Title: The Last Day (15/?)
Author: Sonya
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.
Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.
Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.
Summary: See title.
Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgment. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?
I'm fudging the timing of Hanukkah to coincide with the beginning of the Hogwarts winter holidays, which I wanted to start on Solstice for symbolic purposes. Hopefully this is not too offensive to anyone, considering this is written in a year that doesn't technically exist (2001 in Scoobyland, 1995 in the Potterverse, by canon timelines). I'm not intending to offend anyone, so I'm apologizing in advance if anyone's upset by it.
***
"It cannot possibly have been that bad," Ginny said, frowning, pulling the ice pack away from her brother's face.
"You're right," Ron lisped out. "It was worse."
"You just fell," Ginny retorted, eyeing his bruised nose critically and renewing the cooling charm on the ice pack before handing it back.
"I fell on my *face*," Ron insisted miserably, only it came out sounding more like "fath". "I fell on my bloody *nose*."
"At least yours isn't broken," Harry suggested.
"It's not the same thing," Ron muttered.
"Oh, yes, because a bloody nose from falling on the ice is so much more traumatic than having your skull fractured," Ginny snapped back.
"Harry got beat up by Malfoy the budding sociopath," Ron answered, sounding indignant.
"Exactly," Ginny responded. "That's much worse."
"He got thrashed worse," Ron argued, "but at least he's got some dignity left!"
"Can I trade that?" Harry asked of no one in particular. "Just a little of it. Maybe a portion equivalent to a few of my ribs."
"Whereas you might as well resign yourself to life as a recluse right now, because you fell while skating," Ginny said tonelessly. She tried to check her brother's nose again, but he jerked back away.
"Stop fussing!"
"Well it doesn't do any good if it's not actually cold!"
"I don't need my little sister fussing over me! You're worse than Mum!"
"If the swelling's not down by tomorrow you'll have to deal with Mum, *and* explain how you got it." Ron slumped in defeat, handing over the ice pack.
"Why wouldn't you want your mum to know you fell on the ice?" Harry asked, perplexed.
"Because he fell on the ice snogging Blaise Zabini," Hermione interjected from across the near-empty common room; most of the students had congregated in the great hall, exchanging gifts and goodbyes on the last day of the term.
"I was not snogging her," Ron objected loudly. "Ow!"
"Well if you'd hold still I wouldn't have bumped it," Ginny tsked in exasperation, trying to adjust the ice pack around her brother's nose so it would also provide a little comfort to the growing bruise on his cheekbone.
"Just give it here!" Ron snatched the pack away from Ginny.
"Oh, fine! Just go ahead and grow a whole face full of bruises, then!" she exclaimed, throwing up her hands and going to sit down across from Hermione, who had her head bent over a parchment.
"Gonna tell Viktor all about?" Ron demanded.
"No," Hermione said coolly. "I don't think he'd be interested. He did ask how you were patching up, though, Harry."
"Oh," Harry said awkwardly. "Um, well, thanks. To him, I mean. Tell him that's . . nice. I'm okay."
"Your nose still isn't the same shape," Ron contradicted him.
"It's not likely to be the same shape again," Harry said with a shrug, raising a hand to his face to run a finger over the new bump across the bridge of his nose.
"It looks fine," Hermione said reassuringly. Ginny put her chin down on her arms on the table, watching Hermione's quill flowing over the paper in neat little swirls, the angle of view too great for the words to be legible.
"I guess," Harry said, sounding doubtful. Ginny glanced sideways at him. It looks sort of . .rugged, actually. A bit handsome. I don't think I'll be saying that, though.
I wonder if I'll see Draco on the train tomorrow.
Not that I'll be saying anything to him either.
Nothing like . . I think I understand. Or like, you need to tell someone.
Or like, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm the one person in the world who's had an inside view of Voldemort's brain, and I haven't the faintest clue what to do with it, and I'm sorry that means he's come back and your father's probably making you do something horrid to do with him. I'm sorry it's the holiday tomorrow and I've got the dreadful feeling that means time's up, and I still haven't figured out what to do about what I think might be happening.
I'm sorry you can't handle it. I'm sorry Harry's nose got bent into a new shape because you can't handle it. I'm sorry Harry almost died and I'm sorry you almost killed him and I don't know who to feel worse for.
And I'm sorry for me. I'm sorry for me that my friends and my brothers are such stupid gits that I can't tell a single one of them about this, because they'd just be like 'Draco's an almost- murdering little git, Gin, who cares?'
'But Gin, it's Draco. How can you know something bad's happening to him? He's like this all the time.'
'What would you know about it anyway, Gin?'
Lots of things I wish I didn't, that's what. And Ron's worried 'cause he fell in front of Blaise, who I can't imagine gives a damn and probably thought it was cute.
It'd be nice if it could just be Christmas and happy for a bit . .
But it won't be. I don't know how I know that, but it won't be.
"Really, Harry, it's hardly noticeable," Hermione insisted.
"Says the girl who's dating Viktor Krum," Ron commented.
"And I've never fallen on my face doing it, either," Hermione retorted smoothly.
"Doing it?" Ron choked.
"Wouldn't you like to know," Hermione said archly.
"No!" Ron exclaimed. "It'd give me nightmares!"
"Your nose looks fine, Harry," Ginny interjected. "And unlike some people's, it's sitting in front of a functional brain, even." How can they care about something so stupid, for Merlin' sake, Harry could have died . . can't they see that something dreadful's going to happen, can't they feel it? How can they be so . . so . .
"What'd I do to *you*?" Ron demanded. "Now you're sniping at me too? Let's everybody pick on the bloke with the bloody nose!"
At that exact moment Lavendar and Parvati came in through the portrait door, arms laden with partially unwrapped gifts in all shapes and sizes. Parvati had a bright green foil bow on top of her head, and Lavendar was sucking a candy cane. Both girls stopped dead, staring at Ron, who flushed scarlet.
"Hello Lavendar, Parvati," Hermione said sweetly, eyes still on the half-finished letter in front of her. "Happy Christmas."
"What? Oh, yes - merry Christmas," Parvati responded, still eyeing Ron. Lavendar giggled around her candy cane. "There wasn't another fight, was there?" Hermione opened her mouth to respond.
"Yes!" said both Harry and Ginny simultaneously, and a little too loudly. Hermione blinked and looked up from her letter, giving Ginny a vaguely betrayed look.
"Oh, with who?" Parvati asked. Lavendar shuffled over to a chair and dropped her bundle of gifts, freeing her hands so she could take the candycane from her mouth. "Are you in very much trouble?" she asked Ron.
"Uh -" Ron stammered. "No. Uh, no, not much trouble."
"That's a matter of perspective," commented Hermione.
"It wasn't a *fight*, really," Ginny tried frantically to think of an explanation.
"Just sort of a scuffle," Harry added.
"Nothing that would be trouble, it was just -" she tried to think of something plausible. That'll teach you to jump right in with some story you haven't even thought out . . thinking on the spot is not for you, Ginny dear. Best leave that to - "Fred and George!" she burst out.
"Your brothers?" Lavendar asked, scrunching up her own pert little nose.
"Your brothers gave you a bloody nose?" Parvati frowned.
"Well, they didn't mean to," Harry said. "Like we were saying, it was just sorta -"
"Just playing around," Ginny added on, nodding. "Nobody was meant to get hurt."
"Oh," said Parvati, sounding disappointed.
I hope that's still better than falling on the ice on a date. The logic of boys and gossips escapes me.
Not that I know why I'm bothering. I was just thinking how stupid this was, just two seconds ago. Oh well. Happy Christmas to you, Ron.
The portrait door creaked open again. Fred was steering Angelina's levitating wheelchair through the opening. Ginny noticed she was wearing a new, very pretty necklace that looked like it was made up entirely of tiny gold snitches, and she was beaming.
"Happy Christmas!" Angelina called out cheerfully to the room at large. "Oh, I have presents for everyone! Can you get them from my room?" she turned and asked Fred. "Everything's in the third bureau drawer." George stomped in behind them, looking considerably less festive, and flopped down on the nearest available couch.
"Sure," Fred responded amiably. "Hey Ron, what happened to your face?"
"What?" asked Lavendar, clearly perplexed.
"Er - ah - " Ron stuttered.
And joy to the world, thought Ginny.
***
"I suppose that will have to do," Willow heard Snape's dry voice snarling in a distinctly disgusted tone, even before she came around the corner.
"Y-yes Sir!" stuttered a terrified-sounding student.
"Well, get going then! Unless you'd like to stay the holiday and finish?" Snape threatened.
"N-no Sir!" the student exclaimed. "I'm g-going, Sir!"
Willow was nearly bowled over by a hastily retreating Neville Longbottom as she stepped in through the Potions' classroom door. He stumbled, throwing himself sideways trying to avoid a collision, eyes rounding even further than usual.
"And do refrain from running down Professor Rosenberg!" Snape hollared.
"S-sorry!" Neville squeaked, and ran. Willow frowned after him, before crossing her arms and turning her disapproving expression on Snape.
"Why are you so mean to that kid?" she demanded.
"If you're here to berate me about my ethics in teaching, I have better things to do," Snape snapped, gathering up the remains of Neville's detention project; a stack of badly charred cauldrons in need of scrubbing.
"And a great big cheery 'happy holidays' to you too," Willow retorted, plopping herself down in a chair and putting her chin in her hands. "But really, I don't get it."
"I despise the holidays," Snape answered, "and I do not suffer incompetence." He tossed a half-scrubbed cauldron in the sink and began scrubbing it vigorously.
"Parkinson is incompetant," Willow pointed out. "Also that Brown girl - not the brightest bulb, you know? You don't go after them like you go after that poor Longbottom kid. And what's wrong with the holidays?"
"Thank you for pointing that out," he ground out, attacking the charred cauldron with unnecessary vigor. "In the future I will be certain to pay particular attention to the deficiencies of Brown and Parkinson. And because they are vapid, largely meaningless and commercialized celebrations based in illogical and outmoded supersitious beliefs that no one's truly honored in centuries."
"But that doesn't explain why you *notice* Longbottom's mistakes more. I mean, I swear, you've got like, Longbottom radar." She paused a beat. "Okay, take that the way I meant it and not the way it actually sounded in words. And you know, I'm kinda with you on the holidays, actually, but . . well, but I like them," she finished in a pout.
Snape didn't answer; he finished the first cauldron, rinsed away the soot and grime that had been dislodged from it, and set it upside down on the counter with a heavy leaden thump.
Well, somebody's in a mood that just doesn't say 'invite me over for dinner.'
Isn't that just annoying. Figures. I get up the nerve to do the whole actually asking for a formalized getting-together thing again, as opposed to just showing up, and he's in jerk-person poophead mode.
Not that it's that big a deal. I mean, not like a *date* kinda big deal or anything. It's just a friendly formal getting-together. But not too together.
I think.
I don't want to eat in the big old half-empty great hall tomorrow night. I want cozy little dinner in my cozy little rooms with some company. It'll be the first day of holiday and it's all festive. Well, it's all festive if you're not the Snape Who Stole Christmas.
And it has nothing to do with him having this to-die-for sexy voice or his nasty sense of humor that I feel bad for finding way hysterical or the way I sometimes think he looks at me 'cause hello, I like girls. Girl. One girl. Tara. Things will get better, I will get better, we'll defeat this Voldemort person and I'll go back and I'll try to make things right with her. Because I love Tara and I do not get the hots for men anymore.
Except that I don't miss her as much as I should.
Another cauldron clunked down on the counter with unnecessary force.
I ought to be miserable. It's Hanukkah, it's Solstice tomorrow, and it's almost Christmas . . and I'm here all girlfriendless . . and I'm not thinking, 'I need Tara.'
I don't want to be alone for tomorrow night. I think that could get really depressing. But not having her in particular here . . isn't automatically equivalent to being alone.
I love her. I love her so much . . but not so bad it hurts, anymore.
That's a good thing, isn't it? Lack of hurt? Lack of hurt is usually good.
But I miss the missing her.
Ugh. And this is why maintaining human contact through the holidays is a good thought. Aloneness bad. Leads to thinking. Thinking bad.
The grating sound of cauldrons being scoured within an inch of their metaphorical lives paused. Willow looked up. Snape still had his back to her.
"There is weakness in him," Snape said finally.
"What?" Willow asked, lost.
"Longbottom. In his blood. He's .. weak."
"Oh," Willow responded, considered for a moment. "What?"
"You know about his parents," Snape said flatly, but he waited for her to affirm the assertion.
"Yeah," she answered. "They're insane in St. Mungo's. They were tortured and .. and they broke. But that's awful!" she exclaimed. "You can't hold it against the poor kid that his parents went crazy under torture! That's - that's -"
"I am not holding it against him," Snape practically growled, throwing the scouring pad into the sink and turning towards her. "If I held it against him, I'd bloody well ignore him. Let him bumble his good-natured way through life oblivious to the harshness of the world until something nastier than I am comes along and eats him for afternoon tea!"
Willow snapped her mouth shut.
"They were very pleasant people, the Longbottoms," Snape ranted on. "You'd have liked them. Very good, moral people. I doubt they ever raised their voices to anyone in their cheery, pleasant little lives."
But that can't be right, Neville's father was an Auror, and from what I've seen of Aurors, the job involves a little voice-raising . . but then again, I'm thinking reality is not really in the picture at the moment.
This would be about pain.
"And they knew," Snape spat out, "they *knew* that help was coming!"
"You told them somehow," Willow guessed.
"Yes," Snape hissed. "And the help arrived in time. They were alive. We got them out alive. But -"
"But they didn't survive," Willow finished again. He just stared at her. Then he straightened, seeming to collect himself, the raw emotion in his eyes shutting down as if someone had flipped a switch.
"I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "This is not your concern. I -"
"No, stop that!" Willow interrupted, standing and moving around the desk towards him. She stopped a few feet away, watching him watch her. I'm thinking I'm not the only one who shouldn't be allowed much alone time right now. "It is. My concern. I'm concerned."
"Why?" he asked flatly.
"Because," she said, taken a little aback, annoyed at the faintly petulant note of defensiveness in her voice. "Just because I am." And I'm not ready to consider why that is, and you're not going to push me!
"I've tortured people," Snape said in that same toneless voice.
"Kinda figured that out," Willow shrugged. "I mean, duh, you were all dark magic guy. But, you got better. And besides, me too. Tortured people, I mean. Well, not people, more like a god, but that's not the -"
"You tortured a god?" Snape asked incredulously.
"This thing with the Longbottoms, it happened around the holidays, didn't it?" Willow asked. "And more like tried to. With the god-torturing, that is. It's not like I did a good job of it, or anything."
Snape just blinked at her.
"Okay, stop that!" Willow snapped. "'cause I'm about to ask you to dinner tomorrow and you're doing the head-trauma style staring again and you did that when I asked you out for coffee and you're making me nervous!"
He stared, and raised an eyebrow.
"You're not nice," Willow grumbled.
"But you're asking me to dinner," Snape reminded her.
"Well, yeah."
"Yes, it was," he said.
"What?" she asked.
"The Longbottoms. December 23rd," Snape explained.
"I'm sorry," Willow answered, wincing at the thought of a family waiting home on almost Christmas Eve for people who'd never really return. Neville as a baby, somebody must have been minding the baby . . the world just sucks sometimes.
"I don't deserve anyone's pity," Snape retorted. "It wasn't my loss."
"I know," Willow said, "but . . I'm just sorry." He sighed heavily.
"Then I'm sorry I've burdened you with this," Snape said, though he sounded more exasperated than sorry.
"Make it up to me," Willow suggested. "Come to dinner." Oh, I didn't just say that. How tactless am I? Here I am dealing with this big emotional trauma of his and I'm all yeah, let's just use that as a ploy to get him to . . what? Let you cook for him?
Talk? Bare his soul? Make you feel like you mean something to someone?
Oh, I didn't just think that, either.
There was a long and awkward pause.
"Do you prefer red or white wine?" he asked.
***
"She *what*?" Maggie Granger exclaimed, nearly dropping the plate of casserole she was carrying out to the table.
"Punched a boy," her husband Herbert repeated. "Professor Dumbledore seems to think she had, and I quote, 'sufficient provocation to mitigate the severity of the infraction.' Evidently the boy she punched had just done quite a job on that Harry fellow she's friendly with."
"She punched someone," Maggie repeated, the concept not quite sinking in. "With a fist? She didn't do some spell on him or something?" She dropped into a chair, setting the cassarole down only halfway on the table.
"He says 'punched,'" Herbert confirmed. "She has a detention, first week of the new term." He paused. "I suppose this means we should ground her or something."
"I can't believe she actually *hit* someone," Maggie insisted. "Let me see that!" She reached for the letter on heavy parchment.
Her hand had just touched the paper, her thumb brushing across the embossed wax Hogwarts seal, when the lights blinked out. She yelped, startled.
"Well, that's a bother," Herbert complained, and she heard his chair squeak on the floor as he stood. "Wonder what that's about." Maggie laid the letter down on the table and stood carefully, feeling along the edge of the table to the wall, and easing towards the window by sense of touch. She pulled back the heavy shades, and frowned in the darkness.
"The neighbor's lights are still on," she said, puzzled.
"Where did we put the flashlight?" Herbert called from somewhere across the room.
The window shattered inward.
TBC . .