and she couldn't wait a moment longer. Once safely in the privacy of the guestroom, she crawled onto the bed and propped up against the cushions, unrolled the stiff paper.

Her heart leapt to her throat at the sight of his cramped, barely legible handwriting, fitted into the top half of the paper. He'd run out of space, and scribbles went up the margin. She could easily imagine him in his office, dipping the quill in the ink and scratching away in the candlelight.

My love – how is it that after only a few hours apart, I feel as if you've been gone a lifetime? I haven't stopped thinking about you all day. I have wondered earnestly if you apparated safely, and that you are with your daughter at your destination as arranged. Write quickly to reassure me that all is well. Please give my most cordial greetings to your parents and let them know that I wish them a happy Christmas.

On a less pleasant note, I was visited by Dumbledore today who had heard of the graffiti through Filch. He enquired after your wellbeing when he learned that you were aware of it, and I have told him that you showed a great deal of equanimity under the circumstances. He is, as I am, greatly concerned that such moral corruption seems to have infiltrated the student body; it is unusual. While I am strongly of the opinion that the culprits belong to Slytherin, no ghosts or portraits were able to confirm that they had seen students leaving the dorms or common rooms that night. I will persist.

The only other news is that poor Hagrid has been beside himself most of the day having received post from the Ministry that his hippogriff will be destroyed. He is inordinately fond of the creature, as you know. I may share a whisky with him later.

Dumbledore has put lights in the suits of armor around the place as part of his Christmas decorating. It is, in my opinion, a little eerie, but the remaining students seem to like the effect. As far as I'm concerned, Dumbledore could put a herd of elephants through the Castle and it would feel empty and hollow while you are not in it.

My love, I am lost without you. Write swiftly. Yours, S.

She had scarcely finished reading when she leapt to her bag and found the quill, then an inkpot from her suitcase, made room on her bedside table and began her reply. She reassured him that she and Holly had arrived perfectly safely, and everything went according to plan, and though she was delighted to be spending time with her parents, she missed him horribly, and she too was surprised and pained at how achingly the distance between them felt. She thanked him for the other news, but entreated him not to fret too much over the graffiti, she was happy to move on. She asked him to pass on to Hagrid how sorry she was to hear about Buckbeak, and not to give up hope, miracles happen all the time. In the finish, she got a little maudlin and sentimental, and professed her undying love, then murmured Convey, tapped the parchment with her wand and the message faded and then disappeared.

When she went back downstairs her parents were watching television in the same seats and positions they'd been in over ten years ago when she'd left home. "Hello love," said her father. "Holly all settled?"

"Did you get a letter from your fella?" asked her mother. Charity nodded as she curled up on the sofa next to her father, smiling in spite of herself. "On the magic paper?" Again a brief nod.

"Why doesn't he just phone you?" asked her Dad, even though she had explained to him several times about the lack of electricity at Hogwarts.

"Don't tell anyone, Mum," said Charity. "It's my life there, now. I'm supposed to keep it secret."

"We haven't told anyone so far," replied her mother with an affronted twitch of her shoulders. "And I know it's your life, I had just sort of hoped that you and Jason…"

"No Mum. You know that. I don't love him anymore. I haven't in years."

"I think he still has a soft spot for you."

"Well he had a funny way of showing it when we were together."

"He just didn't know how to deal with all the…well… you know."

"Which is why I think it's easier for me to love someone who likes that side of me."

Her mother returned her focus to the television for a little while, everyone in the room recognizing when the conversation took this bent it could get quite uncomfortable and unpleasant, and no-one wanted that on the first evening. She allowed time for it to diffuse, but evidently her Mum couldn't ignore it altogether for she turned back to Charity and said, "So is he a teacher at the school?"

"Yes. He's a subject master, and head of house. He's highly respected." Charity couldn't help herself but talk him up. Whenever she came home, she reverted right back to her self-conscious fifteen-year-old self.

"What's his subject?" asked her father gruffly.

"Potions," replied Charity less quickly, knowing this wasn't something they understood and predictably, her father scoffed.

"What's that? Magic potions? What's he brew 'em up over a cauldron like?"

"Um, yes in fact. He'd be the equivalent of a Chemistry Master. He's also a bit like a doctor." She threw in this last bit knowing it would mollify her parents somewhat.

"So what kind of money does that make?" asked her Dad.

"It doesn't matter. I make my own money. But he's very comfortable if you must know."

Less worried about Snape's credentials, and more the future of her daughter and grandchild, Charity's mother looked at her anxiously. "Is it serious, love?"

Charity glanced down, feeling her heart clench suddenly, then she said, "I think so. I feel very serious about it. He says he is. He's certainly the serious type."

"But do those people get married? Will you go and live with him somewhere?"

"Yes they get married! They're still human! And it's a bit early for him to be proposing, I think."

Her mother assumed a slightly fretful face, and though she stared at the television, she was obviously not seeing it. Finally she said, "So he's a wizard?"

"Yes," said Charity, with a little smile. "A very good wizard."

The next few days sailed past in a very Muggle holiday routine, with much eating, shopping and trips into town to see Christmas lights, pantomimes and a Santa Grotto. In all these scenarios, Charity tried to imagine Snape along for the ride, and struggled to admit to herself that it seemed improbable. She adapted quite quickly back to Muggle life, but he was more comfortable in the wizarding world, that much was clear. Was that a permanent divide between them? Each day, as promised, he wrote to her on his parchment, and it was her special treat to herself to read it alone, with a glass of wine in her room, after her daughter had been put to bed. Sometimes she read his letter several times straight in a row, almost squirming in delight with his words, his slightly formal turn of phrase, the subtle, laconic wit. In one letter he told her that he had been to her classroom and taken a turn about it, then discovering her still broken microscope on her desk, had whiled away several hours repairing it "the Muggle way", which she interpreted was meant to impress her. She didn't know what it meant exactly – had he used screwdrivers and the like? – but she thought it very sweet.

In another letter, he told her he had been down to the archive and blasted a large number of mice, and that it was imperative that she arrange protection for the documentation on her return because they were starting to get the run of the place. He went on to describe using her typewriter, attempting to recreate his recipes and spells, but that the "tiresome thing" was uncooperative and eventually he figured out the principle of the action and he and Flitwick were devising a charm to make it work without actually having to type, and he'd heard they had done this in America already.

On Christmas Eve he wrote that the teachers and residing students would be dining together on Christmas day, which meant that one of his fifth years, Roderick Bass, would be there. He said he thought this would make for awkward company since Bass was high on Snape's list of possible suspects or accomplices for the graffiti, and after some initial accusations had been made, Bass had virtually hidden himself all week and did not appreciate being informed his attendance would be expected at lunch. He went on to tell her that he had finished his interrogation of all ghosts and common room portraits, and had even sent letters to the substitute teachers, but nobody could account for students being on the prowl during the evening of the staff party.

At the end of each letter he always finished with the most loving, adoring words, prose almost impossible to imagine coming from the austere, irascible man. And they never failed to reduce her to a woebegone puddle who would pick up her quill the moment the tears dried on her face, and scribble back her, contrastingly, mundane replies.

She didn't mention him any further to her parents, and they didn't ask, which they hadn't been doing since she was a little girl, as this was the way of things in her family. She walked between the two worlds, on a tightrope, alone.

On Christmas day, Holly unwrapped her presents piled under the Christmas tree: the usual assortment of toys, games, clothes and books. Her parents gave Charity some beautiful prints to hang in her quarters at Hogwarts, and a proper analogue watch, which were becoming harder to find in the dawn of the digital age. Her brother arrived with his girlfriend, and Jason was to arrive later for lunch, which Charity was dreading, and so while her parents became busy cleaning up and starting meal preparations, Charity went upstairs to get Holly and herself dressed. On the landing, she lifted Holly into her arms and whispered in her daughter's ear that she had one more special present to give her. Then she took her into the guest room and took the wicker basket down from atop the wardrobe and opened it.

Holly took the hook at the top of the Faerie Call and pulled it out. "What is it?"

"It's a Faerie Call. It's a magical device that makes fairies come to it."

In comparison to the small mountain of plastic in primary colours Holly had just opened, the old, brass work of the Call didn't have a lot of appeal to a seven year old. Her daughter eyed it silently, and very unsurely.

"When do the fairies come to it?" she asked at last.

"When you turn it on. It plays music only fairies like, and they will fly to it from all around to hear the beautiful music. Remember when we were reading about mermaid's singing? Like that."

"Can you turn it on?" Holly retorted logically, thrusting it at Charity, who removed it gently.

"No. It's magic. And you have to treat it very, very carefully. Because it's old and it might break if you're too rough."

"Does it need batteries?"

"No. It needs a magic wand."

"I have a magic wand!"

"I mean a real magic wand."

Holly looked crestfallen. "But I want to see fairies come to it."

Charity considered her daughter and realized too late that perhaps she shouldn't have raised the temptation of the idea without being able to follow-through, after all, without the fairies, the Call was just an old metal object to a little girl.

"Look how pretty it is," said Charity, pointing to some engravings on it, hoping to distract her and at the same time perhaps introduce the idea that not everything had to have Disney princesses on it to be of value. "Look at these engravings on it. They were done a long time ago."

Holly peered closely at the hand-wrought designs but remained unconvinced. "Mummy, I think this is a grown-up toy."

Charity breathed out some low-level frustration. "Listen, Holly, this is a very special thing, maybe more special than all your other Christmas toys put together. But I can see that it might be a bit boring to you right now. I tell you what, I'll show you how special it is when we go to our holiday in France, because that place is by the sea, and I bet there are lots of fairies about."

Holly jumped up and down and clapped her hands. "Yay, cool!"

"Yes, cool. Now hop in the shower, you want to look nice for Daddy."

At half-past twelve, as arranged, Jason parked his late model sedan in the driveway of Briggside, and walked up to the front door swinging his keys with one hand, an enormous wrapped box in the other. He was lanky, in jeans and long sweater, short, brown hair swept out of his eyes, clean shaven. He looked as if he'd made a real effort. Charity was watching discreetly from the bay window and she could tell from the ribbon and bow on the box that he had got the gift wrapped in the store.

He rang the bell and she answered the door. "Hi," she said, startling him a bit. "What time did you leave home to get here?

She couldn't believe she used the word home. Where was home now? The one she'd referred to was the house she'd shared with Jason in Royston when Holly was born, the one she'd thought was going to be their forever-home. Jason had bought her share of it.

"Hi, how are you?" he asked, looking at her intently.

"I'm fine. I'm good. How are you?"

"Good. Merry Christmas, by the way. I got this for Holly." He indicated the box. "Where is she?"

"Inside, come in. My god, what did you get her?"

"Some princessey thing. When is she going to get into camping and cars and stuff?"

He wiped his shoes, having been to the Burbage's home a number of times before, and entered. Within mere moments, Holly rushed out of the kitchen and raced towards Jason, flinging herself into his arms for an up-in-the-air hug. "Daddy!"

Fortunately Jason had time to pass the box to Charity, but he took it off her again to hand to Holly with a big flourish. "Merry Christmas, my sweet princess. Santa dropped this off at home by mistake. Open it!"

While the little girl ripped off the wrapping and pulled apart the princess castle inside, Jason shoved his hands in his jeans pocket and appraised Charity. "You look different," he said. "What's with the hair?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's all smooth and…stuff."

"I don't know," Charity shrugged. "More professional."

"Professional? So you're into this teaching thing then."

"As in my job? Yes, I'm into it."

Jason assumed a phlegmatic expression and rocked on his heels. "Thought you might have worked it out of your system by now."

"So you thought I might try it out? Like macramé or something?"

"Well, I know you were into the magic thing. I kinda thought you might…grow out of it."

She tried to hide the scorn. "Like I might grow out of my curls? Or my eye colour? You know, the things that make me, me?"

Jason didn't take his eyes off his daughter, who was in paroxysms of pleasure over her plastic, radiation-pink rendition of a stone-walled, turreted castle. There was no dungeon, however. "It didn't used to define you, Char. I think you decided it made you more interesting."

"You're not letting this go, are you?" said Charity with a sigh, forcing a smile for Holly's sake. "It's not a choice. And there's a possibility that Holly will be the same. You're going to have to learn to adapt to it."

At this, Jason's face turned dark. She recognized the expression. "What's happened?" she asked instantly. "Has she done something?"

His eyes flashed at her. "If you think you're taking her away from me, you can forget it. I will fight you. I'll fight you every step of the way."

"What happened Jason? I need to know!"

"Nothing's happened. Not really. But she's normal, you understand? Holly is a normal little kid." Jason let his eyes bore into hers for a second longer, then stormed off to the kitchen. Charity watched him go, then let her attention return to her daughter, who was making little princess characters go up and down the castle stairs.

Meanwhile, at Hogwarts, Snape had just sat down to lunch in the Great Hall at the single table set for twelve. The teachers, Dumbledore and Filch had already taken their seats, along with fifth-year Slytherin Bass, who had been given last minute instructions from Snape to attend lunch or attend detention. He sat at the other end of the table, his hands in his lap, staring at his table setting. Two youngsters arrived in a great hurry, presumably first years, but in civvies Snape didn't know who they were.

The food was loaded onto the table, honey-baked carrots, tripe, roast potatoes, parsnips, sprouts in bacon, chipolatas and of course a huge turkey. As soon as the first years had taken seats and tucked serviettes into their collars, Potter, Weasley and Granger showed up. Snape regarded it an amazing coincidence that all three of them just happened to be over-wintering, but since the entire school seemed to have agreed that as far as these three were concerned, nothing should be considered too extraordinary or problematic, he didn't ask. Dumbledore was enthusiastic in greeting them, explained the one-table situation to them as though they needed to know, then they took seats side by side at the end of the table, opposite the others.

Everyone having arrived, Snape was just about to pick up his wine glass and take a sizeable gulp to help hurry the occasion along, when Dumbledore, across from him, took up a suspiciously large silver cracker next to his plate. He looked at Snape who recognized an evil glint in the Headmasters' eye. "Crackers!" he announced jovially, thrusting it towards Snape in a way that was not to be negotiated.

There was obviously some kind of jape afoot. Barely disguising the long-suffering dread he felt, Snape took the end of the cracker and pulled obediently. A loud bang, and from the ripped bon-bon a witch's hat with a stuffed vulture fell onto the table, almost knocking a candlestick over.

Dumbledore waggled his eyebrows at Snape, who responded with a tired smile but there was not a Merlin's chance that he was putting that on, not if he wanted lunch to continue. It had been a long term, and frankly he felt he deserved a bit better than that. He pushed the hat back towards Dumbledore who wisely put it on his own head. "Tuck in," he invited to everyone, with a sidelong look at Snape.

Trelawney arrived a few minutes later in a sequined dress, and made a rather drunken spectacle of herself insisting that people would die because there were thirteen of them. Dumbledore, in revenge for the hat, conjured a chair in the air between Snape and McGonagall and Snape just had a second's wherewithal to move out of the way before it landed heavily on the floor next to him. He drained his glass immediately afterwards and poured another, starting to realise how Trelawney had reached her otherwise pragmatic state. As Trelawney hesitantly seated herself, McGonagall made a dry joke about serving her some tripe which made Snape snigger privately, and the two women started a tit for tat which killed time while Dumbledore carved the turkey.

Trelawney was talking about Lupin, about his time being short, which sounded very familiar to what she'd been saying to Charity, and Snape started to tune out, turning his attention to the food instead and trying to avoid Trelawney's habit of touching everyone. "I doubt that Professor Lupin is in any immediate danger," said Dumbledore, heaping turkey onto McGonagall's plate. "Severus, you've made the potion for him again?"

Snape looked up, caught off guard for a moment, then understood this was a cover up for the benefit of the students at the table. There was a good three weeks until full moon again. "Yes, Headmaster," he said, which wasn't an outright lie. The students didn't seem overly interested anyway.

The dinner went on interminably. Snape rather openly had three glasses of wine, only seconded by McGonagall who became increasingly acerbic as she partook, and the rather stilted atmosphere was a bit of a shame as the meal was delicious and Dumbledore was trying his hardest to imbue some Christmas spirit.

Bass excused himself as soon as pudding was over and Snape raised his eyebrows at Dumbledore as the boy hurried for the door. The remaining students perhaps cottoned on that the teachers would relax more if they weren't there, and also started making reasons to go, except for Granger, who wanted to talk to McGonagall.

"Doesn't she ever take a day off?" Snape heard McGonagall mutter under her breath as she got up to meet Granger outside the Hall.

Snape took the moment to reach inside his cloak pocket and withdrew a small parcel, which he placed on the table in front of Dumbledore. He hadn't wrapped it – that kind of thing was beyond him – but he did pick a quiet moment when the Headmaster wasn't cartwheeling or tap-dancing in efforts to amuse everyone.

"What's this?" asked Dumbledore, with a small smile and a wink. He opened the parcel to uncover a pair of soft deerskin and tweed gloves with an adjustable wrist strap. His face lit up at the sight of them. "Why Severus! They're perfectly wonderful. I didn't expect you to take my little throwaway comment seriously."

Snape waved his remarks away, uncomfortable.

Flitwick admired the gloves from his seat and said with a grin, "That's two gifts Severus has bestowed this Christmas. Do we have an imposter?"

While Snape fought to keep an embarrassed flush rising to his face, Dumbledore gazed at him with something akin to fondness. "Our beleaguered Head of Slytherin proves to us all that it is nobler to give than to receive. Having recently been enriched with the most priceless of gifts, he is now enjoying the experience for himself."

"Enough, sir," said Snape almost imperceptibly.

"I once read a Muggle who said, 'Give. Expect nothing. Its magic'," chuckled Dumbledore to the table at large. "And how right he was. So much magic in life has nothing to do with wands. Such as music – Flitwick, a carol please, sir!"

At six o'clock, Snape was glad to retire to his quarters with a wrapped bag of turkey sandwiches and some slices of baked ham. His daily correspondence with Charity kept her close to him; while he scratched away with the quill he imagined her reading his letter, forced his memory to recall every detail of her face, fantasized about talking to her in bed instead of through ink and paper.

It was too cold in his office, there being no fire in there all day, so instead he sat at his kitchen table with a tumbler of whisky and told Charity about the lunch, about the rabid rantings of Trelawney, about Filch's terrible singing voice, about McGonagall's sniping, about the expensive broomstick Potter had allegedly received and the fresh snow that had fallen.

Then, squeezed into the remaining space, he wrote: Let this be our last Christmas apart. If it is the season for giving, then I give my all to you, this year and every year. Come home to me soon. I miss you intolerably. With all my heart, S.

The day after Boxing Day, Charity, Holly and her parents took the train from Trowbridge to London, then caught a quick flight to Ambleteuse in France. The Channel Tunnel was still a few months from opening. Charity had rented a gorgeous stone holiday cottage for them all, months earlier. Being out of season, she had gotten a good discount, but it was still a bit of an outlay on a teacher's salary, however when she saw the windswept beach view from the garden gate, she was glad she'd done it.

Her parents made the place home within minutes of lighting the wood-burning stove and putting the kettle on, and Charity took Holly down to the beach well-rugged up as a stiff wind was blowing and it was like walking through sandpaper. They headed vaguely in the direction of the Fort, obscured by flying sand, and although Holly complained and screamed girlishly into the gale, Charity found it bracing. She liked the horsewhip nature of stepping deliberately into punishment that flayed and stung her skin as if somehow to atone for the failures in her life.

A permanent ache of longing had settled in her heart and she spent the early waking hours each day remembering and replaying the nights in Severus's bed. Then she would get out his message from the night before and re-read it, his own loneliness becoming more evident with each one. Finally, by breakfast, she had wallowed so thoroughly, it had almost soothed the pain and she was able to focus on the day.

Had she known when she booked this holiday that she would miss someone so intensely she doubted she would have gone ahead with it. But now there was more than her to think about, not just her daughter but her parents who were thrilled to be invited, and she did need to thank them for all the babysitting and caretaking they had done while she was teaching.

So with effort she concentrated maximizing the time with family, and in the few hours left of daylight, they enjoyed a walk to the nearest une epicerie (eschewing a global petrol station shop in favour of something a little more French) and bought provisions for tea that night, plus le cabas for carrying it all home in.

With a large glass of Pommard, Charity quietly departed from the others at six pm to climb the open stairs up to her dormer bedroom under a sloping roof, and sat on her iron-framed bed to await the message from Severus.

Ten minutes later she received the words, You are further away. I sense it. Have you gone to France now?

Yes, she wrote back. In Ambleteuse, by the sea. For four days.

She wasn't sure if that was going to be her lot for the evening, and she waited breathlessly to see if this parchment would allow for more than one exchange. Her heart leapt when she saw more writing materialize beneath the first sentence.

Are you alone there with your daughter? I could join you, it would be safer.

She was with her parents, she told him, having almost groaned with pleasure at the idea of having him here with her in this seaside cottage. She told him a bit about the cottage and how, perhaps one day, they could come back, just the two of them.

A long delay.

I am utterly wretched, he finally responded, then nothing. It was as though he'd hung up the phone on her. She was devastated. She tried writing him back, but he'd clearly signed out. Had something happened that day at the Castle? She paced the room once or twice, unable to stay seated, her muscles responding to panicky impulses to act, to go to him, then she heard her daughter calling her and she had no alternative but to leave it for now.

Twice before bed she checked the letter in case he'd written further, but nothing. Just those awful words. Late into the night she finally succumbed to sleep to the sound of the sea roaring outside.

The following day was calm and mild. It was a good day to try the Faerie Call, even though Charity wasn't particularly optimistic since the local environment didn't lend itself terribly to small, flying creatures, but there was an old, gnarled blackthorn tree sheltered by the hill behind the house which she was delighted to see had some hollows in it. Perhaps they would get lucky. At dusk, she and Holly went hand in hand to the tree, the little girl holding the Call up high off the ground, and Charity holding her wand. Together they selected a crooked but sturdy branch, black and desolate during the winter months, that was around six feet off the ground, and Charity reached up to hang the Call securely.

"Now. Wish mummy magic," said Charity, and with Holly's wide eyes on her, she tapped the Call with her wand.

Was there an incantation? She couldn't remember. But when the Call made no sound or motion, she took her wand again, avoiding Holly's disappointed face, and channeled her magic, feeling a little rusty after a week of no use.

Tap. Play, Faerie Call, play and summon.

It started. The mechanism began to whir and a moment later, the ethereal music began to issue, indistinct beneath the sound of the nearby waves. "Look! Look darling – it's started! It's working!"

Holly jumped up and down on the spot like a little gazelle. "I can't see! Lift me up!"

With effort – she was no toddler anymore – Charity hoisted her up so that Holly could see the Call spinning and producing its melody.

"We have to give the fairies a chance to hear it and fly here," explained Charity, leading Holly back towards the cottage. "We'll come back later tonight."

"Where did you get that thing from, Mummy? From the castle you go to?"

"Yes. From the castle. A very special wizard gave it to me. He wants me to believe."

"Did you see fairies? Do you believe in them now?"

"Oh yes. Fairies are real."

It was her mother that spotted them first. Washing up in the kitchen after dinner, she noticed them through the window over the sink, the soft blue phosphorescence of the coast-dwelling fairies glowed and danced around the tree and she called her husband, who immediately called Charity.

"It's fairies!" she breathed at the sight, almost unable to believe it, and she raced around putting on coats and shoes for herself and Holly and yelled over her shoulder as she bolted out the back door, "Mum! Dad! Come and see!"

There weren't as many as Hagrid had summoned at Hogwarts, and they all had only shades of blue for colour, but they were fairies nonetheless and as they hovered and swooped in and out of the hawthorn branches, and plinked against the Call, shedding their fairy dust, Holly was utterly enchanted. Her breath plumed in the frosty air, and her eyes shone, and she gripped Charity's hand tightly, a little nervous at a first encounter.

They stood quietly and watched, presently joined by her curious parents, who stared and stared. "Well I'll be…" muttered her father. "Are they some kind of insect?"

"They're fairies, Dad...," said Charity softly. "Real ones. At Hogwarts they catch them…Professor Flitwick had them in his classroom. You give them a bit of sugar water, or honey."

"I thought they were just in stories…" said her Mother. "Did you magic them?"

"The Call is magic. They're sort of hypnotized, so they don't know what they're doing. But they live around here, they must live everywhere, Muggles just don't see them."

Her parents knew the term Muggle. It sat with them a little uncomfortably, interpreting it to mean lesser. But they didn't comment. It seemed churlish in the face of what they were witnessing.

It was difficult putting Holly to bed that night, she had been overstimulated. She wanted to keep the Call running from her bedroom window and catch fairies in a shoebox, but Holly gently talked sense into her, and eventually she was sedate enough to leave.

Hurriedly she escaped to her own room to see if Severus had written. Her heart plummeted when she opened the parchment scroll to find his section blank.

Uncertain, but frantic, she took up her quill and ink – which was starting to run low – and on her bedside table simply wrote: Severus?

Less than a minute later, she received, Here, my love.

Why didn't you write? she scribbled, relief flooding through her.

I feel tired. Disconsolate.

She didn't know how to respond to that, it was so unlike him. She pondered on it for several long moments, before tentatively picking up her quill again and writing, Tonight we summoned some local fairies. I wish you could have seen the joy they brought. It was because of you, the things you do, the difference you make in the world. You are remarkable, incredible, and I can't really describe how delirious you've made me. Severus, please, stay with me, you are on my mind constantly and your letters are my only way to stay sane.

Only two more days, was the reply. Then come quickly.