Author's Note: Liberty was taken with Albus' childhood, and although there's no "ghost" in it, it stays true the spirit of the first Stave. I will have this story done by Christmas, God willingly. Be kind to your poor writer and leave us a boon. Read and enjoy, review if you wish.

Chapter Two: Ghost of Christmas Past

It was a calm quiet night with a wind chill just right for bringing thin strands of the music from the Christmas party into Albus' rooms. It made Dumbledore restless and nervous, despite the familiarity of his old rooms. He inhaled and set his quill down, to rise and pace the length of the room in a vain attempt to ignore the sounds below. He glanced outside his frosted window, and sighed. There was no snow falling but still a blanket of thin gray snow sparked in the moonlight like diamonds. Albus tugged his cloak a little closer to his frame, brushing the window with his cuff.

"Think of it as a game." Albus murmured to his sister.

Roxanne glanced at him from under her thin hood. The wisps of her auburn hair were white with snowflakes and those dim blue eyes that always struck his young frame with fear and pity seemed even more downcast when matched with her small blue lips. But she smiled at him, and trusted him because he was her older brother Albus and she trusted him in his wisdom to keep her warm and fed.

He forced up a smile, while glancing to Aberforth who stood guard near the edge of the street. Aberforth glanced back at Albus and made a motion for him to hurry. Albus cursed under his breath and rejoined his sister as they clawed through the snow to retrieve their bounty.

"It looks like diamonds." Roxanne sang nervously. "We're searching for our buried treasure, aren't we Albus?"

"Yes, pup. Diamonds. How many can you find?"

The frost seemed to turn seconds into months, as he dug deeper into the ice, feeling his fingers cut and pierced from the cold. He was shaking and red, and his eyes were beginning to blur from the glare but he kept digging till finally his fingers curled around his diamonds. Finding some swell of strength, Albus clutched it and yanked.

"You found them!" Roxanne shrieked as she picked up the potato he had writhed free of the snow. Despite himself, Albus smiled at her and continued till he had pulled three more thin, misshapen potatoes from the cellar. Another triumphant smile graced the 11year old's features from the pride of understanding that he, the Master of the House, had provided the Christmas dinner.

A moment later, Aberforth rushed forward telling them Roxanne's yelp had started the servants. Albus quickly tucked his stolen meal into his robes and darted after his two siblings as they raced towards the manor's main gate, to scale and escape back into the safe anonymity of their slum.

Albus laughed at the memory, even as he wiped something from his cheek. The days of his childhood seemed so very far away now, and sometimes he wondered if he had imagined it all. Especially Roxanne. She had been the youngest of the brood, as hard and sturdy as a rose petal and just as beautiful. She had looked most like their mother- a delicate woman also- and Albus wondered briefly if that had stressed his compassion for his little sister even more.

Their story had been typical of the time, and station in which his mother had lived. Catherine Dumbledore, Irish by birth but somehow settled in Manchester, had been wooed by which she claimed to be a rich Sussex gentlemen who had bought her ivory combs, and chocolates when she was a girl, and had taken her to live concerts and plays and would tickle her cheek with his fine leather gloves. He kept her in a small apartment, and would visit Catherine from time to time- eventually fathering three children. Shortly before Roxanne was born, however, the visits from this fine Sussex landowner ceased and Catherine: with no education and three bastard children was turned out to the streets.

They lived for some time as squatters, and occasional seasonal help. Catherine worked as a laundress and charwoman. Aberforth mended carriages and coaches. When Albus turned six, he began work hustling newspapers in the market places, and became quite able handed at liberating fruits and vegetables (and sometimes if Albus was lucky, and the merchant sloppy: fish) from tables and passing carts. He always told his mother they fell.

Albus laughed again at his crimes, not so much to bask in the memory but to mourn them. His childhood was a rough, callous thing he was too pleased to forget. Things had changed little until he was 13 and a man claiming to be his father's brother appeared.

Handsome but aged and beaten down by trials a life, this newfound Uncle treated the children with feigned kindness. He claimed to be a soldier of some kind, and Catherine accepted this, bring the children to live in a home he provided. They lived in humble comfort, eventually attending Hogwarts and growing into adulthood. Gradually, Albus understood words he never would have heard as a Muggle: soldier became another word for Auror, and racism turned into superiority of blood, and half-crazed tyrants became unfrocked Kings.

Albus felt his heart twist as he recalled another Christmas, many years later.

The house was a chaotic mess of mistletoe, holly and people. Women wove small footpaths over children and men and animals and excess clothing shed once indoors. Every once in a while, a woman's righteous scream would be heard- shooing someone out of the kitchen back into the other rooms. There was Lily and Dorcas Meadows in the kitchen, trying their best not to appear upset as each commented on how gravy should be properly made and tasted. Outside, barks of laughter from Remus, Sirius and James wafted in, as the three fought Mad-Eye, Frank and Alice Longbottom in a friendly game of snowballs. A woman with dark hair, dressed in gray, watched from the sidelines, trying in vain to appear unaffected by the fact the Aurors were losing.

It didn't seem to matter at all Fabian Prewett who was trying his best (though she'd be loathed to admit it worked) to make the woman smile. There now, came Peter Pettigrew, tumbling through the door with his arms full of last-minute gifts, being followed by Albus' brother who was also laid down with gifts.

Edgar Bones rose, shaking his aged body like a dog, as he did to help. He shouted some childish obscenity at Benjy, who was being kicked out of the kitchen just in time to help with the gifts.

It was a trivial event to be sure, one that altogether must have been a small matter but very much appreciated. For one shining moment, though it still loomed like a specter, the war was forgotten and dismissed. Allies could pretend for one day to be friends, and remember that peace was once a dream realized on earth.

It had been Albus who suggested the photograph. He had wanted something small and tangible to prove that it had been real, that this was not some vision his lonely mind had created for the day's sake. He had wanted proof that the world was real once, and alive.

Before all those terrible deaths had occurred, and before the world had darkened under betrayal and warfare.

Albus cursed aloud and turned away from the memory. He tried desperately to ignore the tears that burned his cheeks but couldn't. There had been too much passed between to have the happiest continue. Too much blood was on his hands. He cursed again, this time loudly and enraged at the cruelty of it all. He wondered how peace could be invoked at such times as those that passed before him, or those he knew to come.

Beyond his chambers, in the Staff Room, he knew the guests were grouped together in thinly veiled acts of happiness and joy. And he knew, acutely, that some of the guest who intermingled with each other were murderers and traitors. Albus felt a stab of anger at the hypocrisy of it all.

It was all pretense and it made Albus sick to think of it. He hated the dead, and the Day. He longed for it all to leave him alone. He could no longer play at this game. He would no longer play at it.

It was all humbug, in a manner of speaking.

Albus slumped into his chair. Silently cursing the Ghosts that danced before his eyes to leave him, and haunt him no longer. He would have no more of their torment.

From his place in hiding, Severus gazed at the Headmaster as Albus drifted into slumber. He had known no one would have to invoke memories of the past to Albus, the Headmaster- like most during this time- dwelled too long in the past and what could not be changed. And like most, he mourned over in inability of change it.

"These are but shadows of things that have been," Severus murmured, running his hand over his left forearm as if he meant to wipe away something. "That they are what they are…do not blame me."

"What Professor?"

Snape shook his head, and turned to Hagrid. "You're on. Remember the others are ready for you in the Staff Room but you'll not to be seen." Another beat. "Minerva and I will be waiting for our cue."