Day or night, St. Mungo's was always a hive of activity, so tending to a patient in solitude, with only the howling wind for company, was a novel experience for Harry. To take his mind off things while he was monitoring Judith, Harry summoned a mystery novel he had brought with him. Hermione was always nagging at him to read more, doubling down after she had finally written Ron off as a lost cause in that regard. He did read much more than at school now, but those were mostly medical journals and magical pathology books.
After a long shift, he could only bring himself to watch a television charmed to work at Grimmauld Place against Kreacher's loud protests. He would watch some mind-numbing show for a bit before passing out on the couch, and listen to Kreacher' derisive recounting of the parts he missed the next day, even though the house-elf never showed himself in the sitting room when Harry was there. Despite the grouching about degenerate muggles, Harry was used to hearing the television turning on ostensibly by itself. He suspected Kreacher hadn't missed an episode of EastEnders in years.
This was the first time in months he had time to read for pleasure, but the nervous energy simmered just under his skin, urging him to move, to do something. Harry did his best to immerse himself in the adventures of a war veteran turned detective and his sidekick secretary investigating very suspicious suicide, but his thoughts kept wandering to Smith.
He barely turned any pages when the clock struck seven. Harry checked on Judith to see that her spine had settled correctly: the cervical vertebrae were the trickiest to regrow. The monitoring spells told him that he could bring her out of the magical comma as early as tomorrow. Harry looked at the screen on the other side of the ward. Judith will have to stay under his supervision for some time, and the proximity to the dead body of her Uncle could not be very helpful for the girl's recuperation.
Satisfied with his patient, Harry stood up. What would that fictional detective do? He would surely have made sense of the situation by now.
Behind the screen, Smith mirrored his niece on the narrow cot, but unlike Judith, he would not be waking up anytime soon. The first time Harry had faced a dead body was a year after the war. He remembered his tunnelling vision and constricted breath as he along with another trainee went down to the morgue, the rush of memories, the smoke of the last battle in Hogwarts filling his nostrils. As with many things in his life, he had got over his reaction to death enough to do what needed to be done. He was the master of it, after all.
The tip of Smith's wand was peeking out from the pocket where Snape had stuffed it earlier, and Harry berated himself for not thinking to check them. For a moment, he hesitated—this was likely the sort of things the Aurors would frown upon—but the rules had never stopped him before.
The insides of Smith's pockets were organised chaos. A bronze crested clip held a bundle of receipts, the family sigil looking incongruous against the note to close his running tab in Hog's Head. Aberforth's cursive handwriting bore a startling similarity to his brother's, if only much spikier. A dragonhide wallet bit Harry's finger when he tried to unclasp it, while the daily planner with a regal-looking badger opened readily enough, but contained nothing but messy Defence lesson plans and assigned homework. There were two letters from Smith's mother, one telling him that his second cousin Susan was coming for Boxing Day, and the other begging him to reconsider staying at Hogwarts for the holidays, a photo of him and Alicia at the summer bank of the Black Lake, and a vintage postcard of the Christmas tree on Trafalgar Square stuffed in-between. The latest issue of the Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle had 'Smith' written over a blond man with shifty red eyes, creeping behind the main character. The man's hair was enhanced by giving him a receding hairline and a crudely drawn overcomb. Harry could just imagine how many points Smith had taken from the hapless student he had confiscated it from. There were crumbs and sugar powder on the pages, likely from an opened package of Ice Mice.
Sighing, Harry stuffed everything back. It was a long shot, but at least he learned that Martin helped a dashing Hadrian Porter, who struck a Lockhartian pose on every panel, defeat the mysterious Basilisk Man who petrified his victims.
His feet brought him to the Defence Corridor. The hunchback, one-eyed witch's statue stood open, and Harry peered inside. The passage was empty, and he marvelled at its narrow walls and low ceiling, just enough space for an adult man to squeeze in. Harry remembered him, Ron and Hermione moving there so freely. His memory did not lie about the ugliness of the statue, however.
"They did you dirty, Madam de Gorsemoor," he said, recognising the Healer who had discovered a cure for Dragon Pox from a much more flattering portrait in St. Mungo's.
The statue shook her head, as if saying, 'What would you do?' Harry had never seen her do anything other than open and close the passage. Even after years of walking its halls, Hogwarts was still full of undiscovered secrets.
"Perhaps you also know where Oliver went?" he asked, not at all counting on any answer.
The statue slowly raised her hand and pointed her gnarly stone finger at the tapestry with a goblin king presenting a sword to Godric Gryffindor down the corridor.
Saluting the witch, Harry dived behind the tapestry. He stepped out into the pitch-black darkness on the other side. A moment later, his Lumos illuminated the bottom of the spiral staircase that led to the Astronomy Tower. It explained the lack of light: sconces were only on in this part of the castles on the nights there were Astronomy lessons.
Loud gusts of the wind accompanied familiar swearing from above. One particularly loud crash later, Oliver stomped downstairs with his own lit wand in one hand and his broom in another.
"I thought since highs always worked better for me than lows, I could try the towers instead of underground. But Hogwarts is being stubborn." He looked at the wall as if he considered punching it but wisely contained himself. With the way Hogwarts was right now, he could reasonably expect payback soon.
"You wanted to take off from the tower? That's suicide!"
"The weather during our match with the Cannons four years ago was worse," Oliver said blithely.
"I wasn't the same at all, and you know it. And if I remember correctly, three players fell off from their brooms and another two got severe freezer burns, including you."
"And your colleagues put me back on my feet in no time!"
"That's not the point, Oliver." This type of patients—mostly Quidditch players and Ministry workaholics—was the worst.
They stopped at the drafty landing, at the window covered with a white blanket of snow. The tower itself had to be buried in snow up to the turrets, Harry thought, or it would be a perfect place to witness the storm in all its fury and might. Astronomy lessons had always felt like a chore when he had been younger, but they did put things into perspective. The Scottish sky, vast and limitless. And never had it looked so close and untouchable as the last time he had been there, that night of Dumbledore's death. He wondered if Snape came here often.
"Do you think it looks weird, me trying to leave like that?" Oliver asked with a sudden frown.
"Well, you might be creating the wrong impression," Harry said diplomatically.
"I've just seen Alicia. She was talking Doxie twaddle, as she always does when something's been bothering her, but she doesn't want to say what. You see, I know her, know better than that posh twat ever could." Oliver paused, knuckles white on the handle of his broom. "She told you I'd left early in the morning."
That wasn't a question, but Harry gave him a nod.
"I went down, tried the front door, and went back up. That's all. And now Allie looks at me with this horrible suspicion on her face."
"It's hard for all of us to be in the dark. When stressed to the limit, people do and say things they later regret. For what it's worth, I don't think you are her first suspect. She tried to free me of Snape's bewitchment earlier."
"Did she succeed?"
Harry rolled his eyes. "Nope. Snape's charms proved too strong."
"Every time I've been slipped Amortentia, I've had an urge to serenade the person. That's how I knew something was up the last time. Well, that, and the pink hippogriffs I hallucinated because the potion was lousy," said Oliver. "Do you have an uncontrollable urge to burst into a song?"
"Last Christmas I gave him my heart." Harry sang. "But the very next day he chopped it away. Into a foul and disgusting potion."
Oliver laughed but then sobered. "I understand where Alicia is coming from," he said. "I would probably suspect me too. Yesterday, I accused her of inviting me only to make her ex jealous, and in the morning, the ex is dead."
"You had an argument?" Harry asked.
"Nothing serious. It was expected, after all. I sidelined Alicia so many times in the past; I can't expect our relationship to be just like before. When you don't pay attention to your goalposts, somebody else will score in them."
"True," Harry said. The thought of his own relationships doomed before the start because he sidelined them for his job dampened the urge to snicker at Oliver's trademark Quidditch comparisons.
"So I might've wanted to whack Smith's bald head with a Beater Bat when they were together, but I did nothing then and certainly wouldn't now when they broke up already. Alive, the wanker would only need to run his fat mouth again to put off Allie for good, and he'd've done it in no time."
"Have you seen anything suspicious when you came down?" Harry asked.
"No, I haven't. There was light coming from the Great Hall, but the door was half-closed. I didn't look, even silenced my sneakers in case it's McGonagall."
"McGonagall?"
"I didn't want to get Alicia in trouble with her."
Harry remembered what Filch said about the door rattling seemingly by itself. This must have been Oliver. So far, the story checked out. Of course, he could have done anything earlier without being heard, but Harry was inclined to believe in him. This left two other people involved. Even if one of them was a mystery man from the library, the other person had to be among the people he had spent this day with, and Harry was no closer to determining who it was.
Oliver headed to the Gryffindor Tower, and Harry made a mental note to make a visit there as well at a later date to check Smith's room. Regardless of his suspicions, the last thing he wanted was to have Oliver or Alicia hover over his shoulder. Or run to McGonagall who might not be overly thrilled about his initiative.
So instead, Harry found himself back in the dungeons. He told himself that the only reason for this trip was to see David, but his feet slowed down to a leisurely walk at the portrait of Paracelsus. What was Snape doing right now? Despite his outward apathy to the suspicion of his colleagues, he must have been feeling the Damocles' sword of it over his head all the time. Harry found himself searching for an excuse to talk to Snape this evening, even though he doubted that he would be welcome, even with his Christmas serenade ready. Especially with the Christmas serenade.
"Please notify me of anything of suspect you might see," Harry heard Snape say from around the corner.
"Of course, Severus," another male voice answered, echoey and low.
Harry ventured out to see who Snape was talking to, and came face to face with the Bloody Baron floating off in clanging of his ghostly chains. The spectre did not slow down, coming right through Harry instead. Harry shivered violently at the feeling of a bucketful of ice pouring down his body. He thought it was impossible for the dungeons to get even colder, but apparently, he was wrong.
"Potter? What are you doing here?" Snape asked.
"I w-was g-going to talk to D-david," Harry said, teeth chattering.
"Whatever you wish to discuss with him can be discussed with me as his Head of House."
That was not how it worked, but Harry was not going to argue, especially when Snape murmured his password to Paracelsus and motioned for Harry to come in. Maybe he was not so unwelcome, after all.
The rush of warmth enveloped him as soon as he entered, half magic and half cheery hearth Harry had spotted yesterday. He looked around curiously. The living room had the air of masculine coziness to it, one that came from the well-worn leather of the sofa rather than knick-knacks on the mantelpiece. It was filled with all kinds of books, heavy leather tomes and muggle paperbacks. One shelf was stacked with records, and Harry noticed an old-fashioned record player on the coffee table. A potions journal laid open on an armchair, an inkwell and a quill hovering just above. Next to the small kitchenette, the window showed the lights of the mermish town, distant and pale in the dark waters of the lake. There was no Christmas tree, not even a single branch of mistletoe in sight.
"No decorations?" Harry grinned.
"I abhor such frivolities," said Snape.
It must not have been entirely true, as there was a framed black-and-white photo of a woman and a child standing in front of a Christmas tree outside a big department store, big letters LEWIS'S illuminated over their heads. Her rather dingy coat looked like a witch's cloak, shortened to look as per fashion muggles would wear at the time. She beamed at the camera, while the kid at her side, no older than eight or nine, scowled from under his knitted hat.
Coming over to the fireplace, Harry smiled at the picture, and Snape, noticing the direction of his look, waved his hand to turn it around. For a moment, his expression was identical to his younger self. Harry found it rather, dared he say it, adorable, but made sure to push the outrageous thought to the back of his mind. Should Snape ever hear it, Harry's body would never be found.
He wondered if Snape ever smiled like his mother on that photo. The honest joy made her face look almost attractive. Snape did not have much happiness in his life, but then again, Eileen Prince probably had not either.
"If you're quite finished gawking around." Snape said, settling down onto the armchair and leaving Harry the sofa.
"It smells rather Christmassy here, though," Harry said, breathing in the cinnamon and nutmeg scent wafting in the room. He looked over to the kitchenette where a cauldron was simmering on the stove. Had Snape set out to bottle Christmas spirit? And probably succeeded, too.
Snape huffed but did not otherwise acknowledge the statement. "What did you want Mr. Shaw for?" he asked instead, getting straight to business. "If you're suspecting the boy because of his House affiliation—"
Harry wished Snape would not interpret everything he did or said in the worst way possible. "I don't. But he was acting weird when I brought up Smith. I doubt he poisoned his Uncle, but he might have seen something."
"I've had a talk with the boy after I returned from the staffroom," Snape said after a moment of hesitation.
"Did he tell you anything?" Harry leaned forward slightly.
"I fact, he did not."
"But—?"
"Why do you think there's a 'but' here?"
"I can hear it in your tone."
"And when did you become an expert in that?"
He sighed in exasperation. "Just tell me what you learned, please."
Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. "You must understand Mr. Shaw's feelings for Smith, which are more than justified."
"Smith never acknowledged their relation and, if I ever knew anything about the man, was a dick about it. And then David blamed Smith for what happened with his sister."
"Correct. Public accusations were thrown, which some might interpret as threats. Especially in the view of Smith's subsequent demise."
"Alicia told me about that."
"Does she believe he and I are working together?" Snape asked with a derisive snort. "Watch out, Potter, she'll soon claim I'm using potions to gain your trust."
"If these potions smell half as good as whatever you've got here, I'll take my chances." Harry said with a nod to the cauldron. "David's behaviour is understandable in that situation and not enough of a reason to suspect him. Especially since I was the real target."
"The boy doesn't know that."
"So he's afraid he'll be blamed?"
"He is."
He thought back to the conversation and Snape's cryptic tone. That could not be all there was to it. "Is there's something else he's not telling?"
Snape got up and went to the kitchenette, waving his wand over the cauldron. "Before coming to the Hospital Wing in the morning, he went into the Great Hall."
"So he saw Smith?"
"Mr. Shaw saw him lying face down on the table and the overturned goblet from the doors, decided he was drunk, and left," he said with his back to Harry.
"This is what he told you?"
"As I said, he told me nothing."
"You read his mind!" Harry accused. For a wild moment, he was sure Snape was aware of every inappropriate thought Harry had about him before remembering that his mental defences, admittedly rather feeble, were nevertheless enough to detect an intrusion. He scrunched his face in an attempt to strengthen them.
Snape watched him over his shoulder in amusement, undoubtedly aware of what Harry was doing. "As I once told you, Legilimency is not as simple as a muggle concept of mind-reading." Obeying his hand, two tall glasses flew from the cupboard, and the ladle poured milky-white liquid from the cauldron into them. "In this case, the memory was on the forefront of his mind, all but projecting itself to any halfway-competent Legilimens."
"Did you check others?"
"The staff is aware of my abilities. Anything other than surface-level Legilimency can be detectable even without Occlumency shields, and some of my colleagues do have those. And despite Albus's liberal use of the art, invasion of the mind is considered an attack equivalent to drawing a wand and firing an offensive spell."
"But you used it on David?"
"I did not ransack his mind, if that is what you're asking. I probed lightly, and that gave me an opening for the conversation."
"I can just imagine how it went."
"Surprisingly good, all things considered." Snape returned to his armchair, two glasses and a scotch bottle floating beside him. He topped a generous amount of amber liquid in his own and looked questioningly at Harry.
"Thanks," Harry nodded to the addition and took the proffered glass of fragrant milky-white liquid.
Their fingers met, and Harry suppressed a shiver. Snape's gaze did not betray anything as he held it for a long moment, and for the first time, Harry wondered if Snape felt it as well. Was it possible that the man was interested? Harry's eyes travelled to the loose collar of Snape's black robe that revealed the faded scar. It had been unvaryingly done up since Harry came to Hogwarts the day before. For his usual prickly self, Snape was rather amenable, putting his guards down and treating him to a drink in his personal quarters.
Harry gave himself a mental kick. He that was reading too much into what was definitely wishful thinking. Snape just wanted to talk about the murder, because the sooner they solved the mystery, the fewer problems with the Aurors he would have.
To cover his sudden embarrassment, Harry tried the drink. With the first creamy sip, warmth and content settled around him like a blanket. "Good stuff. Your eggnog is better than Molly's."
"High praise indeed," Snape said, bringing his own glass to his thin lips.
Harry wondered what Snape would do if Harry were to lick the sadly non-existent eggnog smears from them. Probably eviscerate him on the spot.
With a Herculean effort, he remembered what they had been talking about, and that served as enough of a cold shower to get back to the conversation. "So you didn't read other teachers' minds," he said. "What about Oliver?"
Snape huffed. "Wood's mind is all Quidditch. If I didn't know better, I'd say it's an elaborate Occlumency technique."
"He admitted he tried to leave earlier in the morning, and it checks out with what Filch said. So we need to find the two other people. It's unclear if the second one is an accomplice, though." Harry frowned. "But if they aren't, why not say something?"
"People lie and keep quiet for all kinds of reasons, Miss Marple."
"Stop calling me that," Harry said half-heartedly, because the drink in his hand was too damn delicious to get truly angry with its creator. "Why can't I be, I don't know, Hercule Poirot instead?"
"Why would you want to?" Snape looked at Harry as if he was an idiot. "That one was the most insufferable know-it-all to ever exist in literature."
"The moustache was neat, though."
"If you ever grow one like that, I will feed you poison. For the sake of humanity."
Harry laughed, leaning back on the sofa. As a single, childless Healer, he usually spent holiday season on long shifts at the hospital, and before he agreed to stand in for Poppy, this year was not going to be an exception. Despite accusing Snape of having no decorations, Harry had not bothered to put up any himself for years, content with his share of Christmas cheer between the Burrow and Andromeda and Teddy's house. How curious that Snape would be the one to reintroduce the simple comfort of eggnog and easy banter at the fireplace to his life, he thought. Or maybe it was not so strange after all. Of all the things that could bring them to this room together, sharing a friendly, festive drink, murder coupled with a magical storm sounded about right.
A/N: Thank you for all the lovely reviews!
