What does Severus Snape do during the holidays when everyone else is enjoying themselves? A short story.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.K.Rowling and I merely borrowed them for a bit of fun whilst I wait desperately for the fifth book to finally be published. Also, no harm is meant to Christmas, I simply wrote this story to focus on a character who is unhappy with the holiday.
A quick, clipped footstep rang out through the otherwise silent meanderings of the dungeons, echoing against the damp stone of the walls and floor of the tight, twisting hallways. The black robes that billowed with the footsteps contrasted with the cheery torchlight that flickered and danced, shuddering as if from chill as the figure passed them by indifferently. The tall, slender man glared darkly at the happy miniature fires, his sallow skin tightening around his dark, glittering eyes. They were the same fires that had been there the month before and the month before that, but this month every thing took on a whole new meaning – an unendingly cheery meaning at that. At this time of year even the pesky rats in the potions cupboard seemed jolly. He scowled as a suit of armor broke into a bouncing rendition of "Ding Dong Merrily On High" when he passed it by. Damn enchantments.
Christmas. What does it mean to wizards anyway? It idolizes a man, who may or may not be real, who merely did what any wizard could do. And muggles call him a worker of miracles. He supposed they just used the holiday for an excuse to take off work, eat too much, and drink too much. Be "merry", as they call it.
Visit their family, a nagging voice said in his head, but he didn't listen. He shut it out, and tried to pretend it had never been there. He walked into the Great Hall, passing by the student tables with a look that dared them to try to speak to him, and sat down to breakfast. And waited…
It would happen sooner or later. It always did. At first it had been Professor McGonagall, until she'd finally learned her lesson, and thereafter it had been Sprout and Flitwick, who had made an agreement to put him in the Yuletide cheer. As of late it was mostly Hagrid, but Snape thought he might even have the kindly giant broken of the habit by now. Still, he kept up his silent guard. And then, just as he'd suspected, it happened.
An unconventionally pretty young woman, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, sat down on his right. As if in slow motion she turned towards him, full of the cheerfulness wrought by the blasted, wasteful holiday, and began to speak. Why did they always have to ask? Wasn't it obvious? Did he need to post a sign on the bulletin board: "Attention Hogwarts Staff: Professor Snape will not be taking part in any of the traditional Christmas ceremonies this year. Don't ask!" He glanced up at her, preparing himself for the blast.
"Happy Christmas, Severus. I hope the break is treating you well," she said pleasantly, and waited for his reaction. Instead, he simply stared at her, unable to formulate a response that could incorporate all at once his disdain for the holiday and for her cheery outlook, while still taking into account the fact that she had actually expressed a hope for his pleasure, which was strange to say the least. But then, being silent would only make her ask questions. She would ask why he seemed quiet, and then tell him how joyous the holiday was and try to make him "see the light". Quick, man, say something! Cut her down! Stop her now! However, when she got no response the woman merely turned undaunted back to her meal, completely oblivious to the potions master's internal struggle.
He sat in shock. No questions about his family, his holiday plans, no half-hearted explanations or mumbles of sympathy. But maybe he'd been mistaken in thinking that those conversations was the worst part of the retched holiday. This simple announcement of good wishes without any kind of request for attentions in return seemed much, much worse indeed. People weren't supposed to actually enjoy this godforsaken holiday just for the heck of it! They were supposed to be greedy little mongrels looking for attention and gifts and…and food! They were supposed to be nothing but lazy buffoons who didn't want to work or act responsibly for two and a half weeks while they demand that everyone be perfectly polite and friendly to them. People just weren't supposed to be happy for the sake of being happy! Damn her!
He spent the rest of his meal glaring at his lunch and playing with his fork. Finally he stood from the table and stalked from the noisy chatter of the larger room and into the piercing quiet of the Entrance Hall. He stood in internal debate by the doors, knowing that he had papers to grade and was expected to help with the preparation of the Yule Ball. But why should he have to work when everyone else absolutely refused? Why should he help with preparations for a ball that he didn't want to go to in the first place? Instead, he summoned his cloak, and made way to Hogsmeade, thinking as he walked.
Why did practical men like Dumbledore have to demean themselves by celebrating this decrepit holiday anyway? Wasting good intelligence in order to be mindless and jolly, happy without cause. Besides that, it meant two weeks off from schooling that might be well spent furthering the education of the mostly incompetent students who needed all the guidance they could get in his class. And what of the superficial pretense of giving gifts? The practice was completely vulgar, just a great wasteful swapping of money that could go towards things that really matter. What was the point? Silly holiday…foolish wizards who celebrate it…ridiculous saying, really, 'happy Christmas'. We don't say 'happy Thursday' or 'happy 2nd of March'…
He stopped in front of Three Broomsticks long enough to wipe the slush of snow from his boots and went inside. He ignored the very few inhabitants of the tables and took a seat by the bar, far away from any of the other customers and still very close to the whiskey. He glanced around the room, looking for people he knew (to avoid them of course), and was not surprised to see that the bar was almost empty. Even Madam Rosmerta was not present, and seemed to have left someone in her charge, a chubby man that Severus did not recognize. The barkeep decided to warn him - just out of the generosity of his own heart, Severus thought sarcastically - that the restaurant would be closing early today so that people could go home and be with their families. Severus curled his lip disdainfully and ordered a drink. He didn't need to hear the life stories of talkative barroom staff.
"Sshhtupid Chrisshmas…blurry Dubblydoor…"
Severus stumbled through the deepening snow with difficulty, wrapping his cloak tighter around him as his the slicing wind cut into the fabric of his robes. The snow had stopped falling, for the moment at least, and that helped with the cold some, but the firewhiskey's warmth had long ago worn off and his fingertips were beginning to become numb. Or maybe that was a sign of the firewhiskey not wearing off…
He finally made it to the heavy double doors of the hall and opened them very awkwardly, stepping gratefully into the warmth of the Entrance Hall and hoping beyond hope that all of the preparations for the Ball were already done. Luckily, the decorating seemed to be complete, and everyone was in their rooms getting ready for the big event. He scowled lethargically and walked carefully to the Great Hall. If he could just sit down and not have to stand up again he should be all right for the evening. If he could find his seat and stay there for the rest of the night –
He began to swoon, the room swimming before his eyes while his eyelids suddenly became very heavy. He caught himself before the dizziness took over, and forced himself on towards his seat.
Blasted rearranging of the room. You can hardly gather your wits about you when they've got the room moved around like it is. As he took a particularly jarring step it suddenly seemed as if all the candles that lit the interior of the room flared and burned brighter. He winced and looked down, pausing in his journey to raise a hand to his eyes. Just a few more steps to his chair. He took the last three steps quickly and landed heavily in the seat, the wood creaking its complaint at being treated so roughly. He looked around with a bleary expression. He knew he was there far too early, and that it would draw attention to his situation, but he didn't care. He couldn't make it all the way to his room in this condition, and even if he could Dumbledore would send for him to come and join the festivities anyway. So he sat and stared unfocused at the room around him. The many lights that danced about the room made him feel dazed and light-headed. He wondered what started the tradition of decorating in that manner. What do lights have to do with anything? And trees, for that matter? And the wrapping of presents, why on earth don't you just give it to them the morning of and to hell with wrapping it? They're going to find out what it is eventually anyway. It made no sense to him.
He jumped as a face with bespectacled eyes suddenly appeared very close to Severus' face, looking for everything like an overlarge insect for a split second. On second glance he realized that the thing was human after all, and was peering into his cloudy eyes with a look of concern, one that was tainted with the deepest flecks of stern reprobation.
"You look awful," Professor McGonagall said to him.
"Thank you," Severus snarled, and attempted to keep himself from tottering on his chair.
McGonagall's lips were pursed in a straight line. "You can't be around the children in this condition."
Severus suddenly had the uncontrollable urge to laugh. He couldn't stop himself, as the cold laughter bubbled up inside his chest and radiated forth from all too willing lips as McGonagall's eyes flashed angrily. Severus tried again, unsuccessfully, to stop the flood of laughter from escaping his mouth, but in a sick twist of irony his laughter refused to die down. A few rogue tears watered his eyes as he doubled over in undying chuckles of amusement.
But just as suddenly as the urge to laugh came over him, it left, and he felt nothing but emptiness, except for the faint beginnings of a very bad headache. He rubbed his eyes and his forehead, and looked around him, wondering briefly where he was and why Professor McGonagall was staring at him with such venomous anger. That's right, the children.
"You can trust me around the children, Minerva." Severus said with all the sincerity he could muster out of his daze. She looked at him skeptically, and then pointed her wand at him, "Purus Facies" she said, and though he didn't know what exactly she'd done to him, the muscles in his face seemed to feel less sluggish. He almost thanked her, but Professor McGonagall left without another word, apparently disgusted with his behavior.
He scowled. He would celebrate this foolish holiday anyway he wanted to, he mused, and wondered when the house elves would serve the punch.
But just as he looked around for something that would serve as an appropriate vessel for the drink he had hidden away in his robes his eyes caught something breezing into the room. He squinted at it, wondering what it was, and realized it was that confounded DADA woman. Silly twit.
The woman looked over as he was squinting at her, and did the strangest thing. As he sat, hunched over like some feeble old man with his face scrunched up like Master Yoda, she smiled at him. He looked at her very strangely, but she looked away to greet Professor McGonagall and continued on her way. Great waste of fabric, that huge, breezy dress she wore. But…it did look good on her.
He caught himself, and frowned. She wore the dress for some damn fool occasion that no logical wizard would be caught dead attending, and she smiled far too often, if you asked him, and she showed too much of her teeth when she did. Damn fool ball. And yet here you are, said the nagging voice again. Shut up! I have to be here! It's my job!
He stood in defiance of his thoughts, without thinking about it, and as he did a wave of dizziness overcome him without any kind of attempt from him at resistance. He felt himself falling over with a strange kind of detachment from the action, and the room went black.
He awoke in his own bed, at a very late, or rather, early hour of the night judging by the silence of the school. He glanced at the date indicator on the side of the clock, and read the distinct number, 26. As every year, he felt the tension wear off from waiting for that number to click up, and just like every year, where he thought he would feel a great relief come over him at the end of that dreaded holiday he felt only a deep, unexpected feeling of numbness. He turned away from the clock, and tried to go back to sleep, but found that his mind, in its continued rebellion, had other plans. At the moment it appeared to want to go through all of the images of the night before – which Severus would really have preferred to forget entirely. He picked up a pillow and, turning over in bed, stuffed it up to his face as if trying to block out a sound. But his mind would not shut off. It now seemed to incorporate every Christmas he'd ever lived through and reeled with a million images - a sea of brightly lit trees and shining faces, excited children and fireside talks that lasted late into the night, ornaments and caroling and a great wafting dress that blocked out all the rest of the room. He closed his eyes shut with all his might and willed his mind to stop thinking. Again the images continued to speed by, Dumbledore giving him a small gift on his first Christmas as a teacher at Hogwarts, McGonagall staring at him with those worried eyes and inviting him to celebrate with her over the holidays, the anxious look of the bartender who was afraid the drunken potions master might keep him from his wife and children, and the Great Hall filled with bouncing rhythms, sparkling dress robes, punch splashing around in reckless hands, and a girl - a beautiful girl with bright green eyes asking someone to dance. Was he the one she'd asked? He couldn't remember, and then he did. She'd done it out of pity, and then he'd been the laughing stock later for his crime, the crime of stepping up into a world that he didn't belong to, to which he would never belong. He stood up from the bed, trying to rub the spinning memories out of his head. He walked over to his cabinet, and pulled out a dark blue bottle. He undid the cap, and took a large swallow. Sleeping draught; he should be far away from his thoughts within seconds.
Feeling as drunk as ever he had that evening, he stumbled over to his bed and lay down. For a few moments more his mind spun on. A starry night outside the Yule Ball and an old man telling him that if nothing else Christmas was a festival of hope, those bright green eyes apologizing as her friends pulled her away to dance with someone else, a great fluffy dress and a startling smile.
He fell painfully, gratefully, into a dreamless but unsatisfying sleep.