Author's note: Here beginneth Part 2, with a short, slight lull before the storm…

By the way,in the UK we don't use 'trim' to mean 'decorate', so this (for me) is rather a forced pun…

(Minor detail - you remember that Quig is Australian, right?)

DECK THE HALLS

By Bellegeste

PART 2

CHAPTER 10 : TRIM THAT TREE

Tuesday 24th December.

Christmas Eve. Snape Cottage.

"Hey! You made it then!"

As Hermione stepped out of the fireplace she virtually tripped over Harry's feet. He was sitting too close to the fire, legs stretched out to the brass fender, waiting for her.

"Hello, Harry!"

"Your luggage arrived about five minutes ago," he said, "so I knew you were on your way."

Hermione recognised her small overnight case standing by the door. She hadn't brought much stuff - it hadn't seemed worth it for just a couple of days. She took a moment to pull off her gloves. It was odd seeing Harry here, in Snape's house; away from Hogwarts he was out of context. It made her a little shy. Don't be soft, it's only Harry. But where's Snape?

"Oh, good. You got my owl, then? Sorry I couldn't come yesterday like we planned. It was all so… Well, you know. It all got a bit crazy on Saturday, didn't it? And then it was such a rush to get to the train and everything…"

She took her coat off, since Harry hadn't offered, and plonked herself into the low armchair opposite him.

"That was pretty amazing," he agreed. "How on earth did Dumbledore manage to reschedule the Hogwarts Express? Bet that took some doing!"

"Can't rid the Castle of corruption, but he can make the trains run on time… Our very own Mussolini!" Hermione smiled.

"You know I haven't a clue what you're on about?" said Harry with a good-natured grin.

"I know."

She looked about her, taking in the rather spare furnishings, the laden bookcase and the total absence of Christmas decorations. Very jolly indeed! This was going to be a ball!

"It's just as well you didn't come back with us," Harry was saying. "When the Cottage has been empty for a while, he insists on getting off at an earlier Floo and then walking - so that he can check the boundary wards and so on. It's quite a long way, especially when it's cold. It's like a precautionary thing. Bit OTT if you ask me."

Hermione noticed Harry's use of 'he' in reference to his father. It denoted a gulf, a distance. They were still not comfortable in each other's company then.

"How's it been so far?" The question was obliquely phrased, but Harry knew what she meant.

"Not too bad, actually. I haven't seen that much of him. He's either been working in the basement with the specimens - I'll show you them later - or… well, he's spent an awful lot of time up in his room. He uses it as an office when I'm here, so he can keep out of my way. Or the other way round. I think he's avoiding me…"

Hermione regarded her friend with mingled compassion and impatience - gosh, he could be ego-centric, and talk about a persecution complex! He always assumed that people's intentions were directed against him.

"Harry, he's probably just really tired," she pointed out sensibly. "I don't think any of us have the faintest idea how stressful last week was for the staff - what with McGonagall and Sprout, and the business with his wand…"

She was right: Harry hadn't thought of that.

"Were you at the station too?" she asked suddenly.

"What? When?"

"Saturday afternoon. I looked out for you, but I must have missed you. He was there."

"Snape?"

"Yes. D'you know, I think he came to say goodbye to Neville. Well, anyway, he came into our carriage, and he shook Neville's hand and said something like, "It looks as though you will be home for Christmas after all, Longbottom", and then he went. It was very odd. I mean, we were all going home for Christmas."

"What did Nev say?"

"Nothing. Just blushed furiously, like he does, and got all tongue-tied and mumbly. It must have freaked him out - he was awfully subdued for the rest of the journey… He did a good job in the end, though, didn't he? Saved us all?" Hermione's opinion of Neville had undergone a strategic revision over the last few days. Besides, praising Neville drew the limelight away from Luna.

"Neville? I'll say! Bloody brilliant!"

"I'm glad it's all over, aren't you? For one thing, it's so nice to be able to brush my hair properly again!"

x x x

They lapsed into a companionable silence, each reliving their own version of the previous week's crisis, content to settle back lazily into the comfort of its uneventful aftermath. Finally Harry stirred, stretched and yawned.

"I suppose I'd better show you your room - or rather, my room, I'll have you know. I'm on the couch."

Hermione gazed round. There wasn't a couch. Harry caught the direction of her eyes and laughed,

"Oh, we'll cobble something together - transfigure a chair… No probs!"

He picked up her valise and led the way through to the hall, pointing out doorways as he went:

"Kitchen's in there… That door goes down to the lab and where he keeps the animals - you really must meet Szahuna and Eamon!"

"And Braque?" she asked. She'd heard a lot about the Giant Tuatara and was keen (with some reservations, especially about the nostril-licking) to meet him. She also, it had to be said, was fascinated to see how Snape would treat the creature which, Harry assured her, was his pet.

"Braque? Oh, he's about somewhere. He comes and goes."

"And Quig?"

Harry was less positive about the aged, deaf house elf.

"Ah. He's throwing an elfish wobbler at the moment. All I said was that we'd been invited to the Weasley's for Christmas lunch, and he went ballistic. I think he'd been planning a special, traditional Aussie elf Christmas dinner in your honour. Narrow escape, eh? You don't realise how lucky you are! Merlin knows what he'd have dished up - pot-roast wombat or kangaroo kebabs? Though," Harry conceded, "his barbecued Billywigs aren't half bad…"

It amused Hermione to see how the lure of Mrs Weasley's cooking could blind Harry to the wishes of the other members of his household. Quig was evidently offended, and she doubted whether anything less than an Imperius would persuade Snape to sit at the same table as Molly…

They had reached Harry's room. He dumped her case on the bed.

"Meet me downstairs when you're ready, and I'll show you the garden before it gets dark…"

x x x

They strolled up and down the narrow pathways that separated the raised borders of Quig's lovingly tended herb garden. Hermione marvelled at the range and variety of plants there: all the standard herbs that you would find in any wizard's (and many Muggle's) kitchen garden, plus rarer, magical species. She had always considered herself a competent, even an expert, herbologist, but there were specimens there she didn't recognise at all, amongst the commoner names: aconite, allihotsy, dittany, bobotubers, fluxweed, knotgrass, scurvygrass, flitterbloom, puffapods, wormwood…

"Neville would just die if he saw all this!" Hermione stooped down to read some of the labels. "This is a herbologist's heaven!" She was filled with admiration – for the garden itself, and, by extension, for Quig.

"No Shark Lily, though!" joked Harry.

"I should hope not. I bet Snape never wants to see that vicious stuff ever again. What about Professor Sprout? Was she alright? Did you get a chance to see her?" Hermione asked.

"Sprout's OK. Once the spell was broken, she got her speech back. Funny thing is, though, she can't remember anything about it - not about being buried or dug up or anything."

"Probably just as well." Hermione shuddered at the thought.

"Yes, but it means we still don't know who did it," said Harry.

"Don't we?" Hermione had her own strong opinions on this.

"Draco? We can't prove he did it. Anyway, forget about him. Guess what was the first thing Sprout said when she came round - 'Has anyone watered my Sneezewort?' "

"And had they?"

"Neville did."

"Longbottom to the rescue again! What a hero!"

x x x

Chatting about nothing in particular, they ambled through the gate of the walled garden and out into the open fields of the Snape Estate, Harry pointing out the landmarks.

"The lake's in that direction, there beyond that clump of Willows - it's choca with lethal, venomous beasties, as you might expect… That's the track that leads down to the big gates at the main entrance… From that hill you can see right down over the valley and towards the village of Snape-Delaford, and you get a good view of the Manor…"

Hermione listened, registering the note of quiet pride in his voice as he showed her the grounds. He doesn't dare get too proprietorial yet, she realised, but he's finally starting to feel he belongs here - for the first time ever, he's got a real home. She was happy for him.

"Can we go to the Manor?" She was intrigued to see the Snape family seat. "Have you been inside?"

Harry's response was cagey.

"It's all locked up."

For a second Hermione felt uncomfortably like an artist, cleaning a canvas and glimpsing an earlier image, the original artwork, concealed beneath the later layers of paint and pretence. More Snape secrets… And had Harry become, by default, a 'secret-keeper'?

"I wouldn't mention it to him either," Harry warned. "It's a tricky subject." He didn't say why.

Inwardly, Hermione groaned. She hadn't expected it to be easy or particularly pleasant staying with Professor Snape, but nor had she anticipated such a minefield of taboos.

"Harry, are you sure he's OK about my being here? He wasn't very friendly last week - not exactly 'charm' personified…"

"He'll be nice," Harry assured her. "I've made him promise to be nice."

So they did talk to each other after all. Hermione was surprised and, inexplicably, touched.

X X X

An eye-watering, antiseptic blast, neither camphor nor menthol, hit them as they entered the back door. It suffused the entire building with a medicated zing. It was as though the cottage itself were suffering from a bad cold and had waxed the floors with vapour rub.

"Oh god, I hope that's not supper," coughed Harry, holding his sleeve up in front of his nose. Hermione hoped so too. Politeness has its limits…

The pungent, medicinal smell intensified as they walked down the hall. Right in the centre of the living room, apparently growing out of the polished floorboards, was a Eucalyptus tree. It was not large, as Eucalyptus trees go, but here, in the low-ceilinged confines of the small cottage, with its dense clumps of evergreen foliage, it seemed enormous. Its smooth, smoky-blue boughs extended from one side of the room to the other, drooping long sickle-shaped, grey-green leaves over the dining table and as far as the fireplace. At close quarters the leaves exuded a sinus-scouring combination of every detergent, lavatory cleaner and decongestant Hermione had ever encountered.

On closer inspection Hermione discovered them to be an assortment of deterrent-coloured corks, berries, cones, nuts, sea shells and, she realised with a shock, toadstools… Clambering up and down at random amongst the twigs, pushing their way through the greenery was a family of somewhat light-headed, tiny Tasmanian Glow-Pixies. Their indignant squeaks, correctly interpreted, were complaining vociferously about the smell, but they persevered with the job - at Christmas they could earn good money from piece-rate, free-lance twinkling.

Snape, browsing by the bookcase, replaced a volume on the shelf and turned to greet them, emerging through the Eucalyptus like a black panther from the jungle.

"Good afternoon Miss Gr-, Hermione," he corrected himself.

"Hello, Sir." Had the wand bug struck again?

"What's all this?" asked Harry, trying hard not to inhale. He twanged a branch and dislodged a Pixie. "It stinks in here. What the hell has that stupid elf done now?"

"Quig has taken it upon himself to put up Christmas decorations. I did say that a small tree would be sufficient - our Halls have been decked with quite enough boughs for one year - but Quig's spatial awareness leaves much to be desired."

"Couldn't you have stopped him? Can't you make it smaller?" Harry demanded, pinching his nostrils.

"As you wish. Reducio!"

The Eucalyptus shrank to a more manageable six feet. The shrilling of the Pixies went ultra-sonic.

"He lets that bloody elf get away with murder," muttered Harry, snuffling, still wrinkling his nose. "Ugh. Let's go downstairs while the air clears up here. What? What's up?"

Hermione followed Harry, but not without a baffled, backward glance in Snape's direction. Much to her embarrassment, he raised an eyebrow at her, and then resumed his reading. She had a vague impression that his reaction to the tree had been deliberately enigmatic. She was confused.

"Oh, nothing - it's not what I expected, that's all."

"You mean, he's not. Get used to it!" Harry grinned. If there was one thing he'd learned about Snape it was that his intolerance, like everything else, was unpredictable.

Hermione vowed to set aside her preconceptions about Snape. This was a holiday; she should relax and go with the flow. This was no time to be judgemental. She was, after all, at that moment heading into a wizard's basement to be socially introduced to a partially bisexual, West African, three-headed snake. Chill, girl!

End of Chapter. Next Chapter: RHYME OR REASON. Well, what would you talk to Snape about over dinner? Hermione is pleasantly surprised - at first.