Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters in this story (more's the pity--they could help pay my student loans) except for Eve Berger. Nor did I come up with the plot of PoA, and the scenes and dialogue included in that fab book, which I humbly reproduce at certain points herein. All that belongs to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury, Raincoast, Scholastic...the list goes on!
A/N: As usual, thanks ever to my beta, Joan, aka "Hyacinth Macaw". Four years of insanity and still going strong, eh Jo? :-)
Also, the soundtrack for this chapter is Mannheim Steamroller's "Silent Night" and "O Holy Night", "Ice Dance" from Edward Scissorhands and the Trans-Siberian Orchestra's "Christmas Canon"--mainly used those for the Christmas morning bits. Rather ironic considering spring weather is finally upon us, and I think I have a sunburn already.
Again, the mental image I had of the cracker-pulling scene was inspired by one of Nasubionna's works, at www.nasubionna.net. Her depiction of Snape's expression in this scene is priceless!
Oh, and something I forgot to mention in past chapters--the name of the wizarding murder mystery author Eve likes is a reference to a Muggle mystery author. Ten points to the house of whoever can tell me the real author. (Except you, Jo--that would be cheating! :-)
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Chapter 10: Simple Gifts
Eve woke uncharacteristically early the next morning, consciousness resurfacing just moments before her alarm clock went off. She groped blindly for it for a moment before she finally grabbed it and stopped the shrill ringing before it could wake up the rest of the house.
Erik rolled over on her bed, his steady purring pausing only for a moment before he was well and truly asleep again. He'd woken her a few hours earlier when he'd returned from his late-night prowling around Gryffindor Tower. However, it wasn't until the moment she put on her glasses that she realized he'd brought her a Christmas present, thoughtfully dropped next to her pillow.
"Eurgh!" Eve sat straight up, recoiling from the tiny rodent corpse that had been dropped on her duvet. The action had woken Erik, and he stood, stretching with feline grace before seating himself next to his prize. The expression on his face made it clear that he expected her to go into raptures about his catch.
"Ugh. Next time why don't you just eat it?" Eve picked up the mouse by its tail and, holding it away from her as if she expected it to attack, walked over to the window and dropped it outside, making a brief check that Filch wasn't walking around below. Not that she would have minded it landing on him, but she didn't want to spend Christmas Day being yelled at by Filch.
She turned back to her bed, and only then noticed that there were presents heaped at the end of it. Wondering for a moment how they'd got there, she walked back over and looked at the tags, feeling a small pang of homesickness. She pushed the thought of Christmases with her family out of her mind, however, and after a moment's deliberation, scooped the parcels into the basket she kept her knitting in and stepped out into the corridor. Listening for a moment outside her door to make sure she hadn't woken Hermione, she walked down to the common room, taking care not to make any further noise. Erik followed closely at her heels and settled into her lap as she sat in one of the armchairs by the Christmas tree. The lights on the tree had lit themselves as she'd entered the room and a low fire started in the fireplace, but other than that, the room was dark and silent.
This was a little tradition she had; always the first to wake on Christmas morning, she'd tiptoe downstairs and turn on the tree lights, sitting in their yellow glow and opening her stocking while she waited for everyone else to rise.
She sat in front of the tree for a few minutes before turning to the parcels, and began to open them. Her surviving grandparents had sent two warm jumpers and a new pair of flannel pyjamas, to "keep you warm in that draughty castle." Her parents had also sent a number of books (somehow they had been able to purchase a few more of the wizarding murder mysteries she liked), as well as a few sweets (it was the first time she'd had a taste of Cadbury's Dairy Milk since August) and a wad of Muggle cash ("I'd send wizard currency, but it would be awfully heavy--I assume you can get these notes changed?" her Mum had written). After donning one of her pullovers--a nice, thick, Aran-knit--she put the gifts aside and stared at the tree for a while, absent-mindedly dangling a catnip toy just out of the reach of Erik's paws. She had to wonder what the day would be like--were wizard Christmases any different than Muggle ones? In some ways she hoped it wouldn't be too different. She wasn't sure whether she'd feel more homesick if she was surrounded by the same traditions or if there was nothing that was the same.
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Snape also woke early that Christmas morning. The Dreamless Sleep potion he'd been working on had managed to keep his usual nightmares at bay for most of the night, but around six-thirty he woke with a start. The dreamland image of a Dementor bending over him to administer the fatal kiss, You-Know-Who's laughter ringing in the background, was still fresh in his mind and for a moment he panicked, throwing the bed-curtains open and staring around the room as though looking for attackers.
The sleepiness cleared and Snape realized where he was and that he was alone. He also realized that apparently his potion hadn't quite worked. He would need to tinker with it, try and make its effects last longer, as well as allow the sleeper to fully wake more quickly than he had.
Wide-awake now and somewhat irritated at himself for having reacted in such a way, Snape climbed out of bed and walked into his ensuite bathroom, his heart still beating a little faster than was normal due to the nightmare. He showered (despite the students' comments, he did bathe--he just didn't care enough to fuss over his appearance), dressed, then took down his encyclopaedias of potion ingredients and began calculating which ingredients could have their dosage increased safely.
He had almost forgotten what day it was until he glanced over at his empty fireplace and saw a stocking hanging there, a few parcels placed on the mantel. Oh, yes. Christmas. Silently he thanked whatever gods still showed him any mercy that there were so few students at Hogwarts this Christmas. The last thing he wanted to hear was the constant shrieking and mirth that holidays brought. If the rumours he'd heard were true, he wouldn't have any such reprieve next year.
Marking his page, he rose from his desk and walked over to the fireplace, snatching the stocking from its hook and hefting the somewhat weighty packages into his arms.
Carrying the lot back to his desk, he tipped the contents of the stocking out onto the desktop. It contained the usual sort of small tokens the teachers exchanged. A charmed keychain that ran after you and squeaked if you forgot it from Flitwick; his yearly horoscope from Trelawney (he put it in his desk against the day he needed a good laugh); a new set of black chessmen from McGonagall (she was positively ruthless when it came to chess: how could she have been a Gryffindor and not a Slytherin, with the way she played?); some dried mugwort seeds from Sprout; a couple rock cakes from Hagrid (Could come in handy if I break another pestle this year, Snape thought); a broomstick servicing kit from Hooch (she had been nagging him about the state of his broomstick, this from the woman who polished hers after every flight); as well as a few others from the rest of the staff.
The small gifts put to one side, Snape turned to the packages, knowing without looking at the tags that they were from Dumbledore. The Headmaster was rather generous at Christmastime, though Snape had told him more than once that he didn't need the gifts. He had the feeling that the generosity toward him stemmed from the fact that the Headmaster knew that no one else was.
The largest box held a new, utilitarian-looking set of scales, a useful gift as his old ones were getting somewhat unreliable. At least the Headmaster had given him a set that was obviously designed for much use. He'd been unable to find any in Hogsmeade that weren't elaborately ornamented, for show only. The second parcel held two thick potions books, very old, rare editions he'd been trying to get his hands on for ages. He couldn't help but wonder how Dumbledore had managed it, or even known that he wanted them. Then again, Snape had long since ceased questioning how the Headmaster "knew things". He'd never been entirely sure whether Dumbledore was clairvoyant or just a very good observer of human nature. Snape tended to favour the latter.
He didn't even have to open the last parcel to have a good idea of what it contained. Doubtless it would be the same as every other year. Tearing off the wrapping paper, he opened the Gladrags' box to find a set of robes in a very dark green; close to black, but not quite.
Snape sighed. The Headmaster did this every year, gently teasing him at every Christmas dinner about him never varying even the colour of his over-robes. Snape let him get away with it because he knew that Dumbledore never expected him to change, though the older man never stopped trying, either. The fact was that, like the rest of his appearance, Snape didn't really care what he wore and having an all-black wardrobe meant he never had to spare a thought for what he was going to wear. Besides, black fit his usual mood. He'd rather undergo hours of the Cruciatus Curse before he wore anything colourful, and the day he started dressing anything like last year's Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, that bouffant buffoon Lockhart, would be the day that they could lock him up with said numbskull in St. Mungo's.
Pushing the gifts aside he turned his attention back to his book and his work, thinking of nothing else until he could ignore the rumbles of his stomach no longer and headed up to the Great Hall for Christmas dinner.
He was greatly disappointed to only see the one table set up for dinner. Even though there were so few students remaining at the school for Christmas, he had hoped that Dumbledore would at least have had separate tables for the staff and students. But no, instead he was expected to sit with the same lackwits he had to see every day of the school year.
Most of the company hadn't arrived yet so Snape sat down across from Flitwick, thanking him for his gift before looking down the table at the other occupants that had arrived so far.
Only two of the six students that could be expected to join them were actually on time: one of the fifth-year Slytherins, Salacia Wyvern, and Eve Berger. Snape nodded at Salacia, noticing that she didn't look particularly pleased to be there. She'd mentioned to him a few days earlier that she was angry at her parents for deciding to go on a "second honeymoon" for the holidays, as they'd been married on Boxing Day twenty years previous. Of course that plan obviously excluded their daughter from coming along, and she'd made her disappointment well-known when she'd broken the nose of a fellow Slytherin stupid enough to tease her about it. Snape had made it seem as though only the fact that the holidays were nearly upon them was reposnsible for him giving her a stern talking-to rather than a detention.
Truthfully, he hadn't punished her because he could sympathize. The Wyverns had always stuck him as being about as concerned with their daughter as his parents had been with their son; that was to say, not at all, unless their children were being an annoyance.
Snape barely glanced at Eve, noticing that she was looking rather low in spirits as well, though she was trying to put the Gryffindor "brave face" on it. She'd looked more mopey with every passing day, so he couldn't imagine why she was suddenly trying to cover it up. So you can't go home to Mummy and Daddy this year. Deal with it, he'd thought more than once, but hadn't said anything. While punishment for wrongdoing was certainly within his jurisdiction, mentioning something like that would be crossing into Minerva's territory.
A Hufflepuff first-year scurried in, followed closely by the rest of the teachers: Dumbledore, Sprout and McGonagall, as well as Filch who was surprisingly unaccompanied by Mrs. Norris. Snape checked his watch and irritably looked over at the three still-empty chairs just down the table. Potter and friends late again. Why did that not surprise him? He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible, and besides, dinner did smell quite wonderful.
The Terrible Trio finally trouped in, Miss Granger not looking very happy about something, though both boys sported wide grins. Snape would have liked to reach out and hex the smile off Potter's face, but managed to restrain himself.
"Merry Christmas!" Dumbledore crowed as the latecomers took their seats, "As there are so few of us, it seemed foolish to use the house tables...sit down, sit down!" He turned to a stack of Christmas crackers and plucked a large, silver one off the pile.
"Crackers!" he said gleefully, and offered the other end to Snape, a mischievous grin twitching at the headmaster's lips.
Snape sighed and took the end, wondering if Dumbledore really had to be so damned cheery. He rolled his eyes upward to the enchanted ceiling and gave the end of the cracker a sharp tug. With a loud BANG!, bits of tissue paper and cardboard fluttered to the tabletop before vanishing. Snape saw Berger jump at the noise out of the corner of his eye, her eyes widening at the loudness of the noise. Used to those cheap, Muggle crackers, obviously, which barely made a "pop!" if they went off at all.
A witch's hat topped with a stuffed vulture popped out of the cracker, and Snape glanced up at Dumbledore as he pushed the hat away. He knew, just knew, from the expression on Dumbledore's face that the fact the hat looked like the one Longbottom had made the boggart wear was no coincidence. Dumbledore often told Snape that he shouldn't take himself so seriously, and Snape supposed that this was the headmaster's effort at that sort of humour. Snape certainly didn't seem to think it was all that funny, though he knew others did. He could see Potter and Weasley trying to stifle their laughter and doubly wished he could have hexed them both.
They had just begun to serve themselves when the doors to the Great Hall opened and Sybill Trelawney sailed in, her sequinned dress twinkling in the sunlight. Snape hardly paid any attention to her blithering about how she'd seen herself joining them in her crystal ball. At least that was until Dumbledore conjured a chair for her right in between McGonagall and Snape. Things just kept getting better and better. As though he wanted to spend the entire meal listening to the lunatic ravings of that daft old fraud. The fact that he held Divination in little esteem was only part of the reason he disliked Trelawney, her airy-fairy attitude was the rest.
Trelawney let out a muffled shriek and exclaimed, "I dare not, Headmaster! If I join the table, we shall be thirteen! Nothing could be more unlucky! Never forget that when thirteen dine together, the first to rise will be the first to die!"
There was a near-simultaneous rolling of eyes around the table--Snape could see McGonagall, Sprout, Berger, Potter, Weasley and Granger do it nearly in unison.
"We'll risk it Sybill," McGonagall said shortly, "Do sit down, the turkey's getting stone cold."
Trelawney made a face as though she was sitting on a hedgehog as she lowered into her seat, her eyes closed and lips pinched together.
"Tripe, Sybill?"
Snape had to bite back a snort. Minerva was in fine form, apparently. Perhaps this would be an interesting dinner after all.
Trelawney had opened her eyes by this time, and looked around the table. "But where is dear Professor Lupin?" she asked, eyes wide under her thick glasses.
"I'm afraid the poor fellow is ill again. Most unfortunate that it should happen on Christmas Day," Dumbledore replied.
"But surely you already knew that, Sybill?" McGonagall said, innocently.
"Certainly I knew, Minerva. But one does not parade the fact that one is all-knowing. I frequently act as though I am not possessed of the Inner Eye, so as not to make others nervous."
McGonagall's response was sharp. "That explains a great deal."
Snape nearly choked on his mouthful of turkey. As it was, he had to grab his napkin to hide the smile that he was having a hard time controlling. He glanced at Dumbledore to see the headmaster give him a somewhat stern look, a warning not to say what older man knew he was thinking, though within a second, Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling merrily behind his spectacles once again.
Trelawney was still blithering on about Lupin, "He positively fled when I offered to crystal gaze for him--"
"Imagine that," McGonagall interrupted.
This time Snape did choke and had to give a sort of muffled cough and take a drink before he could reasonably compose himself.
Dumbledore raised his voice to cover Snape's choking and to signify that the argument was over. "I doubt that Professor Lupin is in any immediate danger. Severus, you've made the potion for him again?"
Snape cleared his throat slightly, using all his willpower to keep from so much as chuckling aloud when he answered in the affirmative. Dumbledore changed the subject, and they continued eating without any more caustic comments from anyone.
The meal was actually fairly pleasant, considering. Snape resolutely ignored Trelawney and the students, and talked with Flitwick and Dumbledore when the mood struck him. The food was excellent as usual, the house elves having outdone themselves yet again, and all in all he had to admit it was a relatively comfortable meal, even if some of his table mates seemed to be in deplorably high spirits. He was, however, glad to see that Potter and Weasley were the first to leave, though he didn't place much hope in Trelawney's dire predictions that one of them would be the first to die of those at the table, unfortunately.
Well, perhaps he didn't hope that, really. As much as he might occasionally think he wanted to kill Potter, he had, instead, spent the last few years doing his best to save the little prat's life. He hadn't yet decided if it was for any reason other than obligation. Ah, irony, Snape thought as he watched the two Gryffindors walk away from the table, both chuckling at Minerva's comment about mad axe-men lurking in the Entrance Hall. The one child I'd like to strangle the most is the very one we need. God help us all, in that case. As much as Snape hated the thought, he knew that Potter would play a large role in the future, when the Dark Lord reared his (literally) ugly head again.
The rest of the company stayed for a little while, talking and trying to get up the momentum to get their full stomachs out of their chairs and waddle out of the Great Hall. Snape left Dumbledore and McGonagall talking to Berger. Salacia Wyvern had stalked out a few minutes earlier, scowling even more than she had before dinner, and he wanted to make sure she wasn't destroying the Slytherin common room in a fit of pique. Luckily for him she was simply sulking by the fire and he retired to his rooms for the rest of the day, foregoing tea in the Great Hall, and leaving the turkey sandwiches that the house elves brought him untouched on his desk. The thought of eating anything turkey-related for the next month made his stomach turn; or perhaps that was the chipolatas disagreeing with him. Either way, he wasn't at all hungry by tea-time, and so he had to endure the sighs of one of the house elves when they came to fetch the plate and found it full. Just his luck he'd entered his office just as the house elf had nipped in; usually they stayed well out of sight.
His Christmas gifts were still sitting on his desk and he went about putting them away. He had always been a neat, methodical person, thanks to his mother's neurotic cleanliness, and it was a trait that had certainly helped in his field. As it was, he hated disorder and the sight of a pile of things sitting on his desk immediately made his cleaning instinct kick in.
The last gift to be put away was the robe that Dumbledore had given him. Snape looked at it for a moment, the familiar question of why the Headmaster even bothered running through his head.
However you might try, Albus, you can't change me. I can't change my personality any more than I can change my past, he thought, before hanging the robe with the others Dumbledore had given him, in the back of the wardrobe, to be forgotten.