After several hours, Hazel and Daphne managed to slip away from the Slytherin party. Hazel was something like the guest of honor, having caught the Snitch to win the match after staying on a misbehaving broom, so the other Slytherins were not keen on having her leave her own party. Some of the older students had smuggled in butterbeer and firewhisky; the party had grown more and more raucous. It was not until Professor Snape had come in and told them to be quieter that everyone had been sufficiently cowed to let their favorite Seeker do as she pleased.
They raced to the library, where they knew Hermione would be waiting. Indeed she was, her bushy head bowed over a book yellowed with age. When she heard them approaching, she looked up, a broad, buck-toothed smile fixed on her face.
"Hazel, Daphne! I thought you weren't going to come."
"Miss the library?" Daphne said. "Not for anything."
Ignoring the blonde girl's sarcasm, Hazel sat down beside Hermione, who was now closing her book, a sure sign of trouble. Daphne had been acting strange all evening, shooting furtive glances at her from across the common room. She had looked especially spooked when Professor Snape had entered to scold them all, clambering across the room to get away from the man; usually he only invoked that response in Gryffindors.
"You almost died again, Hazel," Hermione said, her brown eyes wide and somber.
"It was pretty scary," Hazel admitted. "But I managed to hold onto my broom. And Adrian was circling below me—he would have caught me if I fell."
"Maybe," Daphne said. "Or he could have missed, and you would have plummeted to your death."
"Thanks for that," Hazel said dryly. "I guess at least last time I knew who was trying to do me in—this time I haven't the foggiest."
"We know who," Daphne said. "It was Snape. I told you, my father said not to trust him. You're lucky Hermione here set him on fire when she did."
"You set Professor Snape on fire?" Hazel said. "And lived to tell the tale?"
Hermione offered a small smile. "He didn't know it was me. It actually took him a little while to realize he was on fire. I'm not sorry I did it, since it kept you safe."
"How do you know it was the professor?"
"He was muttering under his breath and kept his eyes on you the whole time. I know a curse when I see one, Hazel—I've read all about them."
It was possible—Snape was a dark, odd man. If Hermione had accused any other professor, then she would have been less inclined to believe it, but with Snape, anything was possible. While he was…tolerant…of her, he was still a bully, and everyone knew he was fascinated by the Dark Arts. She didn't want to believe it of the man or anyone else, but Hermione would not lie, nor would Daphne. If they said they saw Snape cursing her, then that was what happened.
"So what do we do?" Hazel said. "Tell Dumbledore?"
"Not a good idea," Daphne said. "All we have is mine and Hermione's word, and telling someone would let them know who set the great git on fire. All I know is we need to keep an eye on him, and you away from him."
"Oh no!" Hazel said. "What if he only let me on the Quidditch team so he could try this?"
Hermione scoffed. "Really, Hazel. Someone tries to kill you and you're worried if you deserve your place on the Quidditch team."
Hazel grinned—as usual, Hermione was right. She needed to sort her priorities out. Quidditch might be important to her, but her life should be of far greater concern. Snape was a threat, one she should be wary of; he was a fully trained wizard with a background in the Dark Arts and could certainly hurt her in a variety of ways that didn't bear thinking about. He might not be able to make it look like a freak Quidditch accident anymore, but he could kill her another way.
"I guess I'll just have to watch my back then," she said.
"And we'll help you," Daphne added. "We can all die together."
Hazel only smiled.
*HP*
Christmas was fast approaching. The snowstorms were growing more frequent now, as were snowball fights on the grounds; one could scarcely make it to class without being pelted by the Weasley twins. Even poor Professor Quirrell had not been spared from their antics. One of the twins had hit him in the back of the turban. The normally timid man had turned irate and awarded them both detention for a week with Filch.
For once, Hazel was feeling the jolly spirit of the season. She fancied that she had rather more to look forward to a paperclip, a pair of old socks, and some table scraps. She didn't expect any gifts herself but had used Hedwig to owl-order some for Hermione and Daphne, delighted to have someone to give presents to for the first time. She had bought Hermione a book on wizarding customs and Daphne a handsome eagle-feather, self-inking quill. Though she didn't know anything about gift giving, she suspected that they would appreciate the gesture.
Both girls were going home for Christmas. Hermione knew her relatives disliked her so didn't question it when Hazel opted to stay at Hogwarts for the break. Daphne had merely said that next year, she would invite her to stay at Fairfield Place, the Greengrass family estate. Hazel's heart had lifted at the prospect that she might one day have the chance to spend Christmas with someone who actually liked her.
The two girls had, however, warned her to stay close to Adrian, the only other Slytherin staying at Hogwarts for Christmas. His parents were curse-breakers who were out of the country for Christmas, investigating an ancient tomb in Israel charmed only to open on Christmas day. It was rumored to hold hereto undiscovered scrolls of the Bible. When she had questioned Pucey about it, he said many wizards were also Christians, and many curse-breakers were obsessed with finding more ancient Christian scrolls.
Christmas would be a perfect time for Snape to strike. She would be quite vulnerable without the protection companions provided. Hermione and Daphne were reluctant to leave her in Snape's potentially murderous hands. One of them had stayed with her constantly since the broom incident, so that Snape would not find her alone and be tempted to try something.
As much as she would miss her friends, she was looking forward to a Malfoy-free holiday. Malfoy was back to taunting her again, though he had refrained from bullying other students. His main insults were directed at her having no proper family, but Hazel found she didn't mind so much now that she had friends. Daphne had managed to cast a Color Change Charm on Malfoy's hair, turning it a lurid pink. While part of her still ached for her parents, and always would, she found the pain and loneliness abating with each passing day. She was finding that having friends helped fill the void.
Once the holidays started and everyone else had gone home, Hazel found herself bored. Adrian was good enough company, but he hadn't shared in all that she had experienced. He didn't know about their suspicions about Snape, but he knew it wasn't safe for her to wander the halls alone. After all, she had been attacked by Gryffindors in the halls. He knew his company protected her, but not from whom.
He taught her some new hexes (he was particularly fond of the Bat-Bogey Hex, which Hazel had never seen before). He had demonstrated it on an unsuspecting Percy Weasley, who had threatened to report them to Professor McGonagall for lurking outside the Restricted Section of the library. But only so much fun could be had tormenting errant prefects, and it was a dangerous game to play. If they were caught, they were likely to have a week's worth of detention doing something nasty or tedious.
When Christmas Eve came, Hazel went to bed with thoughts of food and fun. She did not expect any presents—she had never received more than a pair of old socks in her life. When she woke in the morning and made her way up the stairs, she found Adrian waiting for her by the large Christmas tree. He was still wearing his pajamas and was tousled-hair.
"It's about time you woke up!" he said, grinning. "I was about to start without you!"
"Start without me? I got presents?"
Adrian frowned. "Why wouldn't you get presents?"
Hazel shrugged and sat down beside the small pile labeled Hazel Potter. "No reason, I guess." She liked Adrian, but she wasn't about to confess that she had rotten Muggle guardians to the boy, not when she hadn't even told Hermione and Daphne.
Hazel picked up the parcel on top of the others. The thick brown paper and large, untidy scrawl immediately told her it was a gift from Hagrid. She opened it to find a roughly cut wooden flute she suspected Hagrid had whittled himself. With Adrian watching eagerly, she blew on it—it sounded a bit like an owl.
Under Hagrid's parcel was a second, tiny present wrapped in newspaper. Puzzled, she tore it open to find a folded note and a fifty-pence piece. She unfolded the note. We received your message and enclose your Christmas present. From Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia.
"What on earth is that?" Pucey said, reaching for the fifty-pence piece.
"Muggle money," she said. "I'm a, er, collector of sorts," she lied.
"Weird," he said. "To each his own, I guess. My mum and dad dig up long-dead wizards for a living, so who's to say you can't enjoy Muggle money? Just don't go letting Malfoy know—you'll never hear the end of it."
"That's the truth," she said, watching Adrian as he opened a few of his own packages. He had received a new set of silk pajamas from his parents along with a book on defensive magic.
Hazel looked down—she had four packages left. She reached for the largest one, which was wrapped in white paper covered in silver snowflakes that twinkled in the dim light. To Hazel, from Daphne. Excited to see what her friend had bought her, she tore the package open.
Long, green robes fell out of the torn package. Hazel gasped—they were beautiful. She stood up, holding them up to herself. Silver detailing gleamed in the light. She felt guilty—they must have been terribly expensive, and Hazel had only gotten Daphne a nice quill. The robes were a thoughtful gift too—Hazel was one of the few students to wear her school robes on the weekend, having nothing else decent to wear.
After draping the robes over one of the leather armchairs, she picked up the next parcel, which was distinctly book-shaped. Hermione was the giver, of course. She opened it to find a copy of The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts. Hazel flipped through the book, perplexed as to why Hermione had given it to her.
"You're in that book, you know," Adrian said, answering the unasked question. "Last year's Defense professor was a real nutter for history—made us read the whole thing. There's some fascinating stuff in there, though. Like that Russian bloke who sacrificed goats, thinking it would summon a lost spirit back."
"What's with people doing unspeakable things to goats? Malfoy said Dumbledore's brother was arrested for that too," Hazel said.
"Dunno," Adrian said. "Mum once tried to tell me about the history of goat charms and their roles in ancient civilizations. I zoned out after the Egyptians."
"I think I would too," Hazel said with a laugh, reaching for her next parcel.
She grabbed the smaller of the two remaining packages, which was thin and flat and flimsy. Carefully, she pulled the black wrapping paper off. Her heart nearly stopped when she saw what it contained—it was an old Muggle photograph of a girl who looked rather like herself on a swing, smiling coyly at the photographer. Her mum. She had never seen a picture of either of her parents before. She turned it over on the back, hoping for some sign as to who sent it, but found nothing.
Adrian looked over her shoulder. "Wow, you look just like her."
"Yeah, I do," she said.
"Except for the eyes. Hers are really green. I like yours better, I think."
"Thanks," Hazel said with a smile, stowing the picture in her pocket. She didn't want to risk losing it in the mess of paper. While Daphne's robes were spectacular, the picture was nothing short of precious. It was worn down from handling—whoever had owned it before had obviously looked at it with some frequency. It was precious to them, just as it now was to Hazel.
She watched Adrian open a few more of his presents, the best of which was a Nimbus Two Thousand, not that it was any surprise it was a broomstick. There was no way to effectively disguise a broomstick—a gigantic box was a dead-giveaway as much as an oddly shaped package. Adrian promised to let her take it for a spin later that day, despite the snow.
Now there was only one parcel left. Hazel picked it up—it was exceptionally light for a package of its size. She unwrapped it.
Something fluid and silvery gray slithered through her hands to the floor, where it lay in gleaming folds.
"Wow," Adrian said. "Put it on—I think that's an invisibility cloak!"
Hazel picked up the shining, silvery cloth and threw it over her shoulders. She gasped—she was invisible! She spun around, looking at her feet, which were gone. She stuck her toes outside the cloak's confinement—they slid back into existence. It was rather disorienting, looking down and seeing nothing but her toes.
Adrian kneeled down beside her and picked up a piece of paper which had fallen out of the cloak when she put it on. He unfolded it with a frown. "Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well. A very merry Christmas to you," he read. "Weird. You'd think whoever sent it would say who they were—it is a rather valuable and sentimental thing for you."
Hazel nodded, pulling the cloak closer to her. It had been her father's. He had worn this very same cloak, disappeared under it. The picture was precious to her, and this cloak in the same way. Both represented a connection to her parents she had long sought. Part of her wanted to disappear into her dormitory under her cloak and spend the rest of Christmas staring at the picture of her mother, thinking about what her parents might have been like. It was a hobby of hers at Privet Drive—she had spent hours upon hours locked away in her cupboard, thinking of them. She had always imagined a woman with a kind face and a man with a mischievous smile—she didn't know how much was memory and how much was imagined, but those thoughts had gotten her through the long, harsh days at the Dursleys.
*HP*
Their trip to the Quidditch pitch later that day was ill-fated. Professor Snape had spotted them from the castle and stormed down the sloping lawns to find Hazel hurtling towards the ground on at a right angle on a Nimbus Two Thousand, before pulling out of it at the last moment; it was the exact move she had wanted to try to fool Towler with. Adrian was impressed; Professor Snape was not. He had taken thirty points from Slytherin for their "foolish antics in this blasted snow" and assigned Hazel a detention for dangerous flying—to be served that evening, no less. Adrian had cursed him under his breath, calling him the dungeon bat as so many Gryffindors did. Hazel rather agreed, giving a detention on Christmas day.
She had half a mind to just not show up; if Professor Snape had tried to kill her during the Quidditch match, he would surely try again while he had her alone. All her efforts at not being alone over the break were for naught, having earned a detention with the very man she had sought to avoid contact with. It would be so easy to hide, with her new invisibility cloak, but she had to resurface some time, and didn't fancy facing Snape's anger if she skipped a detention—if she thought he would kill her now, he certainly would then.
But that was to be dealt with after Christmas dinner. He had instructed her to come to his office no later eight o'clock, and dinner was served at six.
Hazel had never had such a wonderful meal in her life. Hogwarts food was always spectacular, but the cooks had certainly outdone themselves for Christmas. The fattest turkey Hazel had ever seen sat in the center of the table; it had to be the Hagrid of turkeys. Ron eyed it hungrily from across the table. There were mountains of roast and potatoes, boats of thick, rich gravy and cranberry sauce. And the table was stacked with wizard crackers, nothing like the feeble Muggle ones the Dursleys had. Dumbledore had pulled one with Flitwick, and replaced his wizard's hat with a flowered bonnet, chuckling merrily.
When the flaming Christmas puddings came out, Hazel had to suppress a laugh when Percy nearly broke his teeth on a silver sickle hidden in his slice. Hagrid, being a merry drunk, kissed Professor McGonagall on the cheek. Hazel rather thought Professor McGonagall must have had too much wine too, as blushed and giggled, her top hat askew.
The only people who did not seem to be enjoying themselves were Snape and Professor Quirrell. Snape kept glaring at the antsy man, who was trying very hard to look anywhere but at Snape. When he was not looking at Quirrell, Snape was glaring at Hazel. She hadn't noticed until Adrian elbowed her and said, "Look at him. It's as if he thinks you asked for detention."
"Happy Christmas to me," Hazel said.
"Excuse me?" Professor McGonagall said, her accent thicker than normal. "What's this about Severus giving you detention?"
"I was 'flying like a fool,'" she said glumly. "And I could have seriously injured myself."
Professor McGonagall snorted. "A detention on Christmas Day for flying, of all things. Really now, Severus, surely you could let the poor girl off. It is Christmas after all, and she was only flying. I saw her from my window."
Snape sneered. "It is not up to you, how I discipline my students. Someone needs to teach Miss Potter a sense of self-preservation, particularly while flying. She sorely lacks the common sense to know what maneuvers she should not attempt."
"It wasn't an attempt," Hazel said. "I did it. I did it just fine, and I wasn't hurt."
Professor McGonagall frowned. "What maneuver did you do, my dear?"
"A Wronski Feint. I read about it in Quidditch Through the Ages."
"I applaud your daring, Miss Potter, but Severus is right. That's not a maneuver you should be using as a first year, especially without supervision. I remember my time on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team…"
Hazel scowled, no longer listening to McGonagall's reminiscence. She had done in just fine, and Adrian was there. If something had happened, he would have gone to get help. And she wasn't going to crash—flying was one of the few skills she had that she was confident in. It was all well, doing Sloth Grip Rolls and Spiral Dives, but she wasn't going to be the best she could be unless she really pushed herself.
When Snape got up from the table, she took that as her cue to leave as well. She checked her wristwatch—it as nearly eight o'clock. It wouldn't do to be late for detention, after all.
*HP*
Severus had been sitting at his desk no more than thirty seconds when he heard a knock on his door. The girl must have followed him from the Great Hall. The vindictive part of him wished she hadn't, that she had showed up late for detention so he could give her another one. The girl had no sense of self-preservation, flying like that—she could have seriously injured herself. He scowled at the thought, and called for the girl to enter. She opened the door slowly.
The girl was pale, a stark contrast to her flaming red hair. She was shaking too. His frown deepened—there was no reason for her to be afraid. He was strict with her, but he had never been cruel to her as he had so many of her classmates. Both times he had awarded her detention had been for lack of regard for her own safety, rather than misbehavior, per se. In his own way, he was trying to protect her, and the foolish girl should realize that.
He slipped into her mind, hating looking into those hazel eyes he so despised seeing on Lily's face. Flashes of memory assailed him. She was being pushed down the stairs by a plump blond boy, having her hair pulled by him, being locked in a small cupboard by a man with a walrus mustache. She was being sorted, begging the hat to put her in Gryffindor; she was being cornered in the hall by the gang of Gryffindor boys; she was laughing with Greengrass and Granger. And then there it was, the Greengrass girl's words—"It was Snape. I told you, my father said not to trust him."
Indignation roared within him, images of the girl's childhood forgotten. Greengrass's father was the Auror who had arrested him all those years ago after finding him loitering in Godric's Hollow. Originally it had been on suspicion of being involved with the attack on the Potters, but once they found the Dark Mark, it had been for a litany of crimes they supposed he had committed. In truth, he had only brewed some nasty potions for the Dark Lord, including the Drink of Despair. While that was a crime in and of itself, he was not the murderer, rapist, and torturer they accused him of being. Greengrass had locked him away in Azkaban, where he sat with nothing but his worst memories for company while Dumbledore arranged a trial. He had ultimately been cleared, but spending the month following Lily's death in Azkaban had nearly driven him mad.
And the girl thinking the worst of him—he had done nothing but his best to protect the little chit since she had entered Hogwarts, and here she thought he was the one trying to kill her. The vindictive part of him reared its head again—he ought to show her precisely how scary he could be, show her the cruelty he had refrained from directing at her thus far. But the part of him that was softer, the part of him Lily had nurtured, told him to talk the girl through it, to show her that she was wrong.
"Miss Potter," he said. "Please sit down."
The girl's face blanked. It was almost comical to him. It was as if she expected him to draw her wand and curse her into oblivion at any moment. She slowly, hesitantly made her way to the chair that sat across from his desk. She sat down on it and looked at him with wide, fearful eyes.
"Yes sir," she whispered.
"You will speak properly to me, Miss Potter. Refrain from whispering."
"Yes sir," she said, louder this time.
"It has come to my attention that you think I am the one who cursed your broom," he said.
"What?" the girl said. "What—I didn't—how do you know?"
"You were rather obvious about it, Miss Potter. You lack subtlety."
"Oh," she said. "I take it that you weren't the one who did it, since I'm still alive."
"A brilliant deduction," he said dryly. "Take a point for Slytherin."
The girl giggled—giggled! How long had it been since anyone had laughed at something he said, not out of malice, but out of amusement? He cursed himself for preening like a stray cat shown a small bit of affection. The girl wasn't his friend—she couldn't be—and he cared just as little for her opinion of him as he did her peers'. He was only doing this so the little brat didn't go and start a rumor that he was a murderous bastard and get him in trouble with the Board of Governors.
"But who did, then?" the girl said.
"I do not know. I have only suspicions that I will not be sharing with you."
"But what do I do now? I mean, Daphne and Hermione said to avoid you when we thought it was you, but it's hard to avoid someone if you don't know who they are."
"Quite right. I do believe that ensuring you are always in another's company should be sufficient to deter most attackers. And believe me, Miss Potter, I will be keeping an eye on you as well."
"So no more Wronski Feints unless I want detention?" she said, grinning.
"Indeed. As I said, Miss Potter. I will be keeping an eye on you for your own safety, and I will not turn a blind eye to antics which endanger yourself or others."
"Yes sir," she said.
"Now leave me be. It is Christmas—I believe you and Mister Pucey can find something better do than annoy me."
"Yes sir," she said again, a grin gracing her face. She stood up from the chair and rushed towards the door. When she pulled it open, she turned around and smiled at him. "Happy Christmas, Professor."
When she was gone, Severus looked up and whispered, "Happy Christmas, Hazel." Then he returned to marking the end of the term tests, furiously penning biting criticism in red ink.