Part Three: The Ghost of Christmas Present
Snape woke in mid snore, at the chiming of the clock. Sleepily, he heard it ring once and then twice. He kept his eyes tightly closed, as though trying to keep away his spectral visitor by pretending it wasn't there. However, as the painful seconds went by, not a sound was heard. Not the rattling of chains or a gentle voice. Snape had only dared to hope that that really had been all a dream, when he opened his eyes and saw a beam of rosy light traveling from his closet through his bed curtains. With a grunt, he sat up in bed and slowly moved to the closet.
"Severus Snape!" came a vaguely familiar voice from inside the closet, "Come!"
Wondering how in the world they were going to fit into his rather small closet, Snape opened the door.
Now, as both a cynic and a teacher of young wizards, nothing much surprised Snape. But the sight in his small closet made him gasp audibly.
The closet had miraculously become a gigantic room, the size of which could rival the Great Hall. It was decked out in an entire forest of holly, mistletoe, and ivy, which seemed to sprout out of the very walls and even dangled from the ceiling. A huge, roaring fire burned on the side of the room, overwhelming Snape with its sheer heat and power. But, by far, the most astounding thing in the room were the piles of candy--huge mounds of Chocolate Frogs, Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Pumpkin Pastries, Sugar Mice--even stacks of Muggle candy, as well. Many of the piles were taller than Snape himself. But what occupied Snape's attention the most was the man on top of one of these great piles. He wore dark green robes with a fur trim. On his white, long hair he wore a wreath of holly, decorated with icicles. Down from his similarly colored, long beard, Snape saw he had no shoes on, instead, letting his old, weathered feet dangle freely. In his hand was a torch, glowing with the same ethereal light that the first spirit's crown had done before.
But none of that was what caught Snape's avid attention. He blinked several times, as though trying to deny what he was seeing.
"Dumbledore?" he asked, incredulously.
The ghost's bright blue eyes looked benignly at Snape. "No--I'm afraid not. But don't feel badly--I've been mistaken before. We do look quite alike…I collect his Chocolate Frog Cards."
The spirit gestured to a large pile in the corner, a collection of Chocolate Frog Cards more expansive than even the Weasley kids' collections combined.
Snape turned his attention back to the smiling ghost.
"So--who are you?" Snape asked.
"Oh," the ghost replied, "How terribly rude of me. I'm the Ghost of Christmas Present. Come and know me better, man."
Snape, who had been standing at a more comfortable distance away, edged closer, keeping a watch on the ghost's torch.
"Have you not seen the likes of me before?" the spirit asked.
"Well," Snape reflected, "Unless you're counting Dumbledore…no."
"Not one of my brothers and sisters?"
"I don't think so," he answered, almost saying 'hope not' instead of 'don't think so', but luckily catching himself just in time, "How many do you have?"
"More than eight hundred," the spirit answered.
Snape smirked. "I imagine buying Christmas presents must be an expensive affair."
The ghost didn't answer. Instead, he extended the arm of his robe. "Touch my robes!"
Snape, hesitated slightly, but determined that it had to be better than flying on transparent broomsticks. He grimaced and gripped it.
Luckily, this time Snape was not forced to fly. Instead, he miraculously appeared in a bustling town, apparently on Christmas morning.
"Is this a Muggle town?" Snape asked, his disgust heightening.
"Yes, indeed," the spirit answered. Hearing Snape's unmistakable revulsion, the ghost added, "And they celebrate Christmas the same as wizards, Severus Snape."
As they walked through the town, children, off from school, were hurling snowballs cheerfully at one another. Mothers called family members in for Christmas dinner. Fathers shoveled driveways, giving their neighbors a slightly out of breath yet joyful Christmas greeting. The sight of these Muggles, vastly different than Snape's father, made the formerly appalled Potion's Master thoughtful. As though reading his mind, the spirit said, "Sometimes, Severus Snape, good in life is rather difficult to unearth--humans have to seek it to find it. Ah--we are getting closer now."
"Couldn't we have just--appeared there?" Snape asked, annoyed, "Rather than have to trudge through that bloody Muggle village?"
The ghost smiled gently. "Ah, but just appearing in someone's house is remarkably rude, Severus Snape."
Snape, with his unquestionably shrewd mind, knew that the spirit was not being entirely truthful about his reasoning--after all, no one could see them, why did it matter if they appeared in someone's house or not? But the spirit had wanted him to see the town, the village full of happy Muggles, so brimming with something he did not have.
The Potion's Master shook himself of these illogical thoughts and focused his entire attention on the softly falling snow.
"Here we are," the ghost declared.
Snape saw a rather bizarre looking house. On the bottom, it resembled a large, stone pig-pen. However, over time, rooms had been added on, haphazardly, until it was several stories tall and looking rather crooked. Several chimneys, pouring out smoke from the busy cooks inside, were poking haphazardly out of a red roof. Snape glanced to his right to see a sign pronouncing the house's name as "The Burrow."
"Of course," Snape murmured, recognizing the house, "The Weasley clan used to live here."
In one of Snape's rare fits of imagination, he remembered an old Muggle rhyme from his childhood.
There was a crooked man and he went a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence beside a crooked stile.
He had a crooked cat which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all lived together in a crooked little house.
Yet, with a strange, intuitive feeling (intuition was a strange feeling to Snape, anyway, as he had done his best to ignore his intuition for the last twenty years or so), he felt that there were no crooked people living within the crooked house.
The Ghost of Christmas Present stopped but a moment to gently touch its torch against the door, almost to bless the residence, and stepped inside with Snape trailing behind.
Snape's first impression of the Burrow was mass confusion. Three children scurried about, all excitement and laughter. The oldest one, who happened to be a seven-year-old girl by the name of Minerva Weasley, named after her mother's favorite teacher, was setting the table with an attempt at a solemn expression, which continued to break into giggles at the sight of her younger brothers, the six-year-old family twins, Arthur, named after their grandfather, who had died recently, and Albus, after their beloved headmaster. They appeared to be playing some strange game of tag around the dinning room table which had no rules that were observable to mankind. But they were enjoying themselves immensely.
Suddenly, from the door, Ronald Weasley walked in, looking rather flustered. "Stop that, boys. Your mother will be home from the store soon and you know how she hates it when you run around the dining room. Go out and play in the snow. And don't forget your snow boots!"
The boys, most likely not heeding a word their father said besides "play in the snow," dashed out of the room, giggling.
Ron shook his red-haired head. He was tall and lanky, with Weasley brown eyes and red hair, and had a smattering of freckles across his face.
"I'm not sure what we're going to do with them, Minerva," he remarked, rubbing his oldest child's head affectionately. Minerva giggled softly and replied, "Not sure, Dad--maybe feed them to a hippogriff."
"Yes, but your mother would be rather upset with me," Ron remarked, grinning, "I'd better go make sure they don't scare any of the neighbors."
Ron had no sooner left when his wife walked in the front door, holding the youngest Weasley child's hand. On first glance, Snape could see an unhealthy paleness on the child's face. She had a shoulder length braid of brown hair and very large brown eyes that seemed to be older than what she really was, a mere child of five. The girl was live and real enough--but she had a transitory sort of look, reminding Snape of the ghost of Hogwarts. She bore with her a tiny crutch which she limped gently with, smiling at her older sister.
"Little Luna," Minerva said, greeting her sister, who was named for a certain Ravenclaw who died defending Hogwarts during the last battle, "Go and get washed for dinner. How was the Christmas play?"
"Very good," Little Luna replied, "I wished I could have held baby Jesus, though--or maybe one of the sheep."
Reflectively, the child walked off to the bathroom.
In came Ron, with the boys, who greeted their mother with shrieks of delight.
"It should be Christmas everyday," Granger remarked, "I never am so popular as when I cook Christmas dinner."
The boys dashed off to bathroom as well, pushing each other along the way.
"How was Luna?" Ron asked, as Minerva followed along as well, scolding her younger brothers from behind.
"Good as gold," Hermione answered, "She's such a solitary child, though. Luna likes to sit and think of the strangest things…she said she hoped that everyone saw that Jesus was a little baby, that even little people can do great things--just like her."
Her voice shook slightly. Ron squeezed his wife's hand. "She'll grow old and get married, just you wait and see." Snape didn't miss the disbelief in Ron's voice.
A moment later, the children poured in, walking behind Little Luna in a solemn procession. The Weasley's sat at the table, said a brief grace, and then let the chaos of Christmas dinner ensue, involving passing food in two different directions, Hermione catching many dropped spoons and cups with a quick flick of her wand, and a heated argument between the twins and Minerva about which two should pull the wishbone.
But Snape seemed occupied with Little Luna, who kept her large eyes on everyone, smiling distantly, almost a little sadly, eating in her habitual quiet.
"Spirit," Snape asked, feeling a strange interest in the girl, "Will the child live?"
"I see an empty chair," the ghost replied, his normally jolly face darkened with sadness, "An empty bed and a crutch without an owner--yes, if these shadows remain unaltered, the child will indeed die."
Snape couldn't begin to fathom the strange feelings in his chest--his icy heart thawing, perhaps? Or his stagnant soul stretching for the first time in ages? But, within the last hour of watching the girl, Snape felt indescribably attached.
"No," he said softly, "No, spirit. Don't say so."
"The Future is not my department, Severus Snape. And that would help keep down the surplus population, now wouldn't it?"
Snape opened his mouth to retaliate, when he heard Ron stand to his feet. He, apparently, was giving a toast.
"Merry Christmas everyone!" he declared.
"And God bless us," Little Luna added, "every one."
Apparently, it was a family tradition to toast someone not seated at the table. Ron toasted the departed Albus Dumbledore, (Snape was positive he saw the ghost's lips twitch upward ever so slightly) Minerva toasted a friend of hers, the twins jointly toasted a teacher, and Granger stood up for her turn.
"I'd like to toast--Severus Snape, the man who has unwillingly but unknowingly taught me all that he could and is the last step to getting my job."
Ron snorted in disgust. "Yes, Severus Snape…I'll bet he's doing everything in his power keeping you from getting a job. Such a shame he isn't here--bloody prat."
"Ron," Hermione sharply replied, "The children--and on Christmas?"
"Well, I'm sorry," he said moodily, "But he is! He's a bitter, nasty, heartless man that doesn't care about anyone but himself. And if you so wish to toast him on Christmas, so be it, for I shall not toast that man on any other day but this one. To Severus Snape--a happy and merry new year, as if he'd ever use the opportunity to be merry and happy."
Everyone drank a sip of their pumpkin juice, remaining sober for a few minutes, until Ron started imitating some of his fellow Aurors at work, causing a fit of giggles to fall upon the whole company.
They were not a very wealthy family--it appeared that everything was kept from falling apart by magic only Hermione could conjure. Snape spotted a miserably tattered volume of Moste Potent Potions which looked as if a heard of centaurs had run over it. Yet, for all their problems, they were a happy, loving, and grateful family.
As the spirit signaled Snape to leave, he kept his eye upon Little Luna, who was reading one of her new books she received for Christmas, and continued to look at her until the door shut firmly behind him.
A moment later the spirit whisked him away, back to Hogwarts. This time, however, they were in the same rather large dungeon that Slughorn had used for his party--except this time Flitwick was the host.
The Hogwarts teachers were all gathered in a circle of chairs, chatting amiably over glasses of Butterbeer (or perhaps some Firewhiskey, by the looks of some teachers). Something Flitwick had said had been horribly funny--the entire group seemed to be in fits of irresistible laughter.
Flitwick, drying a tear from one of his eyes, said, in his squeaky voice, "He called Christmas a humbug, I swear…and believed it, too!"
"More the shame for him," Minerva McGonagall replied, lifting her class as if in a fake toast, "Severus Snape wouldn't know fun if it bit him on the nose!"
The last certain body part caused the group to emit a helpless giggle. The owner of the rather large nose touched it subconsciously, his face scowling once more.
"He's a sad man, Minerva," Flitwick said, shaking his head, "And he could be outrageously funny if he'd only come out of that dungeon every so often, instead of burrying himself in his own bitterness."
"Snape's extremely smart, isn't he?" Sinistra asked.
"Smart?" replied a friendly, warm voice, "Brilliant is more like it. Best in our grade in just about everything…especially Dark Arts." The voice belonged to Remus Lupin. He was a thin man with a kind smile and graying brown hair. He had forsaken his tattered robes for new ones, as he now had a steady job at Hogwarts--at least for a little bit.
"Yet what is the good of it if he never uses it for anything?" Flitwick asked, "He'll just let his mind waste away in the prison he's created for himself."
"You talk as though he's being enslaved, Filius," McGonagall remarked, "Snape's quite capable of coming here today--he simply chose not to."
"Still, I pity Severus," Flitwick answered, "His seclusion from others just punishes himself--it keeps him away from ever having an opportunity to be happy. And I shall ask him to come to my party every year, hoping to drag him out for at least one Christmas before I retire."
After that, conversation turned away from such a depressing subject as Snape, a prospect of a game was started. Before long, the teachers began a game of charades, in which the teachers were absolutely forbidden to use their wands, especially McGonagall. Snape, despite himself, became steadily more interested in the game, until he, too, was calling out answers as though they could hear him. The ghost's blue eyes twinkled slightly as Snape became more and more animated, not hearing the ghost laughing softly to himself.
It was finally Flitwick's turn (after McGonagall left them guessing quite a while with her toadish imitation of Dolores J. Umbridge, which received uproarious laughter in response by those who had to work with and under her). He frowned heavily and glared at them, crossing his arms and walking stiffly around the room. There was a lot of guessing…and even Snape was clueless. Finally, McGonagall exclaimed, "Of course--Severus Snape himself!"
"I asked if it was a monstrous creature and you said no," Binns, the ghostly teacher who taught History of Magic, drolly said, "I think my question was incorrectly answered."
As his fellow teachers burst out into laughter, Flitwick contained himself and raised his glass in a toast. "To Severus Snape--may he have a most merry Christmas for the merriment he'll never know he gave us."
A moment later, the ghost touched Snape's arm and they disappeared into a dark and empty street. Snape couldn't decide whether to be offended at being made a joke of by Flitwick or begrudgingly pleased that he had been remembered.
"Where next, Spirit?" Snape asked, "What is this place?"
"The end of the line for me, Severus Snape," the spirit answered, smiling, his torch the only bright light in the dark, desolate street. "My time on this earth is nearly up. The next spirit will meet you here."
"Here!" Snape exclaimed, "In this God-forsaken place? Can't you take me back to my room again?"
The ghost's genial smile was replaced with a serious expression. "No, Severus Snape. And you have left others in this alley before. Do you not remember?"
Snape looked around the alley vaguely. Nothing struck him in particular. "No."
"Then look and see what you left."
The spirit pulled aside his billowing green robes to reveal two children, a boy and a girl. They looked up at Snape with hatred so complete, so horrible, that it seemed as if they were two demons and not two children. Snape stepped backward in alarm.
"They were not so frightening when you killed their Muggle parents," the ghost said, his voice loud and condemning, "When you killed them because you were in a hurry to leave and thought that was quicker than modifying their memories. These are their children, the babies you left to die in that gutter over there!"
The two children continued to stare at Snape hatefully, making him back up all the farther away.
"They--they weren't supposed to be here," Snape replied, his voice abnormally weak, "It was just a mission for the Dark Lord…they weren't supposed to see the Death Eaters I was helping. And--and I had to hurry…I might have killed the parents, but I put the Imperious Curse on a Muggle policman to investigate the alley…so the children would be found."
Snape tried to gulp but his throat was too dry, as the children and the ghost continued to stare at him. "Have they no where to go? No one to help them?"
"Isn't St. Mungo's still open?" the ghost coldly mocked, "Isn't the Auror department still functioning?"
Somewhere, a bell struck three times. Turning back to look at the ghost and the fearsome children, Snape saw nothing but the dark alley wall and the gathering mist. Then, with a thrill of rarely felt fear, Severus Snape saw the next of his ghastly company this evening: it was the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come.