Holiday Spirit
It was the weekend before Christmas Holidays started, and the teachers had practically shoved us out the door to Hogsmeade. There was snow on the ground, of course. Scotland in winter is damned near arctic. The village had been decorated with wreaths of holly and ivy, mistletoe in all the doorways and great pine trees from the Forest covered in baubles were in all the windows. Christmas.
There aren't many wizarding families who adhere to Christianity, or to any other religion; mudbloods and bloodtraitors with half-blood children do, sometimes, and there are one or two pureblood families – the Prewetts, what's left of them, and the Bones – who actually believe in it. None of the deatheater families, though. The Dark Lord does not like his followers to have any Lord greater than himself.
It is an odd religion – a religion for slaves. Their prophet was always prattling on about peace and love and obedience. The entire Christmas holiday is about goodwill to your fellow men. Christmas is a holiday for Hufflepuffs and cowards, those too fearful or too stupid to fight on their own behalf. It will soon be a dying religion, when the Dark Lord ascends to his true power.
Needless to say, I did not have much of the holiday spirit when walking back from Hogsmeade that day. Crabbe and Goyle, as usual, were with me. They were discussing, mostly in grunts, an encounter they had had with a second year Ravenclaw, who had apparently shown them some cheek. They were plotting a gruesome torture for him, which involved much pounding, stomping, and flattening, but rather less use of wands than one would expect from a seventh-year wizard. Occasionally, they would ask my opinion on some small matter (should they punch him first, or would it be more efficacious to pinion him to a wall?), and I would reply with a monosyllabic yes or no. Crabbe and Goyle are never very interesting.
The snow was glistening white, save for the path trampled by students going to and from the castle. The trees of the Forbidden Forest looked less hostile in the afternoon sun, and it was hard to believe the darkness in that wood when one saw the snow shining on its branches. Still, I shivered when I looked at that forest, and not just from the cold. I am no coward, but I do not love danger. I have too much to do in this life to throw it away with needless risk, and that risk, during my years at Hogwarts, somehow seems to have concentrated itself in the Forest.
The half-breed oaf, Hagrid, was dragging in a pine tree for the Great Hall when we arrived back at the castle. It was a splendid tree, I had to admit, but my stomach felt sour as I thought of what it represented. I do not like Christmas.