The Gift

Indarae

Parings: Light Luna/Harry nearing the end, but that's not my ship, at all.

Rating: Pg-13, as always, for disturbing imagery and war.

Distribution: Schnoogle, Twisting the Hellmouth, ff.net, or simply email to ask.

Summary: (Severitus' Challenge) The death of Albus Dumbledore leaves a mountain of questions for the Light. Along with Luna, Ginny, Ron, and the unlikely help of a Slytherin, Harry learns that answers often bring hearbreak as the final conflict approaches.

A/N: There've been questions about the family tree: at some point, I'll probably write it all out. I've got a lovely flow chart I've created... but, just so you know, the important parts:

Harry's mum is James Potter's cousin. James's father is Harry's grandfather's twin. And there's a Dark Lord in the family. Beyond that, it's not a big deal. I just really like geneology, and I think the wizarding world would be full of neat bits...

Chapter Seven — Bloody Christmas Spirit

December 25, 1997

"Merry Christmas, wanker!" Blaise exclaimed cheerfully, bouncing onto Harry's beside. Once again, Harry was awakened by a punch to the shoulder.

"Shove off," he muttered, rolling over to pull the pillows over his head. "I don't bloody care."

"Weasley's gone downstairs with Finch-Fletchley already. I think he's trying to ignore you, Potter," Seth said from somewhere across the room. "You managed to sleep through Justin ripping through his gifts and squealing. He's such a pouf."

Harry took the pillows from over his head just long enough to scowl at Seth. "Really, Gregory — you should know better than that. He's been dating Hannah Abbot since my fifth year."

Seth hmphed and pulled a jumper over his head. "I was just joking. No need to spoil the Christmas spirit."

"I don't have any Christmas spirit," Harry proclaimed, pulling the pillows back over his head.

"Hey — don't think I didn't hear what Weasley accused you of," Seth shot back. Harry heard footsteps crossing the room. "Why don't I just leave the two of you alone, then?"

"Bugger off!" Harry called after him, but the mattress muffled his shout.

Finally, Blaise had had enough. He yanked the pillows away and flung them across the room, glaring down at Harry. "If you're not careful, someone's going to guess the truth. I don't know why I didn't see it before — you look just like Snape in the morning, all grumpy. Now what was that all about? Weasley say something to you last night?"

Harry shrugged and attempted to hide beneath his blankets. It didn't work; Blaise only stole those as well. "Well, firstly, he decided you and I have been shagging each other senseless -"

"Really, Potter, he can't be that daft." Blaise grinned and scooted back to lean against one of the posters of Harry's bed. "After all, what would be the fun of shagging someone senseless? Isn't the sense of it what it's all about?"

"Do you want me to talk to you or not?" Harry snapped. "I'm not really in the mood for a heart-to-heart right now, you know. I had a bloody awful dream about Voldemort showing up and all I've got to protect myself is a spoon, a stuffed black rabbit, and a white ferret. And I was stark naked. I'm sure Trelawney could tell me exactly what it meant, but I'm really not wanting to know, at this point."

Blaise's grin faded away as Harry spoke. "Think the ferret was supposed to be Draco? I mean — you said you don't want to talk about it, but maybe it means he's not really gone? Maybe he's a ghost — just hanging around the school, waiting to pop out and make you trip down the stairs and be late to Potions? Or... or..." He sighed and shook his head. "Never mind. I'm not making sense."

Harry sat up, letting his anger fade away. "I'm sure it was just a dream of no importance; probably my subconscious making sure that I won't forget Malfoy. Not like I could. But yes — it's Ron's fault I'm so angry. If he'd just been bothered that we were spending time together, that would've been one thing. I'll admit it: I haven't been spending even half the time with Ron that I usually spend. But then he tried to get me to tell him what was going on. I told him I couldn't — that there were just some things I couldn't tell him and he wouldn't understand." Harry shrugged. "He took it the wrong way, of course. It's Ron, he takes everything the wrong way. And he stormed up here, and I've not talked to him since."

"Don't let it bother you," Blaise said. When Harry looked skeptical, he went on. "It's not his fault that I figured it out and he didn't — and that's what this is all about, right? He's jealous that I know something about you that he doesn't. He needs to grow up. There are more important things to be done than whine about who knows what, don't you think?"

"Yeah... plenty of important things..." Harry muttered.

Blaise frowned, but stuck his hand over the edge of the bed and pulled a present up off the floor. "I already opened mine. And thanks for the book. Where'd you manage to get it? I had to owl order for your present."

He'd picked out a Muggle novel for Blaise, though he'd never admit just what the authors were: Good Omens, by Terry Prachett and Neil Gaiman, a comedy about the end of the world. He thought it was appropriate. "I sent Percy out for it. He was feeling a little bit of cabin fever. I wish we could Apparate, too — it'd make things so much easier."

"Well, go ahead — open it?" Blaise pleaded. It turned out to be Blaise's gift in Harry's hands; and while it was also a book, he was sure Potions for Dummies would be right up his alley. "You'd better learn a few of them, with the Potions Master for a father," Blaise grinned.

There were plenty of other gifts, too: a book about the N.E.W.T.S. from (who else?) Hermione, various wizarding candies from Seamus, Dean, and Neville, a book on curses from Bill and Percy, and a book about Auror training from Tonks. Even McGonagall had sent him something — a photograph of his mother, which she very sternly commanded him in an enclosed letter to keep tucked away. He left the present from Remus a wrapped, to be opened at Remus' side once they knew what was going to happen to him. But there were no presents from Ron or from Ginny — and Harry could see a present still sitting on the floor next to Ron's bed, wrapped in very familiar paper. "I wish she wasn't Ron's little sister," Harry muttered. "He's far too good at convincing her to side with him."

"They'll get over it," Blaise assured him. "Shall we go for breakfast? It's supposed to be special for Christmas. I saw Professor Lupin and Professor Snape hauling in the Christmas tree this year, since — since Hagrid can't do it anymore."

"Did m- Prof- er... damn, Blaise, what am I supposed to call him?" Harry hunched forward burying his face in his hands. "I couldn't possibly call him Dad', that would just be too weird. And Father' is formal — it makes me sound like Malfoy. You know how he always i- was. Father this and father that. And now they're both dead... I can't call him that. He's not just Professor' anymore, though."

"You can't tell anyone, remember? It might be best to just keep calling him professor' all the time, so you won't slip. He'll understand, if he's any sort of father at all." Blaise gave an encouraging smile before hopping off the bed and crossing the room to his, shedding bedclothes as he went. "Now get dressed. I want to get down there before Seth stuffs himself and leaves none for us."

They weren't the last ones to leave Gryffindor Tower — Luna was waiting alone in the Common Room for Harry to appear. She sprang to her feet and smiled. "Merry Christmas, Harry!"

"You're speaking to me?" he asked. After running out of the tower, she hadn't spoken a word in his direction.

She blushed a little, which seemed incredibly out of place for her. "Of course I am. I... I liked your gift — I'll wear it around all the time."

"What'd you get her, Potter, knickers?" Blaise snickered.

Harry spluttered — Blaise was rather good at making him do that, he mused — and Luna gave a superior sniff. "Oh, sod off, Zabini," she said calmly, turning to pick up her current issue of The Quibbler. "Honestly — he gave me a necklace with a phoenix charm on it! It's pretty! What is it about men and women's knickers?!" He spluttered some more. Then again, so did Blaise. He hoped no one had walked in just then — they'd be certain to take that line the wrong way.

Luna sniffed daintily and hooked her arm through Harry's — why did she keep doing that? - producing a little box from her pocket. "Here you are, Harry. Happy Christmas."

He smiled, though a bit confused about the sudden attention from the Ravenclaw, and ripped into the paper — inside the box was a brooch, oddly enough; a simple reddish stone mounted in gold. "Thanks, Luna. I needed something for my cloak."

She leaned her mouth to his ear, ensuring even Blaise couldn't overhear her. "It's a portkey. I had Professor Flitwick help me charm it, even though it's illegal to have an unauthorized Portkey. If something happens, promise me you'll use it. Only your voice will activate it, just press it and say start' and it'll take you to where my father is in hiding. It shouldn't delay more than a moment or two. Promise me you'll use it if you have to?"

"I promise," he murmured, slipping the stone into his pocket. "Thank you, Luna." Blaise made gagging noises as Luna gave Harry a peck on the cheek, and Harry flushed in embarrassment. Harry walked with one arm linked with Luna's and the other hooked over Blaise's shoulder. If it hadn't been for Ron, he would've counted himself truly happy, for once.

~

"I've a few announcements, now that we're all situated and sated," McGonagall called after the sausage, potato waffles, and eggs had been eaten. "The governors were in touch with me yesterday. They've voted, and I have officially been installed as the new Headmistress. I am appointing Severus as my second. As I can no longer be the Head of Gryffindor House, that position falls to another Gryffindor staff member — I will announce it officially at the term-opening dinner, but Percy Weasley will be taking my place in that. He'll be our temporary Transfiguration professor for the rest of the year."

Harry grinned over at Percy, who smiled back tiredly. Ron merely looked horrified. Infirmary,' Percy mouthed. Harry nodded almost imperceptibly, but Blaise caught on. "What was that about?" he muttered, frowning at Harry.

"He's practically family, Blaise," Harry replied. "Even though Ron's being a wanker, his family's always been better to me than mine. I'm sure he just wants to talk. He — er — he doesn't know about You Know What, I'm afraid."

"Ahh," Blaise said shortly, wincing. "Well, he'll be in for a rough surprise, one of these days."

"Who'll be in for a rough surprise?" Ginny asked, peering around Harry.

Blaise smirked. "Your brother, when he walks in on Harry and I naked and covered in chocolate — Ow!" he yelped, as Harry smacked his head.

"Don't listen to him. He's a git," Harry said, leaning over to pat Ginny on the shoulder. "You see, your brother insinuated that — er — Blaise and I are... er..."

Ginny giggled and shook her head. "He told me. He's still positive of it, you know. Well, I suppose that's my fault." She winked. "I told him we were planning a celebratory Christmas threesome. I don't think he took it well."

Harry couldn't stop his jaw from dropping. "Ginny!" he yelped. "You — you -"

"How Slytherin of you!" Blaise shot in, looking equally surprised. "My goodness, Weasley, you're turning out to be as devious as Potter, here! Who'd have thunk it?"

She glowed in the praise, however oddly phrased. "I blame it on six older brothers, you know."

Blaise was about to respond, probably something dirty as he was smirking once more, when a shout from down the table cut him off. "Somebody help!" little Marin Walters, Slytherin first-year, squealed. "I think Professor Trelawney's been poisoned!"

Half a dozen eyes flickered toward Snape — his dislike of Trelawney was as well known as his utter hatred for Gilderoy Lockhart — while Harry lept to his feet and dashed down to help. McGonagall, Percy, and his father all appeared within moments, as well, soon followed by the rest of the teaching staff. "She's not poisoned," Snape pointed out immediately.

"Is she choking?" Professor Sprout asked.

Any reply was cut off by a rasping breath from Trelawney. The voice which came from her mouth was eerily familiar to Harry — and at least an octave too low for the professor to be faking it. "Come the turning of the year, the boy will be no more. Only black can save his life, and only blood can change for right. But the Boy Who Lived — the hero cannot be saved."

It was the same voice which had issued from her only once in his memory — and every word on that occasion had proved true. Harry shrank back and felt a bony hand clasping his shoulder. In the screams and chaos caused by Trelawney's prounouncement, he looked up to see his father lending support silently.

And then Trelawney woke. "Ohh, my," she whispered airly, waving at her cheeks. "Minerva, dear, you really must do something about the heat in here. Please, back away — back away, you're all disturbing my aura!" she pronounced. McGonagall pulled Trelawney up into her chair, murmuring rather loudly that nothing of note had happened and that everyone should calm down. In the commotion, only Ginny and Blaise noticed that Snape leant down to whisper to Harry, and only Harry himself heard what was said. "Don't forget to come for tea. We'll speak of this — I doubt it's as dire as she sounds." He melted back into the shrieking first-years.

"Merry Christmas, indeed," Harry snorted. And then Luna was at his side, reminding him of the portkey he had tucked in his pocket, and Blaise muttered about what a fraud Trelawney was. But across the table, Ron met his gaze — and, as only friends of many years can do, knew with a single glance that it was the truth.

~

He'd been hoping to spend teatime with his father learning all about his mother and his family. He'd been hoping to share stories of his friends, and listen to his father's stories about his school days and secrets about his days as a Death Eater; maybe even the reasons behind it all. He'd been hoping to talk about anything but Trelawney's prediction — especially since he'd been forced to listen to the same tripe all morning and noontime.

"Oh, she's just a batty old fraud," Headmistress McGonagall had muttered, as he sat in her office soon after breakfast. "I know Albus thought she had some talents, but it's obvious she's as fake as Minister Fudge's Dementor-controlling measures. If she wasn't tenured, I'd fire her now." And with that, she shook her finger at Harry. "Don't you dare repeat a word of that, Harry Potter — or whatever your name is — or I'll ensure you're in detention with Filch until you're fifty. And whatever you do, don't believe a word of what she said! I expect to see you in class on January 5th, just like everyone else!"

Tonks hadn't been any more help. "Well, I think she was making the lot of it up, she was just as batty when I was a student, but it's a good reminder of how careful you should be." Sometimes, Harry mused, the woman sounded just like Hermione. Well, just like pre-Seamus Hermione. Now all Hermione sounded like was oh, Seamus, that's so funny!' But Tonks had cautioned him to be especially careful over the next few days, and to stay inside the castle, just in case. "And didn't she say that Black will save your life? Well, that's one more example of how nuts she is. There aren't any Blacks left, less she means me." Though Harry longed for that to be true, he was sure deep in his gut that Trelawney's meaning was entirely different — but he let Tonks hope she could be the one to save him.

And so he sat in his father's office, listening to yet another lecture on Trelawney's obvious sham. "... and if Albus hadn't had so much faith in the bloody bitch, I'm sure someone would've flung her out years ago. Only Albus' memory is keeping Minerva from doing it herself, I'm sure. You'll be fine."

He'd had enough of it. "She's predicted something right before, sir. Dumbledore knew about it — there were two predictions. The first was about my scar. He knew in advance. And he knew I'd be the one to destroy Voldemort; the first of Trelawney's predictions told him that. The second happened in my exam in third year. She predicted that Peter Pettigrew was going to escape and bring Voldemort back. And he did. I'm sorry, sir, but I think she predicted truthfully." He shrugged, as though it didn't matter. But it did. He was terrified. According to the prediction, he had only a week to live.

Snape curled the edge of a slip of parchment around his finger; he'd scribbled down the exact words of the prophecy, before he could forget it. "Well, then, if you're sure this is the truth... shall we attempt to decode it? I doubt her last prophecy was as clear as Pettigrew will raise the Dark Lord.' Am I correct?"

"This one seems straightforward," Harry shrugged, "but yes. The last one didn't make sense until after it all happened."

"Come the turning of the year, the boy will be no more. That doesn't necessarily mean YOUR death, Harry. And the turning of the year isn't necessarily New Year's Day. It could mean in the coming year, a full year from the day of the prediction, one turning of the earth. Or it could mean a solstice or equinox, when the season turns." He seemed to be pulling at straws. Harry slumped into his chair, resigned to another session of being talked down to. "It's the next line that is the center of the whole conundruum, I believe," his father continued. "Only black can save his life, and only blood can change for right. Well, the blood — probably me, yes? Though — Black saving your life seems a bit unusual, as he's been dead for months. Unless he returns from the grave -"

Harry winced, trying not to let the slight to Sirius hurt as much as it did. Of course Snape would still hate Sirius. It wasn't an issue he wanted to tackle, yet. "I don't think black is Sirius. I think it's the other kind of black. The colour. Black can save my life. Dark can save my life. Does that mean Dark Magic?"

Snape froze. "No — I'll not have you toying with — I won't let you make that mistake, do you understand?" He reached across the table and grabbed Harry's shoulder with his good hand, squeezing painfully. "I learned that lesson the painful way. Don't mess with the Dark; it always leaves a mark on you, even if the mark isn't visible."

"You obviously have something Dark in mind?" Harry asked drolly. Snape's eyes flashed guiltily and he drew back, releasing Harry's shoulder and sinking into silence. That was enough to tell Harry he'd hit a truth. "Well, what is it? If it'll save my life, I'll have a go."

"It's nothing specific, anyway," Snape said. "I just — this morning I received a large box from Gringotts. It seems Lucius Malfoy's Will names me as sole beneficiary, now that Draco is dead. They've sent me everything from his vault..." he trailed off, glance flickering toward a drawer. "It all feelsDark. It feels oily. I don't know what any of the artefacts do... they all require years of study, which we don't have. And that's all I thought of; it would be poetic justice to use Lucius' Dark tools against his master, but we can't use them before knowing what precisely they do. We could end up worse than dead."

"The prophecy says the hero can't be saved. Maybe it's because I won't be a hero anymore. Maybe I have to use the Dark to fight the Dark, and I'll win, but it will keep people from honouring me as a hero. I won't miss it, you know." Harry shrugged. "I'd give anything to not be Harry Potter anymore. It's just not the way it'll be."

And Snape smiled hesitantly. "Well, you can always remind yourself that you're not really Harry Potter. I don't know whether that will help you or hinder you... but it's the truth." Snape shifted in his chair. "Whether you use Dark Magic or not, you'll still be their hero, Harry. They need someone to look up to — it used to be Albus. He was a charming and handsome young man, I've been told, and his charisma only grew as he aged. But he's gone now — and if you defeat Voldemort as he defeated Grindelwald, you'll be as powerful as he was. They'll accept anything you say, in the end."

"I don't want it," Harry insisted. "I want to be Harry. Just Harry, nothing more. With a father, and a family, and friends to stand with me when I need them, of course, but without Colin Creevey stalking me to get a photo or wizards stopping me on the street to congratulate me, simply because of a scar on my head. I want Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived to drop off the face of the world!"

"You truly mean it, don't you," his father muttered, peering at him closely. He sighed and gave a shake of his head. "I'm afraid Albus has trapped you in this persona. Once Voldemort is defeated, you could certainly make a few appearance charms permanent and change your name — but in the end, unless the media believes Harry Potter to have died, they'll still be able to track you down."

Harry nodded glumly and poked at the biscuits sitting on a little china plate in front of him. "I'll be careful. I already promised Professor McGonagall and Tonks that. So... may I ask you a few questions, sir? About my- OUR family? Do I have any family left?"

There was a lengthy pause as Snape settled a searching gaze on his son, before giving a quick nod and yanking open a drawer. He pulled out an album and settled it on his lap, doing his best to clear the desk one-handed so as to make room for the photographs. Harry helped. "I suspected you'd be asking soon, so I asked Minerva to aid me in pulling together a few pictures of my family. And I know it's not a very good Christmas gift — but it's all I can give. I can't leave Hogwarts grounds without putting myself in far too much danger."

"I understand," Harry said quickly. "And I think it's lovely. Finding out I've a family that doesn't include the Dursleys may just be the best Christmas present ever."

Snape frowned at that — Harry wondered idly if he blamed himself for Harry's horrid childhood — but he flipped open the first page of the album. "These are your grandparents, Septimus Snape and Merinae Thermopolis. Both sides of our family are Greek; the Snapes came to England with the Romans, and my father met my mother when studying ancient curses at the Apollo Institute in Athens. Snapes, until myself, have always gone back to Greece to find brides. I had a sister, Hermia, who died young. My father was murdered by Julius Potter, in his bid to take my father's position as Voldemort's right hand. I was told, at the time, that his murderer was an Auror. Learning the truth brought me back to the Light — and I will not talk about it anymore, so please don't ask me. I can only try to be a better father to you than he was to me."

"You can't be worse than Vernon Dursley," Harry replied with a shrug. "But if you won't talk about it, how can I learn not to make the same mistakes? I mean, isn't that what -"

"I won't speak of it," his father snapped. He clenched his fist. "He's dead. I'm glad he's dead. Now..." he flipped the page, and closed the subject. "This is Mother's brother, your great-uncle, Petros Thermopolis. He is the last living relative for the both of us. His wife, a Dicaeomer, died in childbirth. The child was a Squib, and she now lives somewhere overseas. He hasn't spoken to her in years, as she cannot exist in our world. As soon as the war is over, I will introduce you to him. He is a guest lecturer at the King Solomon School for Magic in Jerusalem, though he lives in Troy. It's a wizarding town in Greece, not the one in the Iliad."

Harry blinked. The Iliad? What was that? Obviously, it was something important in the wizarding world — so important that his father assumed he knew about it — so he pretended he did. It was better than showing his father how little he really knew. "Right. Er... Great Uncle Petros in Troy, with a Squib daughter. I've got it, sir."

Snape had already flipped the page. "This is Mother's sister, Hesperia -" He paused, finger resting on the edge of the photograph, and peered across the table. "Harry, why are you calling me sir? I- Am I doing something wrong?"

"I don't know what to call you," Harry admitted sheepishly.

"Oh." Snape glanced down to the photo pensively. "I guess — I guess you should still call me Professor. Because of what Minerva insinuated. I wouldn't want to be the cause of some political incident, should you say the wrong thing."

Harry bristled, scooting to the edge of the chair. "I'm sixteen years old, I know when to hold my tongue. I won't slip up! I thought you wanted to take up your role — isn't that what you said?"

He rubbed the bridge of his nose in a very familiar mannerism, one Harry had picked up over the past years. Blaise had been right — Harry could now see his reflection in the older man's features. "I concede the point," Snape muttered. "Call me what you will, in private. I welcome it, in fact."

Unfortunately, that still didn't help the point. And though it felt odd, Harry figured he should fall back on the formal, since he was consistently referring to his mum as mother.' "You were saying about grandmother's sister... Father...?" He gulped, voice wavering over the unfamiliar word.

Snape reached out and lightly traced Harry's scar with the tip of his thumb. "I know this is all awkward... but it will get easier..."

"It can't get easier until Voldemort is dead. And that, I can't do alone." Harry thought back on everything his father had said that night. "I had a dream. A nightmare, really. All I had to fight Voldemort was a spoon, a black rabbit, and a white ferret. Blaise thought the ferret was supposed to be Malfoy, of course. And I'm not trying to sound like Trelawney, or anything, but suppose Blaise is right? Maybe... maybe I'm supposed to use Malfoy's property to do it. If we work on cataloguing the artefacts together, and get Blaise to help us, we might be done before the end of the year... and I don't doubt that Voldemort will attack then."

The older man cupped Harry's cheek with his palm, searching his face. "My blood can't possibly flow in your veins. You're too brave to be mine. Beth and I couldn't possibly have created something so... pure." He whispered his words, firmly holding Harry at arm's length.

He wasn't sure whether his father saw bravery and purity as good or bad, but he took a chance. "You're wrong, Father," he whispered. "You're the bravest person I know. You went back to spy when you could've hidden — you lost an arm, but you could've lost your life."

The moment stretched on. Snape merely considered his son's face, oblivious to the seconds passing. "Beth would've been proud of you," he said simply. And then he released Harry's face and closed the album. "Come, we've work to do. If you're positive about this, we need to start now — there are dozens of artefacts to check."

"I'm sure," Harry said, even though he wasn't. After all, it had only been a dream — why else would be be facing Voldemort with a spoon?

But, if the prophecy was right — his blood, his father, could change the Dark Magic for the purposes of the Light. Maybe Divination had some use after all.