Snape rose and made his way through the dungeons to the House Elves' back stairs. It would get him close to Minerva's rooms without chance encounters with inquisitive students or colleagues.
Noiselessly, he hurried up the staircase, turned at the little landing between the dungeons and the ground floor, and found himself staring at a floating Christmas cake, exquisitely decorated in blue and bronze.
A floating Christmas cake.
He had just read a book full of ghosts and spirits. But surely, that didn't affect a man's senses to the point where …
Of course not. True, a little thing might affect them. A slight disorder of the stomach made them cheats. Ebenezer Scrooge himself had said that a bit of undigested beef or an underdone potato might go a long way towards explaining Marley's ghostly presence.
And then the cake spoke.
"Who's that?" it said testily.
Which explained all.
For the cake spoke with Flitwick's voice. Snape, who until then had merely stared at the floating vision, lowered his eyes and, sure enough, there was the tiny Charm's teacher, waving his wand with one hand while trying to hold on to a stack of presents with the other.
"It's I," said Snape, who, after his initial shock, had regained both his composure and his grammar at the familiar sight of his colleague.
"Well, give me a hand, will you, there's a good man," said Flitwick. Snape took over the stack of presents. "Thanks," Flitwick mumbled, and Snape saw his lips move some more. Wingardium Leviosa. Nearly wordlessly, Flitwick kept the cake floating and continued to mount the stairs. "Ravenclaw Common Room," he told Snape, who had no other option than to follow him.
When they arrived, Snape took a good look at the Ravenclaw door knocker. It was an eagle, exactly as it should be. Not that he had expected anything else, of course – door knockers didn't turn into the ghostly images of the dead. Anyone knew that.
"What is the … Oh, sorry, Professor Flitwick, it's you," said the eagle, and the door opened. Snape looked at Flitwick.
"I need to be able to get in at once if there is a problem," Flitwick explained. "I can't always pause to answer a question, so it recognises my hand."
"Really?" said Snape.
"No need to use that berate-the-dunderheads voice, dear boy," grinned Flitwick. "There's no security risk. It works on the patterns of veins. Highly individual, and one needs circulation, so cutting off my hand won't get you in. You'd have to Imperius me – and I'd like to see someone try."
Snape thought he'd like to see that, too. Spectator sports couldn't get better. Pity one wouldn't be able to make a wager, though – no-one would make a book on the chance of Flitwick losing.
And if the Dark Lord were still alive?
He would have underestimated Flitwick. Briefly, on account of his Goblin blood and small size. But a brief moment was all Flitwick needed. Snape would not bet his last shirt on the outcome, but a month's wages? Yes.
Meanwhile, Flitwick had floated the cake to the middle of a long table covered in books. Snape put down the presents and put the books aside to make room. Clearly the Ravenclaws took their studies seriously – books all around, on Christmas Eve, and in their Common Room, even.
"Thanks," said Flitwick, and he put the cake down with a sigh of relief. "They'll like that when they wake up tomorrow."
They would. Why anyone would wish to give already overexcited children a sugar-high of such majestic dimensions was beyond Snape, but they would like it all right.
"I always feel sorry for those who can't go home for Christmas," explained Flitwick, correctly interpreting Snape's look. "That's why I want to give them a little extra. A festive cake, in their House colours, just for them. Makes them feel special."
True. And the idea of a cake in House colours was a good one. The Hogwarts decorations were always carefully neutral. For one moment he thought of his own Slytherins. There weren't many who stayed at the castle – pureblood families tended to gather their clans, and the Slytherins themselves usually took care of their own and invited fellow students to their homes. Just three or four solitary children were left. There always were. Snape knew that only too well.
A little gift wasn't a bad idea. He rather wished he had thought of it himself. Or had heard of Flitwick's idea at an earlier time, when he could have done something about it.
"What are you thinking?" Flitwick asked. Drat Ravenclaws and their legendary perceptiveness.
"I was thinking," said Snape, "that this sugar-overload explains the exuberance of your little lot during Christmas lunch."
"Your Slytherins would be just as exuberant," stated Flitwick.
"They would not."
"They would, too."
"They most certainly would not."
"Would, too."
"You're using this childish version of an argument," said Snape, who had his fair share of perceptiveness and felt that Flitwick needed taking down a peg or two, "because you think it will trick me into doing what you probably consider to be 'the decent thing' for my students. That's humbug! But if I had a cake, I might be tempted to prove you wrong in your assessment of Slytherin behaviour. I might be inclined to lay a wager, even."
"Then let's raid the kitchens and get one," said Flitwick gleefully. The man was truly insufferable on occasions. Still, a small cake wouldn't hurt. And it would prove him, Snape, right and Flitwick wrong.
He nodded his acquiescence, and the two men set off to the kitchens. Once they had arrived, Snape looked around inquiringly. "How do we proceed now?" he asked. "Are you familiar with the place?"
"Accio Christmas cake," Flitwick said, with a quick flick of his wand. One of the cupboards flew open, and three plain, brown, undecorated cakes in varying sizes popped out and landed on a kitchen table.
"You've done this before," said Snape, sternly. Flitwick looked up and grinned.
"Guilty as charged, Professor. And do you really mean to say that you never raided the kitchens? Not even once?"
Snape said nothing. Kitchen raids were group things. Potter, Black, and Lupin had been boasting about them forever. Living through 'danger' together, and then sharing the spoils among friends. Of course he had never raided a kitchen.
Until now.
It was what he supposed one might call 'fun', doing this with Flitwick. And giving the spoils to his students. Not that there was any danger in the exploit. No-one would expel Professor Snape for raiding the kitchen.
It would merely be generally known that he had done his students a kindness.
Was that a noise in the corridor? Where they discovered?
No. All remained silent. Thank Merlin.
Snape selected the smallest cake – there were only four Slytherins left at Hogwarts. "Accio marzipan and icing," he added, flicking his own wand. "And icing sugar and jelly." The ingredients assembled on the table.
Flitwick looked at him with admiration. "I was worried about those cakes," he said. "I always order one with icing in place, and then I just add the decorations. But you seem to know what you're doing."
"I usually do. Also, I'm a Potions Master. We Potions Masters are rather good at cooking. Besides, I once saw my mother decorate a cake."
Snape started to heat the jelly in a small pan and brushed it over the cake with a little brush. It was really remarkably easy to Summon all necessary equipment. A well-ordered kitchen, then. Unlike his mother's. She hadn't been a good cook; cooking made her even more short-tempered than at other times. The kitchen had not been a pleasant place – except for that one occasion when Snape's Da had decided to spend Christmas with his parents, alone. There had been a frightful row, and Snape's mother was adamant that 'the old misery won't ruin our Christmas'. She had let him help with the cake. It had been lopsided and not very well-cooked. The decorations were clumsily done. And it was the best cake (and the best Christmas) Snape had ever had.
He steadied his hand as he applied the jelly. No wonder it was trembling. What was he thinking off, standing here and decorating cakes after a strenuous school term? A night of unbroken rest would have been more conducive to his welfare than this madness.
"Why do you use jelly? To add even more sugar?" asked Flitwick with a smile.
"To make the marzipan stick, and to keep little crumbs of cake in place," explained Snape. "Now we lift the marzipan on top – quite handy, that they have the rolled-out variety – and we smooth it down. No!" he added sharply as Flitwick stretched out his hands.
"First, you take off your ring. It scratches the surface. And then you dust your hands with icing sugar. Like this," and Snape deftly smoothed the marzipan around the cake.
"Clever! Did you learn that from your mother? She must have been a brilliant cook, then," said Flitwick.
"In a way," Snape answered, thinking of the Muggle recipe book he had once bought because the Christmas Cake on the cover looked exactly like the one he and his mother had tried to make. He had read the step-by-step guidelines carefully and had studied the pictures, which had been remarkably instructive for Muggle ones. The final result had looked perfect – far too perfect, of course. Theirs had had a truly home-made look about it, and surely that was the whole point of home baking?
"And it's the same for the icing? May I?" Filius asked.
Snape nodded, glad to hand over the brush to someone with a steadier hand, and Flitwick carefully brushed the marzipan with jelly ("You're not painting a Wizarding Portrait! Just put on a thin film!") Then he lifted the icing on top, dusted his hands and set to work. "You're covering a cake, not caressing a woman," muttered Snape. "Or a man," he added for good measure. Flitwick merely smiled and continued his ministrations.
"There! How does that look?"
"Not bad for a first time," Snape admitted. He quickly added a small marzipan Christmas tree, which he had modelled while Flitwick took care of the icing. It was decorated with little silver baubles. Then he added a Father Christmas – but a proper one, not that garish red variety. His Father Christmas was clad in Slytherin Green robes with silvery-white fur along the hem. The little figure held a Slytherin banner in his hand.
"You could make it say Yo Ho Ho Ho, suggested Flitwick. Snape merely looked at him.
"Or that other word you used – sounded like 'humbag'. A Slytherin Father Christmas might say …"
"Nothing. He'll say nothing. The banner already says it all."
"As you wish," said Flitwick. "Now we'll deliver the cake to the Slytherin Room – how lucky we are that it's in the dungeons! And then we'll go to my room and have a drink together. To celebrate."
Clearly, there was no getting rid of the confounded man. Not without overt impoliteness. And, in a way, Flitwick had been helpful. He, Snape, had seriously considered presenting his Slytherins with a cake next year. Thanks to Flitwick, he could do it right now.
It pleased him, for his Slytherins tended to stand alone too much already. Take Quidditch. Each student favoured their own House, which was only natural. But once that was out of the competition, they favoured whomever played against Slytherin. In the past, Gryffindors had cheered for Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws for Gryffindors – but not even the Hufflepuffs had ever cheered for Slytherin.
Snape tried to make up for the injustice by favouring and praising his own students. Someone had to. Now they would enjoy their cake, and he had actually enjoyed preparing their little surprise. He had enjoyed himself so much that the prospect of having a drink with Flitwick was a rather pleasing one. It was his duty to refuse and deliver the present, of course, but …
He couldn't refuse Flitwick. He would simply have to deliver his parcel the next night. A pity, but then, Minerva and he were adults; his little gift would be just as pleasing if it came a day later. It would even be more unexpected.
*To Be Continued*