Christmas Dinner at McGillivray Manor

It was a perfectly normal, rather windy Saturday morning in late December. Only a soft breeze had remained of the night's stormy weather, a handful of the year's first proper snow had created a thin, white layer on top of everything in sight, and McGillivray Manor was under attack.

This, in itself, was not at all unusual. The building had been created, centuries ago, by one of Minerva's ancestors. More precisely: by her father.

Hamish McGillivray was a historian in the literal sense. After the legalisation of longe-range time-turners some one-hundred and fifty years ago, he had decided that historical events could only ever be of importance if you actually witnessed them. Thus, he had worked hard towards one of the most famous reputations you could achieve in the wizarding world: that of a practical historian. What exactly this entailed, only the most learned of wizards and witches could explain. The more straightforward ones, however, had eventually started going out there, doing the actual work. In Hamish's case, this mostly entailed the investigation of ancient people and their ways of life, but also to travel back in time, collect empirical data, and return to write another important work about the true events involving the capture and destruction of Dumbarton Castle, which was situated close to the mouth of the river Clyde – at close distance to where the manor's outer rims met the real world.

Minerva had always rather liked the special features that were built in every wall of the place she called home. Due to practical reasons, and because of a minor time-accident involving the destruction of his time-turner, her father had at one point in ancient past decided to build himself a home where he would live with his wife and children, and which had no fixed place in the space-time continuum. He had set up every stone of the castle in a specific way so that what was to become McGillivray manor could be manoeuvred freely through every past and possible future the world theoretically held – if only one knew how to do it. His wife, not having been born at the point of construction, had had no idea where stepping out of the entrance doors in the mornings could lead her, but had quickly discovered that it was usually safer to check for possible Viking attacks first, and then whether the daily newspaper had been able to arrive.

This was another matter, of course. OWLs could not enter the house, visitors had to be very lucky to find it at its place the exact moment they happened to pay a call, and, most annoyingly, they had to be sure it was the right manor they entered when returning from necessary trips, such as work or, simply, shopping tours. This, of course, had been going on for centuries. If you did not happen to know where you were going within the realm of McGillivray manor, you had a fair chance of getting lost in the space-time continuum.

This morning's visitors were Anglo-Saxons from some point during the first Viking Age, Minerva gathered, judging from their general way of dressing and behaving, and, more importantly, from the way they spoke.

"West Saxon," Minerva sighed. "What on earth are we doing this far south?"

And she slammed the door. Behind her, her mother had rung a small bell at spotting the approaching enemies, and sure enough only seconds later the House-Elf Mawly appeared at her side, looking rather anxious.

"Lady Vesta called?"

"Go and tell your master that he has visitors," said Minerva's mother, looking disgruntled. "You may also tell him that we are expecting a number of guests this afternoon – from the twentieth century, if you please. I expect him to arrange matters for us to be home from at least six – no, better make it half past five."

"Yes, mistress," said Mawly obligingly. "Is master going to be present during the Christmas Dinner?"

"Yes, he is," said Mrs. McGillivray indignantly. "Minerva, will you see to that he is wearing his best contemporary robes this evening?"

"I am sure he will be perfectly capable of getting dressed on his own accord," replied her daughter flatly. "Mother, you are making a fuss. I am sure we will be back in no time."

"Your confidence in your father is awe-inspiring," remarked her mother, vanishing into the living-room to finish her tea. Minerva decided to make sure that there were no further disturbances.

The Blacks arrived at seven o'clock sharp. There were fewer of them than Mrs. Black had announced. Minerva suspected that this was due to last-minute uncertainties. This year's dinner was, in some respects, a bit like running the gauntlet for those who were not accustomed to the presence of 'the other side'. In the Blacks' case, people who surrounded themselves with Muggles, in Minerva's family's case, the self-declaimed aristocrats of the older pureblood lines. The only person to look forward to this evening, she knew, was her old friend Lance Snape, whose presence on the British Isles had become rare these days, what with the African war being taken to new extremes.

There were five or six of each line who had promised to make an appearance. Not many, Minerva considered, given that there had been eighteen and more guests at the Blacks' place in previous years. But those few would have to do. There were matters that required people to sit down and dine together, as Lance tended to put it.

The Snapes arrived in company of Lance's cousin Richard Lestrange, who, Minerva knew, had only grudgingly agreed to come along, refusing to make his wife join what he had rather bluntly called a 'farce of a Christmas Dinner'. Both soldiers did, for once, not look as though they had only just crawled out of the African desert, and Lance's son Severus looked more groomed than Minerva had ever seen him during term time. He seemed insecure about the completely new surroundings but somehow instantly at ease with every piece of furniture – or other bit belonging to the house, as though he had been here before. Minerva knew that kind of behaviour in people. Most of them were her father's friends and had either inhabited the manor centuries ago or were about to do so within the next millennium. When Severus looked up, however, a pair of indifferent, black eyes met her own, making a shiver run down Minerva's spine. Severus's gaze moved about the living-room, his gaze void of all the liveliness she had perceived in them during his days at Hogwarts. It was almost as though he had been feeding on something he was now bereft of. As though school gave him something he now lacked.

"Minerva."

Lance's broad hand entered her visual field and she shook it.

"I was not sure whether you would have the time…" she began, then stopped. "What is it?"

The Snape raised his eyebrows. "I'm sorry?"

"Your face," said Minerva quietly, as to shut other people out of the conversation. "You look… angry."

"Oh, don't worry," replied the Snape, side-glancing at his son. "The matter has been… settled."

Severus crouched. His gaze was fixed on the floor, as though he was forcing himself not to look up. Minerva gave him a worried look, but then decided that this had to be private.

"I am very glad you two came," she said warmly. "Mr. Snape, you will be pleased to hear that you are not the only underage wizard joining us."

"I know," replied the boy darkly, not looking at all as though this was likely to lighten his mood. "I mean – yes, Professor," he then corrected himself quickly, following another of his father's side-glances. Minerva frowned.

"Of course," she said hesitantly, "I am sure you will have heard… why don't you two join me in the drawing room?" A small gleam of pride lit her face, just for a second. "Mother and I put some refurbishing work into the old table and chairs and we stripped the walls. I didn't know there were so many different spells for changing a room's general decoration."

Lance smiled. This was rare. Minerva had used to count the moments when the older Snape's lips moved up into a genuine expression of human delight but had given up when after a period of six or seven months she had still not encountered a handful of such occasions. "It does look impressive," the soldier stated as they entered the area in question. I cannot help but wonder, however, who chose the tartan curtains…?"

Minerva blushed. "Mother insisted," she said. "You know her. But I do believe your sister was impressed. And Mandy found the colour spectacular."

"Because it is! Don't you like tartan, Lance? A bit of Scottishness seems to suit the place just fine."

It was this particular moment that the person in question chose to join the conversation. She did have a knack for turning up at spectacular points, Minerva thought, but smiled nevertheless. Lance seemed less pleased.

"Mandragora Pomona Sprout," he said. "I have been looking forward to a reunion."

"Oh, no need to lie to me," said the Herbology witch, giving her opposite a broad grin. (The situation acquired some comical potential due to the colonel being about twice the size of the podgy Herbology witch.) "You have been dreading this moment. Don't think I didn't notice that you have been avoiding me lately. I do insist on the song you promised, including an audience this time."

"And you will get it," prompted the soldier. "A Snape never goes back on his word. You ought to know as much."

"I do," replied the witch, still grinning. "That's why I made you promise."

"You made him drunk," said Minerva sourly. "That is something else. Especially with a Snape."

She then noticed that her father had finally made his way downstairs from the attic. It had taken her three visits altogether before the historian had finally been able to remember which attire was suitable for a festive occasion during the century into which he belonged. He was wearing a set of traditional Scottish dress robes now, which compromised neatly between traditional wizarding clothes and the long-established and very stubborn Scottish fashion that required the front of the robes opening up to reveal the person's kilt of choice. Minerva side-glanced at Lance, who seemed thunderstruck for a moment before he suddenly remembered where he was.

"Your father," he mumbled as Hamish was approaching.

"So it seems," replied Minerva. She was smiling again. Lance-Hamish was always a safe bet.

"Young Snape," said the historian as he arrived, shaking Lance's hand perhaps a little more vigorously than necessary. "Merlin, yeh've grown."

The Snape nodded politely. "I am sure."

"Father, for Merlin's sake," said Minerva impatiently. "Will you stop greeting him like that every time you see him? I thought you said recent past wasn't your area of expertise any longer?"

Her father smiled mischievously, but said nothing.

"Sir," said Lance suddenly, his voice quite unexpectedly low. "Please allow me to introduce my son Severus." And he shoved Severus in the foreground, who seemed less pleased about the new turn of events.

"Oh, a ken Severus well enough," said Minerva's father, smiling at the small boy who gazed up at him in surprise.

"You do?"

"Och, aye," replied the historian, bending down a little to look the boy in the eye. "But a cannae tell ye why, sorry tae say."

"I'd be most interested," Lance prompted. Minerva gave him a brief smile.

"So would I," she nodded. "But we know the rules. Father, will you stop being a historian for a while and greet the other guests while I show Lance and his son to their seats?"

"Other guests?" the old man repeated, looking around in surprise.

"The Blacks have arrived a while ago," Minerva said sourly. "Perhaps you would care to join mother in her attempts to get around lying at Mrs. Black about her dress."

Severus produced a small giggle, which was prompted by a smack on the back of his head by his father. Minerva gave her old friend a reproving frown.

"Don't!" she said sharply. "The dress is indeed worth a laugh."