This story is NOT to be archived anywhere besides Potter and the affiliated trademarks are property of JK Rowling. I am not making money with this so call off the bloodhounds.
The Holiday Spirits
by Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6surfeu.fi)
Chapter 5
"Good Sir hardly needs to ask," the elf retorted and hopped onto a nearby gurney. It disappeared under the sheets, and then whispered; "Room 3426, Good Sir."
If he calls me 'Good Sir' once more he can well consider his neck wrung...
With a swish of his robes, Snape entered room number 3426.
It must've been Christmas Eve. So this was what the elf had been speaking of – he was the Ghost of Christmases present, so future was not strictly his field, but Christmas was a bit of a loose term at best.
The place was St. Mungo's, no doubt about it. Room 3426 lay in a restricted access ward – one that housed those unfortunates who had been mentally disturbed by magic.
Inside the room a worn-looking Christmas tree sported only a few dusty decorations. The whole place looked forlorn. On a double bed, a couple with deep shadows under their eyes slept restlessly. They were dressed in hospital garb, hair dishevelled and dirty, hanging in locks. Had they opened their eyes the expressions would have been vague, uninterested and empty, devoid of all humanity and intellect.
Next to the window, wide awake, sat a boy. Longbottom again. So this was his parents' room. Even though Snape knew he was nonexistant to the time which he was visiting, he couldn't help but sneak around quietly, feeling as though a mere loud intake of breath would shake the boy out of his obviously agonied reverie.
So this was the way Longbottom spent his Christmases. With parents who had been shaken out of their minds with a well-performed Crucio. He knew for certain it had been well-performed; it has been his own doing.
Snape's fingers curled into fists. This was old news. What was here for him to see?
The elf appeared at his side and he turned to face the little hangy-eared creature. "How long," he spat out, no longer able to contain his rage, "How long must I endure this? How long must I be reminded of Voldemort's time? And who are you to remind me?"
The elf shot him an annoyingly sympathetic look. "Good Sir still does not understand so I must explain. See, Good Sir, it is not about the Death Eaters—"
"Oh spare me you dimwitted gnome. If this isn't about the Death Eaters then what? I know I'm going to spend the rest of my mortal days in remorse, in such a way that is impossible for you to grasp. I'm paying for this, every second of my life," he snarled, glancing at Longbottom again. He was still sitting by the window, staring out into the darkening night.
The elf tugged his robes, desperate for attention.
"What!"
"Good Sir does regret this all, he does and it is all and well. But Good Sir does not understand, he has not learned, that not only greatly bad deeds have a very, very ill effect. It is those little things, Good Sir, that Good Sir does, that are still doing bad."
"You are implying that I am wrong to stall Longbottom from coming to spend Christmas here? That his holidays would not be happier at Hogwarts? Have you any sense of proportion?"
"No, Good Sir. Good Sir simply should not treat people so badly. Good Sir might not realize the impact of those actions to his own well-being."
"What have Longbottom or Potter got to do with my well-being, if I may inquire?" Snape crossed his arms. Perhaps he did treat Neville slightly harshly, but the boy was a walking disaster when it came to potions! And the fact that his parents... well, perhaps there was a reason he ought to be given some leeway. But Potter, he was another matter completely. Nothing, truly nothing, could make up for his shortcomings.
The elf looked at him as though it had heard what he'd been thinking, sighed, and snapped his fingers.
Suddenly Snape found himself falling harshly onto his own four-poster bed through the heavy upper velvet draping which ripped with a sharp sound. The elf was nowhere to be seen.
The window was open for some reason, and a cold draft shifted through Snape's bedchamber. He clambered to his feet to close the shutters and then climbed back into his four-poster bed decorated in Slytherin colours. He remembered how proud he'd been to bear the colours of the one house that was famous for its former occupants – cunning, ruthful wizards. Some had gone all rotten, yes, but many had walked great roads amd become legends.
Then on came James Potter and his ilk who were so determined to make his life a misery that his delusions of grandeur were constantly interrupted by their childish pranks. He had wanted, oh how he had craved, for a means to stop it, and Hogwarts magic simply was not powerful enough. He discovered the Dark Arts, and they gave him a sense of power no hex played upon James Potter could ever have given. He did not care anymore for anything else than recognition – that of Voldemort. And the events that followed he did not wish to recall. It had been his error. And he regretted making such a miscalculation, taking a course in life lead by a madman who pulled all with him to the depths. The depths from which Dumbledore had saved him at the eleventh hour.
He did not want to encounter the last ghost. What could it possible show him that would change anything? He had changed since his Death Eater times, but some things simply were in his character and there was no altering that.
He did not know how long he had lain in bed. Hours, perhaps, lost in contemplation.
When the curtains began to shift in a breeze again, he stirred. The ruddy window had opened again, he reasoned, and prepared to lift his feet onto the cold floor.
But the window was not open. For a moment Snape thought that the ghost of Artemisia Dollop had returned, but this was different.
He grabbed his blankets and coiled them around him. It had suddenly gotten very cold indeed. If he blinked hard he could see frost forming in the windows, lit by the moonlit. Frost forming on the inside of the windows.
The room seemed darker, quieter, lonelier – as though a Dementor had glided in. But something told Snape not even Dementors could compete here – this was much worse.
His body began to turn rigid in the extreme cold, and he was slowly consumed by an icy desperation that seemed to fill him, stop his blood, seep into his bones and carve them hollow.
All noise disappeared. The clank of falling snow in the eaves, the sound of candlewax dripping onto the stone floors, the swishing sound Peeves made as he flew in the corridors – everything evaporated. Nothing existed outside these darkened rooms.
And then the blue mist began seeping in. It entered through mouseholes, crept in from under the door, from the window frames, from under the bed.
Approaching hysterics, Snape decided to use whatever hex he could muster to stop this. Not this. He did not want this. He did not know exactly what was making its way into his rooms, but he had a ruddy good guess...
His hands simple could not move. Whether it was due to fear or the cold, he could not tell.
The mist slowly seeped in like black ink. It gathered onto the floor and slowly, a tall, black, cloaked figure rose from it. A creature more terrible than anything.
Voldemort, was all Snape's cracking, icy lips could whisper out.
He felt like floating. Disappearing into darkness. He knew he was no longer in his bed, and that the presence of the Dark Lord had not disappeared.