Author's note: Last chapter. Tempting though it was to have Snape abducted/ kidnapped/tortured again, I had promised myself that this story would end on Christmas Day... So, it's 'happy ending' time folks! (Though not necessarily 'happy ever after'. Who can say?)

DECK THE HALLS

By Bellegeste

CHAPTER 15: MERRY CHRISTMAS !

Wednesday 25th December

Christmas Day

"Nadolig Llawen! Merry Christmas! Good morning - bore da! Luv'ly day. A little misty, mind, but it'll burn off a treat. Wake up, now."

Hestia stomped into the barn, ruddy-cheeked, panting clouds, with the robust, busy, purposeful air of someone who has already rebuilt a haystack before breakfast. Breakfast? She was carrying a tray… A sweet, warm, buttery, fresh-baked aroma energised Harry in a way that no Christmas greeting ever would. Hot Welsh-cakes and honey, and a jug of fresh milk - probably unpasteurised, probably from a sheep… who cared? Hunger made for tolerance.

Holding the cake at arm's length as dripping, melted butter oozed onto his fingers, Harry wandered to the doorway and leaned on the frame, looking out. The countryside was gone. Fields, trees, the standing stones, had all disappeared. It was a complete white-out, as far as the eye could see - and that was at least a yard!

"You wanted a white Christmas!" he called to Hermione.

"Is it snowing? How lovely!" She joined him at the door. "But, Harry, that's…"

Fog. It swaddled the barn like a clinging, grey-white wad of damp tissues, jammed into the pockets of the valley.

"Sorry. Best I could do at short notice." He smiled a pale truce.

"Come on, sleepies! Eat up. Then it's off to the farmhouse with you. Get you cleaned up." Hestia bustled off to the lambing fold, warbling a familiar tune - Nos Galan - though the words were Welsh gobbledygook to the listening pair.

"Oer yw'r gwr sy'n methu caru,

Fa la la la la la ……"

She came back, wiping wet hands down the front of her parka.

"And then…

"I'r helbulus oer yw'r biliau,

Fa la la la la la la la la…

Sydd yn dyfod…"

"Then what?" Harry raised his voice. One Welsh singer was formidable enough. He imagined an entire choir, and felt utterly intimidated.

"Then we'll go." Hestia stopped singing and came up to him, putting a kind, leathery arm around his shoulders. "They've found him, Harry bach. They're taking him to St. Mungo's now. We're to meet them there in an hour."

"Why not now? Is he alright? Why St Mungo's? Why not Hogwarts?"

"Oh, so many questions! London's closer, that's all. He's not exactly well, but Potions these days can work wonders… We've got to give them time to take effect, Harry. Besides, they wouldn't let you into a hospital like that - all covered in straw and whatnot."

Harry glanced down at himself. The whatnot was rather whiffy…

X X X

The hospital reception was as crowded as always, the row of rickety chairs already fully occupied with the first casualties of Christmas. Once again the shiny white Christmas trees, decked with their magical snow and icicles, stood in every corner, their gold stars gleaming. Harry thought back to the previous Christmas when he had been visiting Mr Weasley - this was getting to be an annual event!

By the Enquiries desk a group of wizards and witches appeared to be arguing with a flabby-looking, lime-green-clad Healer. Even from the back, Harry recognised the long, silvery white locks of Professor Dumbledore and, next to him, a tall, bald-headed figure - Shacklebolt.

Dumbledore's polite but authoritative remonstrations were cutting no ice with the Healer, who repeatedly shook his head and was on the point of leaving when the Headmaster caught sight of Harry.

"Ah, Harry. Your arrival is most opportune. It appears that hospital regulations do not allow us to visit Severus yet - only members of his immediate family are allowed to see him. And that, my boy, means you!"

Harry was still not accustomed to hearing his relationship discussed so openly and so bluntly.

"Hospital visitor policy has been considerably tightened following an unfortunate security lapse last year," the Healer commented humourlessly. "And also since one of our long term inmates starting issuing invitations to public book-signings on the premises. We cannot have our wards besieged by screaming admirers. This is a hospital, not a fan convention."

Lockhart was still on form then!

The Healer - his badge identified him as Linctus Dollop - drew Harry to one side, leaving Dumbledore and the others looking extremely put out.

"You are Harry Snape?"

"Um, no…yes…sort of…" The surname threw him. And he was too anxious to be bothering with formalities. The Healer, who obviously would have preferred to be at home spending Christmas with his own family, rather than on duty fending off the massed staff of the country's leading wizard school, tapped his clipboard impatiently.

"Yes or no? Are you or are you not the son of Severus Snape?"

"Yes! How is he? Can I see him?"

Dollop referred to his clipboard again, flicking over to a couple of pages of charts, then, in an impersonal tone he read out:

"Severus Snape was admitted in the early hours of this morning in a state of collapse, suffering from exposure and indeterminate spell damage…" He consulted the notes yet again, summarising: "…on further examination…er…partial thickness burns; percentage within tolerable margins… minor abrasions, bruising… evidence of smoke inhalation – localised inflammation of throat and trachea – I've prescribed Potions for that - airway no longer obstructed… Core temperature…"

Here he glanced up at Harry with an expression that might even have been taken for medical interest.

"On admission your father was severely hypothermic - it was quite a magical challenge to stabilise him. However…" He was running his finger down the list, pausing only where a tick or a comment had been added. "Hmm… minimal cyanosis; chest clear – no pneumonia… There. No cause for concern, except…"

"Spell damage?" Harry asked. The very phrase chilled him. Dollop regarded the boy with something like embarrassment.

"Ah, actually no. On investigation that proved to be fully reversible. There will be no lasting effects on that score. The problem is more one of - er - attitude." He swallowed the last word as if it were something sour and very salty. For the first time since McGonagall's desperate Floo message, Harry felt his lips tweak into a genuine smile.

"Attitude?"

The man was running a nervous, fleshy tongue around his gums and awkwardly fingering the slack wattle on his neck. Harry could well understand that Snape might find this man obnoxious, and would probably not conceal the fact.

"Yes. Since regaining consciousness, Professor Snape has been less than co-operative… You must appreciate, Mr. er… that your father is suffering from extreme exhaustion and it is essential that he rest… perhaps you could have a word with him? I have given him a mild Oblivio to take the edge off his anxiety - help him to relax and forget the trauma - but he keeps blocking the spell. It has been necessary to entrust his wand to Security for, er, 'safe-keeping'. He insists that he leave at once. Which is medically inadvisable. I could not authorise discharge until he has been under observation for a minimum of twenty-four hours. And, another thing, Mr Snape, if you could ask all but the immediate family to restrict their visits to the designated times…"

"Which Ward?" asked Harry, not making any promises.

"Fourth Floor. He has been moved to a private room for the, er, benefit of the other patients… Room 406."

Relieved - if Snape was already upsetting people he couldn't be too ill - Harry walked back over to the staff who were still waiting crossly by the desk. Dumbledore was deep in reminiscent conversation with the portrait of Dilys Derwent - she agreed wholeheartedly that St. Mungo's was not the place it had been in her day.

Professor McGonagall, her face a great deal less molten than the last time Harry had seen it, was scathing in her condemnation.

"Rules and regulations! Call it a hospital! The place has been over-run by bureaucrats. Call themselves Healers? Half of them couldn't diagnose Dragon Pox if it leaped out and singed them! Officious quill-quibblers! Oh, Harry - how are you? How's Severus? That unpleasant person refused to 'divulge any information'."

The critical tone could not hide her concern. Hearing it, Harry felt a tug of gratitude, affection even, towards his Head of House.

"He's alright," he told her, "but he has to rest now. Perhaps you could all come back later?"

"Well, why didn't they just say so? Port-key, Albus!" She tapped Dumbledore on the shoulder. "Is Miss Granger coming back with us?"

Harry looked across the foyer to where Hermione was standing and chatting - to Neville Longbottom.

"No, I think she'll wait. It looks like we'll be spending Christmas here…"

X X X

The door to room 406 was closed. They wouldn't have been at all surprised if it had a Locking Charm on it as well, to prevent Snape from absconding. Though, if the Potions master were determined to discharge himself and leave, no mere medi-wizard would be able to stop him.

Hermione and Neville were standing in the corridor. There was something decidedly furtive about the way they were loitering outside Snape's door.

"Did Harry say how long he'd be?" whispered Neville.

"No. He said either to wait for him here, or to go in and keep Snape busy 'til he gets back."

Harry's actual words had been, "Stall him. Talk about sheep! That should send him to sleep. Or, give him that motherly stuff you do about, 'Girls know best' and 'It's all for your own good'… It gets me every time!"

Hermione knew she would die rather than 'mother' Professor Snape.

Neville was fidgeting to go. His grandmother had arranged to meet him outside by the entrance to Purge and Dowse. He had smuggled Hermione upstairs, by-passing the security check by claiming that she had come to visit Alice and Frank, but now he was worried that Mrs Longbottom Snr would raise the alarm. Tonks, however, had collared him earlier and asked him to deliver a message to Snape.

"I can tell him," Hermione had offered. But Neville was dutifully bent on fulfilling the commission himself. He gave his watch another panicky glance.

"We'll have to go in and risk it," he said, reminding himself he was a Gryffindor and therefore inherently brave…

"Alohomora!" Hermione murmured hesitantly, and Neville turned the handle…

x x x

The soot and ashes may have been washed away, but stark evidence of the fire remained: Snape's hair and eyebrows were singed; beneath the pink weals of magically healed burns, his face had a sickly, bluish pallor, as though the inhaled smoke were working its way out through the pores of his very skin. The bruising graze of a spell-track scored one cheek with a blistered, grey furrow. Both hands were bandaged. He was lying, propped up with pillows at an angle to reduce the pressure on his lungs, his breathing wheezy and painful. Despite the heat in the hospital room, he still had the hunched, tense look of a man chilled to the depths of his soul.

"Oh, Sir…!" If it had been Remus lying there, hurt and miserable, Hermione would have rushed to comfort him. But how, where, did one begin to be nice to Professor Snape? She didn't know what to say.

Four days had been quite long enough to allow Neville's terror of Snape to resurface. At the sight of the Potions master, he relapsed into stuttering incoherence.

"Sorry, er, Sir, but my gran's outside. We're not supposed to be here at all, Sir… but she gets right narky if I keep her waiting. And they're only letting in immediate family."

Snape regarded them both without enthusiasm.

"Merlin forbid!" he rasped. Then, "Where's Harry?" His voice was raw with the effects of the smoke, his eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion.

Hermione, who had been striving to keep her gaze fixed on his face, and not to let it drop to the sight of his bare chest visible through the unbuttoned, open-necked nightshirt, leaped at an excuse to slip out into the corridor.

"I'll see if I can hurry him up, Sir."

The inviolable Snape persona was so inextricably associated in her mind with the fierce, black, buttoned-up exterior, the swirling cloak, the tangible barrier of his untouchable image, that the barest glimpse of pale skin, of humanity, made her uncomfortable.

Neville was already almost puce with mortification. His presence in the sick room seemed an unforgivable familiarity. He stammered to put his intrusion into context, made no sense, and halted in confusion and humiliation. It was up to Snape to instigate a conversation. Much to Neville's amazement, his first words were not 'Get out!'

"Your parents?" he croaked, keeping his sentences to a minimum. The simple question rescued Neville.

"Yes, Sir. They're fine. Thank you, Sir. I think they enjoy Christmas - all the decorations and everything. They like that. My Mum likes unwrapping things."

Why was he talking to this hateful man about his parents?

"Sir, Tonks asked me to give you a message. I don't know what it means, Sir. She said, "The elf has the lizard" and "The tail will grow back". Does that sound right, Sir? Is it a code? Sir? Sir? Oh, 'eck!"

For Snape had dissolved back into his pillows with a little moan, his eyes shut, his breaths dragging in shallow gasps. Dismayed, Neville took a tremulous step nearer the bed. He was already wondering how he would explain away killing off the Potions master, accidentally, so soon after poisoning him - it was beginning to look like a vendetta - when Snape sniffed and opened his eyes. Neville automatically passed him a tissue from a box on the bedside cabinet.

"Did I get it wrong again, Sir? I'm sure that's what Tonks said… But I forget things sometimes, Sir, I know I do."

"That's fine, Longbottom. Trust your instincts, boy," Snape whispered.

"I could call someone if you're not feeling so good, Sir, - the ward sister?" Neville suggested - he knew his way round the system at St Mungo's fairly well after all these years.

"Absolutely not!" Faint but emphatic. "It was…I'm… I'm just tired," Snape admitted.

"Right. Well, I'd best be off." Neville, mission accomplished, shifted uncertainly, feeling that circumstances required him to say something uplifting. "I'll see you next term then, Sir." Not exactly the most encouraging words to speed an invalid's recovery, but they were the best he could do. He backed out of the door as if quitting an audience with a capricious Eastern potentate. It was all he could do not to bow with relief at escaping unscathed.

Hermione was pacing the corridor.

"I can't find Harry anywhere," she complained. "He said he'd be only a minute. Where's he got to? Oh, bye Neville. Thanks for getting me in. If you see Harry on your way down, tell him to hurry up. Oh, no!"

Seeing a lime green inquisition heading in her direction, she ducked back into room 406.

"Harry's coming, Sir. He just got held up," she lied.

"Tell him to retrieve my wand and my possessions from that citrus-coloured quack," he instructed hoarsely, wincing. His hand moved to his neck, massaging his scorched throat. "Tell him I wish to leave. Now." He pushed himself upright. For one awful moment Hermione thought he was going to throw back the covers and get out of bed - she baulked at the idea that he might need help - it was far too personal. He might be Harry's dad, but he was still Professor Snape. She couldn't skip all six degrees of separation in one night!

He stopped, his chest heaving as he fought to suppress a cough and get his breathing back under control. Hermione watched him. Where did he think he was going to go, anyway? To the burned out remains of Snape Cottage? To the Manor? Back to school? He didn't look strong enough to Apparate into the next room, let alone all the way back to Hogwarts. She picked up a raspberry pink phial from the cabinet top and read the label.

"You're not supposed to talk, Sir. Gosh, this potion's strong stuff - 'Benzoin, Kanuka, Taget, Salamander Blood…'," She skimmed through the ingredients. "…but it won't work if you don't let it…" Then she checked the time. "You can have another dose now, if you like."

He nodded weakly, not wanting to risk speaking again so soon. Acutely embarrassed, Hermione measured out a spoonful and lifted it to Snape's lips. She prayed that Harry would be quick and get back soon. If her hand was trembling, she tried not to show it, not to spill the Soothing Potion.

"You mustn't speak, and you need to rest, Sir. Come on, lie down." She was taking charge, easing him gently back down into the bed. "It's for your own good, Sir."

Suddenly she bit her tongue - Harry was right! She did say that! Was she really so bossy and predictable? He'd got one thing wrong though - she hadn't been using it as a stalling tactic. It had been… Oh, no, this was precisely what she hadn't wanted to happen. She felt the stress of the last twenty-four hours brimming in her eyes.

"We were - I mean, Harry was - we were so worried about you…" she faltered.

Snape surveyed her in mute surprise. He was accustomed to reducing his students to tears, but tears on his behalf were something new and strange. His eyes flicked over to the box of tissues, and the girl took one with an apologetic, self-conscious smile.

"Sorry, Sir."

x x x

There was a scrabbly scratching at the door. It nudged open, and a white, spiky shape filled the doorway, forcing itself, prickle by snowy prickle into the room, the branches pinging through the opening like the bristles of a bottle-brush in a narrow-necked bottle.

"Whew! Got stuck in the lift!" Harry gasped. "Wedged in. Pinched this from the foyer and then went up and down about five times before I could get it out. Should have used a Shrinking Spell really… Can't have Christmas without a tree! What do you think? Cheers the place up, doesn't it?"

Harry propped the Christmas tree at a wonky angle at the end of Snape's bed and stood back to admire it. Hermione's initial irritation was swamped by a flood of compassion: this is all too much for him to handle; the only way he can deal with it is to make it into a joke…

Harry moved round the bed to assess the tree from Snape's viewpoint, tilting his head sideways to counteract the camber. It was the first time he had come anywhere close to his father.

"They said you were alright?" he said quietly, making it a question, searching Snape's eyes for reassurance.

Snape opened his mouth to answer, but Hermione shushed him with a stern shake of her head and a 'tut' worthy of Madam Pomfrey. So instead, his bandaged fingers moved stiffly, and Hermione realised he was signing a reply. That skill had its uses! Harry concentrated, following the movements, a blush of understanding warming his face. But the white gauze separated them with its sterile shield. Hermione was convinced that, but for the bandages, Harry would have taken Snape's hand. She waited for him to slip his arm around his father's shoulders… the mirage of an embrace shimmered in the hot, hospital air…

Then he was off again.

"Wait! There's more!" he exclaimed, dashing out. In seconds he was back, almost hidden behind the dome of an enormous, silver salver. He paraded proudly into the room like the head chef at a State banquet.

"Christmas Dinner with all the trimmings! The works!" he announced, with as flamboyant a bow as he could manage without spilling the lot. He'd been looking forward to this. He looked so happy it was a shame to spoil it. Hermione frowned doubtfully.

"But, Harry, Professor Snape can hardly swallow. He won't be allowed to eat that…"

Harry winked at her.

"It's OK. I've checked. They want him to build his strength up. Ta-da!" With a flourish he whisked away the silver lid to reveal three steaming bowls.

"What is it?"

"Chicken soup! Merry Christmas!"

End of Story. Aaaah… Hope you liked it. Went a little soft at the end, and I think Snape got off quite lightly this time, (poor man always gets beaten up somehow in my stories) but I didn't want to spoil his Christmas completely!

Thank you so much to everyone who has read and reviewed. Pity you can't see my illustrated version - In my own copy I have pictures of places like Spinster's Rock and the Three Men of Trellech, and, of course, Bonxies …

So, what's next? Maybe I'll get around to loading Lost Perspective 4. It's about time!