Chapter 19: Christmas Day
Christmas dinner was, as always, a sumptuous affair, every course a particular delight. It was probably Harry's favorite meal of the year, and not just on account of the food; Christmas Day was the time when most of the teachers lightened up and acted like real people.
The notable exceptions, as always, were Snape and Zarekael, and this year Ebony had joined them. She was still cheerier than the other two, but compared with McGonagall and Dumbledore, for example, she was positively somber. Still, Harry reckoned, somber was better than hostile, and Snape, at least, looked very hostile.
Just before dessert, Ebony smiled tightly and handed Dumbledore a small present wrapped in muted blue paper. The headmaster's smile was a bit happier than hers was as he accepted it, possibly, Harry thought, because it was too small, soft, and lightweight to be another book. He well remembered Dumbledore's lament that all he ever received for Christmas was books.
"A little something I stumbled over last time I was on Diagon Alley," Ebony said quietly. "It seemed somehow perfect for you, sir."
Dumbledore eyed her searchingly for a moment, then, with an anticipatory smile, he slowly unwrapped the gift. His smile widened to a grin of pure joy as the paper fell away, and he lifted up the present for all to see.
"TOE SOCKS!!!!" he proclaimed triumphantly, and that, indeed, was what he held: a pair of wool toe socks, striped in garish, clashing jewel tones that hurt the eyes to look at. Each toe was knitted from a different color, and across the tops of the socks, Harry read the name "Dumbledore", knitted (magically and by special order, no doubt) with a different color to each letter.
Snape and Zarekael looked genuinely amused, though neither smiled, and most of the other teachers laughed out loud. Dumbledore, for his part, seemed near tears as he thanked the startled Ebony over and over again.
"This is the most beautiful present I've had in countless years!" he sniffled, sounding rather like Hagrid after a few barrels of beer.
Ebony was taken aback. "I'm glad you like them, sir," she replied dryly. "Not to mention relieved that you don't already have a pair. You're very challenging to shop for, you know."
Dumbledore beamed at her through now-flowing tears. "Wool socks of any kind will always be welcome, Meli."
"I'll make a note of it."
"Even on a day off, she's uptight!" Ron whispered to Harry and Hermione. "'I'll make a note of it.' What kind of answer is that?"
Harry, meanwhile, was still observing Dumbledore, who had pushed back his chair and was now trading his shoes and socks for the new pair of toe socks he still held lovingly in his hands. When Dumbledore had told Harry four years earlier that he saw himself in the Mirror of Erised holding a pair of wool socks, Harry had written it off as a joking answer to a very personal question. Confronted with this display, however, he could not help but wonder if Dumbledore hadn't actually been telling the truth after all.
But then, having seen more of Dumbledore since that conversation, Harry realized that his original conclusion had probably been unfair and hasty.
His change complete, Dumbledore stood, hiked his robes to his knees, and skipped energetically around the table, whistling "The Irish Washerwoman" as loudly as he could, which display earned him a hearty round of applause from Fred and George Weasley.
It had been fitting and appropriate for Dumbledore to receive his gift in front of everyone, where he could show it off and be joined by others—though less enthusiastically—in his exultation. Zarekael and Snape, however, were fare more private and, whether alone or in a crowd, far less likely to traipse joyfully about displaying their gifts. A less public presentation would be far more appreciated by both, and for this Meli was thankful; Dumbledore's display, while it confirmed that she had chosen a good gift, had made her uncomfortable. Still, in the spirit of the day—and because she only had to witness it once—she was willing to accommodate.
For Snape and Zarekael's benefit, she decided on one-on-one presentations. After Christmas dinner, therefore, she stopped at her rooms long enough to pick up their gifts, and, putting Snape's in her pocket, she went to Zarekael's quarters.
He answered the door almost immediately and just as quickly invited her in.
A marked contrast with the last time I came, she thought, smiling.
"Will you take a seat?" Zarekael asked.
Meli nodded, then sat in the chair nearest the door. She waited until Zarekael had seated himself facing her, then said, "I brought by your Christmas present."
The present in question was rather large—a foot square and three or more inches thick—and a bit floppy. She had wrapped it neatly in the same muted blue paper she had used for Dumbledore's gift.
Zarekael raised his eyebrows fractionally as he accepted it from her hands. He seemed to handle it gingerly, carefully removing the paper and turning over in his hands the square of green wool it gave way to reveal. This unfolded proved to be a hooded cloak large enough to accommodate even Zarekael's frame, with a round, silver clasp at the throat. The dealer at Diagon Alley had given Meli some guff about the requirements of her order, but, once made to see reason (she could be quite convincing when necessity demanded it), he had done beautiful work.
"Thank you," Zarekael said. His eye, she saw, rested on the clasp.
The clasp was circular, shaped like a bird whose wings curved down and around, the wing tips touching at the bottom. Its head was bowed so that its beak pointed downward to an emerald centered in a setting at the wing tips' joining. Its wings were smoothed and its beak was pointed rather than hooked; there were no talons.
"This is not a bird of prey," Zarekael observed. "Would not a predatory bird have been
more . . . fitting?"
Knowing what I know about you, you mean, Meli added silently. No, if I wanted to buy a gift that represented you, I'd have given you a knife with a wolf's head on the handle. Something about that bothered her, seeming to point to an unknown memory, but she could not identify what.
"This bird is a dove," she said aloud. "Doves are symbols of peace."
Zarekael's eyes narrowed in ironic humor. "I need hardly remind you that these are not peaceful times," he replied dryly.
Meli smiled. "No, you needn't do that," she assured him. She paused to signal a change in thought, then continued. "They're also symbols of friendship."
She had grown up in an environment in which nearly everything was symbolic, albeit generally dark and evil in meaning. Whether Zarekael had as rich of a background in symbolism or as strong of an appreciation for it as she did, she did not know. She saw, however, that, whatever he made of it, he comprehended her meaning.
"Thank you, Meli," he said again, his tone indicating that he spoke of the message rather than the cloak.
Zarekael carefully folded the cloak and set it on the coffee table to his right, picking up as he did a package wrapped in plain paper. This he handed to Meli with a look of amusement. "I also have a gift for you," he said.
"Thank you," she replied, accepting it. It was smaller, harder, and more compact than the cloak had been. She judged it to be a hard-bound book by both its size and weight.
The paper fell away, and Meli felt a fluttery thrill fly through her frame. It was a book, with a portrait of Robert Burns on the dust jacket. That alone would have explained the rest, but beside it were scripted the confirming words The Complete Works of Robert Burns.
Her fingers tingled as she ran them over the book. Mrs. Stafford had had one very like it; from its pages and her adoptive mother's voice Meli had learned "Scots Wha Hae", "For A' That", and so many more poems that she still carried, word for word, in her mind. Those pages were only memories now—the book had been reduced to ashes when Death Eaters had burned the Staffords' house after displaying their bodies outside. The Death Eaters had unknowingly deprived her of that treasure . . . and now one of their brothers had unknowingly restored it to her.
Tears brushed over her eyes enough to make them shine but without volume enough to fall. There were no words for the gratitude that flooded through her, and though it appeared that Zarekael understood that fact, she knew he could not be sensible of even half its meaning.
"Thank you, Ruthvencairn," she whispered, then, acutely aware that she was displaying far more emotion than she generally liked, she cleared her throat and said aloud, "Thank you."
He nodded once, formally. "I'm glad that it suits you," he replied.
If you only knew the half of it . . .
12 NOVEMBER 1981, THIRD YEAR
How Snape came to be invited to the hastily called meeting Meli was never told; she later guessed, however, that Dumbledore had summoned him because of their recently achieved understanding. Whatever the facts of the matter, Snape was in the headmaster's office with McGonagall when Meli and Dumbledore arrived. The headmaster had also had a letter from the Ministry, she soon learned, and his had been considerably more informative.
"Please take a seat," Dumbledore said, smiling gently—but the twinkle was gone from his eyes. She did as bidden, but her uneasiness grew.
"What's happened, sir?" she asked, proud that no quaver touched the words. "Why do the Aurors want to speak with me?" Any information she possessed had been rendered nearly useless by Voldemort's defeat a fortnight earlier; of what other value could she be to them?
Dumbledore's smile faded. "They want you to go in and answer a few questions," he replied.
Somehow a connection formed in her mind. "They've found someone dead, haven't they?" she asked in a low voice. "Who?"
The headmaster did not hesitate, though it seemed that he was reluctant. "Your . . . parents."
"Killed by Death Eaters," she finished for him, and now her voice did waver.
The three teachers regarded her silently for a moment before Dumbledore slowly nodded.
A void opened inside of her, swallowing all emotion. She had never felt this before and had no idea how to defend against it. She became suddenly and sickeningly aware of the scents from every one of Dumbledore's numerous candy dishes and tins, taunting her and playing at her already roiling stomach. The room grew fuzzy, and a distant roar filled her ears. The Death Eaters were sending her a clear message: though Voldemort was gone, her bane remained in effect. Everyone she valued was still doomed to die horribly at their hands.
She forced her vocal cords to cooperate, but it was a terrible battle. "What . . . what do
they . . . want to ask me?" she rasped.
Dumbledore received cautionary looks from both Snape and McGonagall, but after a moment of looking measuringly at her, he replied, "They want you to . . . identify."
"I can't," she said immediately. "They're asking too much of me."
"You will not be going alone," Dumbledore assured her. "A teacher will accompany you."
She locked eyes with him. "Will I be allowed to attend their funerals?" she asked.
McGonagall seemed shocked by the question, further proof that she knew less of Meli than she might think. Snape, by contrast, seemed to soften slightly, compassion and understanding flickering in his eyes.
"Most certainly," Dumbledore answered firmly.
"What teacher will be accompanying me?" She knew it would probably be McGonagall, her Head of House, but hope reared its ugly head even now, when by all rights it should be crushed.
A faint trace of the headmaster's smile resurfaced. "After hearing the particulars of the situation," he said, "both Professors McGonagall and Snape have offered to serve as your chaperone." He paused, very obviously awaiting her decision.
McGonagall had probably volunteered out of duty and pity, Meli reflected darkly. Those two traits in concert were enough to drive her away under the best of circumstances; in this situation, they made their bearer the last person on earth around whom she had any desire to be. McGonagall would go as Meli's Head of House; Snape would go . . . not precisely as a friend, but more as a kindred spirit of sorts. Ironically, his presence would be far more comforting. If he pitied her, he wouldn't show it, and his idea of duty was vastly different from McGonagall's.
"If it's all the same to you, sir," Meli said slowly, "I think I'd prefer it if Professor Snape went with me."
Dumbledore's expression made no change, but Meli's sharp eyes showed her that McGonagall looked slightly relieved, and Snape was a bit surprised. Not at all unexpected, really, given her history with each of them.
"So how soon do I leave?" she asked quietly.
Snape allowed her one hour to return to Gryffindor Tower and pack. She changed into Muggle clothes and stuffed two extra T-shirts, a black dress, and a handful of other necessities into a small duffel. She forced herself not to think; to think was to risk comprehending, and to comprehend was to risk lowering her emotional defenses. Snape would respect her by not pitying her; she would likewise respect him by not crying and snuffling all over him. All in all, she considered it a fair trade.
According to an itinerary Snape quickly worked out with Dumbledore, they would go to the Ministry of Magic first, then to the Camerons' house, where Meli and Snape would stay until after the funeral. How Dumbledore had made such an arrangement with Muggles in so little time Meli could not guess, but she was glad for it; the Camerons were the only family she had left.
She and Snape arrived at the Ministry far sooner than she would have liked. Try as she might not to think, thoughts rebelled against restraint, forcing pictures to her mind. She could not rationally speculate on how her parents had met their end; she had seen far too many possible scenarios in her childhood to settle on only one or two more probable sequences. All she knew for certain was that their deaths had been horrible and incredibly painful, in keeping with the terms of her bane.
Snape had gone immediately to an official-looking witch behind a desk. She listened to his concise explanation with a bored air, then pointed out the correct corridor with her nail file. To Meli's eyes, Snape seemed twice the glowering tower of doom he normally did, but even that failed to impress the receptionist. Either she saw a great number of people like Severus Snape every day, or (the more likely possibility) she was so puffed up with her own official importance that such paltry things did not concern her.
The corridor was an intimidating marble structure that towered at least five stories above them. The walls did not terminate but rather curved inward, meeting in cold, imposing arches that, in spite of their height, threatened to crush anyone passing below them. The floor was no more reassuring, for it was populated by more witches and wizards like the receptionist. These officials rushed past, and had Snape not stood close by, they would probably have mowed her down. Caught as she was in this maze of importance, her own insignificance was readily apparent.
They at last arrived at their destination: an ostentatiously decorated office with a door at the back. Where the corridor had been hard and cold, the office was smotheringly plush and warm. Everything in it was a medium shade of mauve, and lamps situated on various tables throughout the room cast a glow that Meli supposed was intended to be comforting; it did not accomplish its goal.
Behind a massive desk sat the only visual relief: a puffed-up official-looking Auror who had probably not seen active duty since Voldemort was in diapers. He did not stand to greet them, nor did he greet them at all, preferring instead to lean back in his seat and regard them indolently over the hands he clasped comfortably atop his generous stomach. Meli disliked him immediately.
Snape glared at the man all the while he was stating their business.
"Ah, yes," the Auror drawled reflectively. "The Stafford case. Nasty mess they left behind, wasn't it?" The words left one hearer miserable and the other incensed.
Meli had never before seen Snape more than mildly nettled, but now he skipped past that to full anger. He advanced on the Auror and leaned over the desk to glare directly into that bureaucrat's eyes. "The Staffords happened to be real people," he bit out. "They were dearly loved by their daughter, who happens to stand right in front of your bloated face if you'd care to look! I suggest you show some respect for them and for her, or you and I will have some very unpleasant words. Is that understood?"
The Auror swallowed very hard, but he somehow retained some of his false dignity as he slowly stood under Snape's malevolent eye. He harrumphed a few times, but Meli saw that his cage was rattled, and she was very grateful to Snape for it.
"If you'll, ah, follow me?" the Auror stammered. He scurried to the door at the back of the office (a very odd thing to see a three-hundred pound bureaucrat pull off) and opened it for Snape and Meli to pass through. He stepped through behind them, then led them down another corridor, this one white and antiseptic. The smell reminded Meli of the brief hospital stay she'd had after the disastrous sleepover at Elizabeth Cameron's house.
Her throat tightened. Her mother had been there when she'd woken up, had comforted her with soft words and a kiss. This time, in this place, her mother would be there . . . but could not comfort her.
The Auror was whispering to Snape over her head, but she caught no snatch of words. Snape, by contrast, spoke aloud.
"Perhaps you should have considered that, Sackville, before you insisted that their daughter be the one to identify," he replied testily. "For someone so accustomed to covering his own rear, you seem quite inept at thinking ahead."
The Auror blanched and fell silent once more. The corridor now terminated at another door, through which he led them. This room was a morgue, and there were now only two inhabitants, neither living, both covered with sheets.
As soon as she stepped through this last doorway, a transformation took place in Meli that neither Snape nor Sackville could have anticipated. She seemed somehow to separate from herself. Emotions went dead, and an eerie, detached calm laid hold of her. Her only motivation now was an odd sort of curiosity to know if these were really Paul and Bianca Stafford and how they had come to their respective demises.
"It's not a pretty sight," the Auror said now, apologetically. "Do you want to do it now?"
Her body language had altered, changing her from a cowering mouse to a pondering predator. She turned her head languidly to look the Auror fully in the eye and noted that he stepped quickly away from her.
"You've brought me this far," she replied, her voice reptilian and cool. "What's one more step?"
Behind her, Snape stirred uneasily, but she ignored the noise, looking instead to the Auror, who eventually worked up the courage to move closer to her and pull back the sheet over the first body.
Voldemort would have highly approved, she knew, staring at the bloodied corpse. The face was clean and recognizable, the eyes and mouth widened in terror and agony. Marks and gashes marred the man's chest and one shoulder and, probably, the rest of his body, as well. His body beneath the sheet had an irregular shape on top, indicating that it had been cut apart and pieced back together. He had been thirty-eight years old.
"How did he die?" she asked coolly.
Sackville looked very ill. "He—was tortured," he managed to reply. "Then killed with the instant death curse."
"And afterward they took a hatchet to the body," she finished for him. "The intent was not to harm him further, since he was already dead, but to warn someone. Very effective." She raised her eyebrows. "It's Paul Stafford, of course. My father."
Sackville stared at her, plainly not comprehending her collectedness. While she realized that such an exterior could probably get her into trouble—possibly even make her a suspect for a time—she could not yet return to herself; she had utterly lost her way.
The second body looked much different. Subdermal red blotches covered the woman's face and shoulders, marring her once-perfect ivory complexion. Her eyes, too, were wide with pain, her mouth frozen forever in a dying scream. Hatchet gashes also lined her neck and shoulders, and her body was similarly misshapen beneath the sheet.
"Bianca Stafford," Meli said calmly. "My mother." She didn't add that the woman had died of a Sangriatus Venarupturum curse, though she could have done it; she was thoroughly detached, but she was not stupid. She turned deadened eyes once more to the Auror and forced a waver into her voice to simulate emotion and put the Auror off-scent of her actual condition. "May I go now?"
Misled understanding ran through Sackville's eyes, and he nodded. "Thank you for coming, Miss Stafford," he said civilly. "I'm sorry to have put you through this."
"Remember you said that," Snape told him darkly. "If you remember how sorry you are, perhaps you won't needlessly put another child through it!"
Meli was still too detached to wonder at Snape's defensiveness of her. She merely looked up at him, waiting until he was ready to leave. His glittering black eye found her gaze, and she read in it some concern as they left.
The strange, numb detachment lasted until well through the evening. The Camerons greeted her kindly, and they were simply delighted to meet Meli's chemistry teacher Mr. Snape. Scott, Andrew, and Elizabeth had been called home for the Staffords' funeral, so Meli found herself surrounded by puzzled people who wondered at her odd, unconcerned composure. Snape did not wonder, but he worried.
After dinner, Elizabeth dragged her upstairs and subjected her to what Meli silently dubbed French water torture. Determined to elicit some emotional response from her friend, even if it was irritation, Elizabeth filled the bathtub with hot water and the smelliest French bubble bath she could lay her hands on, then insisted that Meli get in and relax. To her disappointment, Meli merely arched an eyebrow and complied.
Elizabeth's next stunt was rather more successful. After Meli judged that she had "relaxed" enough, she exited the bathtub to find that Elizabeth had taken all of her clothes, leaving behind only a big, fluffy bathrobe, a pair of pink bunny slippers, and a note that said:
Dessert down in the sitting room—Mum's making you
blackberry tea and bread with lemon curd. Come
straight down!
Love, Liz
PS Don't try the bedroom; I've locked it with your
clothes inside, and the window's latched.
Muttering irritably, Meli donned the ridiculous attire, making sure that the robe adequately covered everything, and grumbled her way down the stairs. She entered the sitting room with an intangible storm cloud surrounding her and found that only Elizabeth and Professor Snape had yet arrived. Elizabeth took one look at Meli's face and dashed out to "help Mum with the tea."
Snape, meanwhile, had not managed to conceal completely his smirk. Meli crossed her arms and glared. "She stole my clothes," she muttered viciously, then threw herself huffily into a chair, nevertheless moving carefully to keep the bathrobe from shifting. "Even Crim wouldn't have done that to me."
Before Snape could reply, Andrew and Scott entered, glancing at Meli with mixed surprise and amusement, and found seats of their own. A moment later, the remaining three Camerons entered, two with trays of tea and cake plates. Mrs. Cameron passed around cake, giving Meli a plate of bread and lemon curd instead, and Elizabeth passed around the tea cups. Meli took her cup, but before she could set it down, it exploded with a suddenness that surprised even her.
She started up, panic starting to edge its way past irritation. These people were Muggles . . . she had never lost control like that before . . . everyone was staring at her . . . there was tea in her eyes—the thoughts whirled crazily through her head. Somehow she managed to get out an apology, then fled the room.
Elizabeth caught up to her halfway up the stairs. "Meli!" she called softly. "Here, come with me."
"I'm not taking another bath!" Meli snapped.
"I don't ask you to," Elizabeth replied. "But I have something to show you."
Meli reluctantly turned to follow the other girl through the house to the garage. Elizabeth flicked on the light to reveal a large table along one wall. It was twice as long as the worktables in the Potions room and about as tall, and it was covered with well over a hundred terra cotta plant pots.
Meli looked at Elizabeth, nonplused. "The point of this?"
"Dad's been saying since he and Mum got married that he'd have a potted garden someday," the other explained. "It never happened, but he kept buying pots, to keep the dream alive, he said." She shrugged. "Well, he's stopped buying pots, Meli, but he can't bear to get rid of them himself. He asked Scott and Andrew and me to do it." She looked seriously at Meli. "The car's out in the drive, and we don't keep anything important here. If you want to break something, you've got plenty of munitions available, and we'll all thank you for it."
Meli stared at her for a moment, then turned a thoughtful gaze on the pots. When she looked back again, Elizabeth was gone.
Had Elizabeth brought her at first, she'd have elicited no reaction from Meli. Having somehow worked past the emotional barriers, however, Elizabeth had gotten through to the anger pent up in her friend and had offered a ready outlet.
The last analytic detachment left to Meli reevaluated her opinion of Elizabeth, changing it from annoying but helpful to determined and sneaky. No longer was Elizabeth Cameron the Muggle Hufflepuff; in Meli's mind, she had become a faithful Gryffindor with a subtle but nasty Slytherin streak.
All other rational thought melted away the moment her fingers touched a pot. The first one hit the wall with a satisfying smash and sent shards flying in all directions. After that, she perceived nothing very clearly.
A loud crash reverberated through the house just as Elizabeth reentered the sitting room. Snape looked up, somewhat alarmed, but she offered him a tired, reassuring smile. "Meli's found some pots to break," was all she said.
Snape arched an eyebrow. "I see."
"So, Mr. Snape," Scott said composedly as another smashing pot sounded. "When did you decide you wanted to teach chemistry?"
Andrew groaned. "Get over it, Scotty! Not everyone knows his destiny from birth!"
Scott kicked him soundly in the leg. "I don't say I do," he retorted calmly. "I'm just wondering if it's truly possible to know at age seventeen what one wants to do with one's life."
The next crash must have come from a pot twice as big as those previous. It was a moment before Snape could reply. "It's possible to know where you want to go for the next few years," he conceded. "I don't believe anyone ever truly realizes what they should do with their entire lives."
Scott fell silent, looking profoundly thoughtful. Andrew gazed scornfully at him, then turned to Elizabeth. "And I hope you're planning to clean that mess up, Liz," he growled as yet another pot met its noisy end.
Elizabeth smiled sweetly. "No, Andrew," she replied. "Actually, I was thinking of letting you do it after I've stolen and hidden all of your shoes and socks."
At that reply, Andrew shut up. No one said anything for a time. They sat in silence, listening to the pots smashing, until words started accompanying the crashes. While Snape could not understand what Meli was saying, he thought it prudent to excuse himself and go check on her, just in case some of the syllables were spells. The last thing anyone needed was for her to wreak magical damage in her present state.
They were not spells, he soon learned. He stood outside the door leading to the garage and listened in mingled shock and admiration to the things Meli was shouting about Voldemort, Death Eaters, and bureaucrats named Sackville. Much of what she said was anatomically impossible, and none of it was intended for the ears of people with vivid imaginations. One particularly nasty description of Voldemort's relationship with his mother was followed by the sound of a pot the size of a brew cauldron hitting the wall. Where the solemn thirteen-year-old Meli Ebony had picked up such a vocabulary was a speculation Snape had no wish to make; even Collum Fell stopped far short of such terminology.
After twenty or so further minutes, the pots and profanity stopped flying, and Snape thought it might be safe to enter. The garage was a disaster, its floor covered with orange pottery shards and its air thick with terra cotta dust. The table along the far wall still held about a dozen terra cotta pots, but all of the rest lay in pieces on the floor. Huddled among these pieces was Meli, her face buried in her arms as brokenhearted sobs wracked her body.
There was nothing Snape could do but watch her cry. Words would offer no comfort. He himself had experienced the transition from numbed shock to painful awakening, though never to such a dramatic extent. All he could offer was his presence.
How long he stood there, he could not tell, but at last Meli looked up, the last of her sobs fading slowly away. She looked around her, seeming not at all to comprehend where she was or why. Her eyes passed over Snape without offering any flicker of recognition or understanding. She looked back at him a moment later and furrowed her brow slightly. "I guess I was a little angry," she remarked tiredly.
Snape raised his eyebrows fractionally. "Just a bit," he replied dryly.
"Well." She got slowly to her feet, conscious once more of the bathrobe. "Let's hope that doesn't happen again anytime soon."
It didn't.
PRESENT: CHRISTMAS DAY
Her eyes were still shining when she knocked at Snape's door. Snape answered, and he seemed at first alarmed to find her in such a mood.
"No, Severus, I haven't been drinking," she assured him dryly. "I'm just having an unusually merry Christmas."
He smirked. "And do I have the privilege of seeing you after you've been decking the halls, or a-wassailing?"
"Putting a cherry bomb under Santa's sleigh, actually," she rejoined.
Snape sighed and shook his head, then stood aside to admit her. "Only a Skulker would declare war on Father Christmas."
Meli grinned. "Just because I prefer to deliver gifts myself," she said stoutly. "I've a right to waylay the old sod before he can make off with my presents, haven't I?"
"Am I to assume, then, that this is prelude to a gift delivery?" Snape asked, amused.
"Something of the sort," she replied. "I do have your Christmas present with me." She held up the gift in question. It was also wrapped in blue paper, though it was significantly smaller than Zarekael's had been.
"Should I be frightened?" Snape inquired ironically.
Meli smirked. "Possibly."
Unable to get anything more out of her, Snape settled for neatly untaping the paper and setting it aside, allowing the contents to unfold and slip free. He reflexively snatched at it, catching it by one end before it could fall all the way to the floor.
Meli smiled as he held it up, a look of profound puzzlement forming on his face. It was a narrow strip of metallic blue cloth that flared outward at one end and came to a point at each end.
"It's a Muggle necktie, Severus," she said helpfully.
He arched an eyebrow, not the less nonplused for that change of expression.
Meli sighed. "It goes perfectly well with black," she explained. "But it'll add color to your outfit and possibly even, dare I say it, make you look a touch less like a brooding wizard when you next find it expedient to pose as a Muggle."
"I . . . see."
"Now, Severus," she said, mock-reproachfully, "you're very hard to shop for, you know. What else was I supposed to get for you?"
A touch of Snape's earlier amusement returned. "Books are a popular item," he replied.
"And consequently a predictable one," she added airily. "I prefer to be creative."
"Well . . ." Snape looked from her to the tie, then back again. "I most certainly would not have predicted this."
She raised her eyebrows. "I suppose I can live with that shocking revelation."
Snape sobered again, then drew from his pocket a flat, white box about the length and width of a playing card. There was neither wrapping paper nor bow, but it was unmistakably intended for her.
"A gift for me, Severus?" she said, attempting to lighten his mood somewhat. "You shouldn't have."
"And yet I did," he replied, quite seriously. He handed it to her.
Meli carefully accepted it, her own mood tempered by Snape's. She lifted off the lid and found underneath it the last thing she would have expected: a ring.
The band was not solid; rather, it was composed of several strands of silver woven intricately together, the ends twisting up and around in a setting for the stone. The stone itself was a multi-faceted onyx.
She was utterly bewildered. She was not at all a jewelry person, nor could she think of anything she had done to give a contrary impression to anyone, much less Snape. And for him, a single male, to give a ring to her, a single female colleague, seemed a little odd and more than a little alarming. She wore already the ring of another man who had died shortly after offering it, and even more disturbing was the thought, however utterly absurd, that Snape—
"This is not a proposal, Meli," he assured her quietly.
"Good," she managed, and her voice sounded suddenly strangled. "I was beginning to fear for either your sanity or mine."
One corner of his mouth turned up briefly in ironical amusement. "Even if my sentiments turned that direction—which they do not—I would never act on them, for a variety of reasons." His countenance became serious once more. "No, Meli, this is a message, and, if you choose to see it so, a reminder."
"What sort of message?" she asked.
"You wear Andrew's ring as a reminder of the consequences of friendship."
Her throat tightened. "Yes," she replied cautiously. "People who come too close to me die. You know that quite well. It's safer for everyone that I keep my distance."
"You separate yourself for the protection of others," Snape said, almost gently. "But friendship has two directions, Meli, not one. There are those who wish not to be protected but to protect. There are friends who would willingly sacrifice themselves for you if you would give them the chance."
"And what about the ones who don't have a chance, Severus?" Meli demanded, her voice raising in pitch. "What about Elizabeth? Worse, what about Meli Golden? A four-year-old child! Maybe, given the chance, she'd have done as you say, but her life was taken from her. She didn't have a choice, and it's because of me, Severus!"
Snape had difficulty speaking for a moment, and Meli felt a stab of conscience. Something in her words had hit him harder than she'd intended.
At last, however, Snape mastered his voice. "You do a grave injustice to one kind of friend by equating it with another," he told her. "There are those who have no chance—who would be given no choice, either because they are helpless or because they are ignorant of the matter." He locked eyes with her. "But there are those who know fully what such friendship entails and who choose to pursue it anyway. Andrew's ring reminds you of the former. With this ring, I hope to point out to you the latter."
She respected Snape too much to harbor her anger for long, and its dissipation was helped by the shame his reply evoked. He would never accuse her openly, but whether by design or by accident, he had done it implicitly and justly. The Goldens had been blissfully ignorant of their danger because she had been afraid to warn them, and that ignorance, as much as the wand and knife of their unknown executioner, had killed them. She lowered her eyes, unable to meet his anymore, and her gaze came to rest on the silver ring.
There was, as he had said, another kind of friend. He was one, and so were Zarekael, Andrea, and Collum. So had Crim been. They were prudent enough to fly under radar, but each and every one of them, cognizant of the potential consequences, stood by her in his or her own fashion.
And yet there was still the first kind . . .
She looked up again. "I never make rash decisions, sir," she said in a low voice. "But I promise to consider your words and to act on my conclusions as soon as I reach them."
"That's all I ask," Snape replied. "Happy Christmas, Meli."
She smiled. "Happy Christmas." Wishing to dispel the weight of the moment, she arched an impish eyebrow. "Like to come help me tie tin cans to the back bumper of Father Christmas' sleigh?" she invited.
Snape's eyes narrowed in a near-smile. "No, thank you," he replied. "I've gotten one lump of coal from him this year; I'd hate to have him haul out an entire hopper car for me next year."
"You're far too considerate of the old man," Meli chided. "He's a criminal, you know. Traveling all over the world without passing through customs, breaking and entering through unguarded
chimneys . . . Mark my words, Severus: he's destined for the hangman's rope one of these days."
"I doubt, somehow, that your petty harassment will keep him from that fate," Snape pointed out.
"I don't try to," she rejoined. "It's all in the spirit of the season."
"I . . . see."