I started writing this story several years ago, and I'm not sure I'll ever get around to finishing it now... but I still like the first few chapters, so here they are. Who knows, if I post it here, maybe I'll come back and finish it sometime.

A Hogwarts Carol
by Grayswandir

1

Sirius Black was dead, to begin with.

This perhaps is not the cheeriest piece of information with which to commence our story; but it was perfectly true, and must not be omitted. Sirius Black was dead. Indeed, he had been dead for some time, and if to his disappointment Severus Snape had not had the personal privilege of witnessing the event of his demise, he had at least heard enough about it, and endured sufficient outpourings of grief from his fellow Order members on account of it, to be perfectly convinced of its reality. The particular logistics of the thing were a little obscure, seeming to involve some sort of enchanted government drapery and a lot of damaged children hobbling around and throwing prophecies at staircases—to be quite frank, Severus had never sought to make much sense of it—but for all that, there was no question whatsoever about the condition of Sirius Black. He was as dead as a doornail; by which it must be understood that he was absolutely, irretrievably dead.

Severus knew he was dead. Of course, there were many wizards who did not know, and no small number among them who would have slept more comfortably if they had known, for Sirius Black had been on everybody’s blacklist, as it were, good and wicked alike. As for Severus, it must be confessed that he was none too tearful himself when he heard about the tragedy. On the contrary, had Severus been a man given to fits of rejoicing, he might well have positively whooped in celebration at the news. But he was not such a man, and when the news did come to him, he received it with a grim and stoical expression which almost seemed to suggest some trace element of regret; a regret, one may surmise, over the uncongenial state of affairs which had rendered it impossible for Severus to seize the honor of putting the old dog out of its misery himself.

After all, Sirius Black had been his enemy for many years, arrogant and brutish blackguard that he was, without a single redeeming quality, unless it were his dashing looks, which in any event had been much depleted during his long stay at Azkaban. After James Potter, Severus had known no more despicable enemy than Sirius black; so that in Severus’ view it was perfectly meet the latter should go at last to join the former under a shroud—or beyond a veil, if you wanted to be poetical about it. Which, if you must know, Severus did not.

Sirius Black was dead. This is important, and you must forgive the repetition of it, for you see there can be nothing remarkable about the rest of the story unless it is accepted and understood, first and foremost, that Sirius Black had departed and gone. Consider: if there were any question whether Professor Binns was truly dead, would there, I ask you, be anything unusual about his arriving to work every morning and delivering his lectures? Of course not—and as an aside we must allow that there really was nothing unusual about it, as testified by its persistence in occurring, despite Professor Binns being really dead. But the case of Sirius Black is altogether different, I can assure you; he was dead, quite dead, and not the least bit undead, and he would not be found strolling around the Hogwarts grounds alongside the Bloody Baron, because that simply wasn’t the way of things.

The man had expired. There could be no contending the matter. If you are still in doubt, you may ask anyone in the Order—and most particularly you may ask Severus, who, to drive the point home one final time, was thoroughly appraised of the fact that Sirius Black was positively, consummately dead.

In consequence of his decease, Sirius’s house at number 12, Grimmauld Place had passed down to his godson, Harry Potter. This introduced, in Severus’ view, a depressing complication into what should otherwise have impressed him as a fairly agreeable tragedy; for if any arrangement could have proven less comfortable to Severus than doing business for the Order in the house of Sirius Black, it was doing business for the Order in the house of Sirius Black’s undisciplined and wayward godson, the Potter orphan.

Oh, but Severus bore his miserable lot with silent pride: with a bitterness so smug that to his compatriots it appeared almost indecent. He carried out his duties with a haughty Slytherin sneer, hard and chill as an iceberg; and there was no smile, no praise, no kindness warm enough to crack him. He was a terrible man, a grim and humorless man, and not one gentle or decent word could be wrung out of him, although a great deal of grease probably could. He disliked students and he disliked parents, and he disliked teachers, and he disliked Muggles; indeed it seemed probable that he disliked everything in the world except the study of Potions; and above all things else, he disliked Harry Potter, the boy who had lived to inherit the Dogstar’s abode.

Now, it happened on one warm and windy summer night, on the eve of Harry Potter’s sixteenth birthday, that Severus was called upon to report once more to the Order at that unhappy location. Dutifully and grudgingly as ever, he obliged, delivering himself with stoic loathing into the ranks of the Order of the Phoenix. They bade him welcome, but he did not return their cordiality. At the broad, bright dining table he sat stiffly at Albus Dumbledore’s right hand, and spoke little, and turned up his great nose at Molly’s proffered cooking as if it had been a stew of Blast-Ended Skrewts.

It would not be too much to suggest that he took malicious pleasure in sapping what little cheer was left to the Order these days; and his mere presence was enough to accomplish that end. He was useful, to be sure; he told them what he knew; and they listened, and appreciated the risks he had taken on behalf of their cause. But none of them looked at him, and when they felt a frigid glance fall upon them from his end of the table, they forgot that it was summer, and reached for their glasses of firewhiskey to bolster their spirits against the cold.

At last, the meeting came to a close, and the better portion of the Order departed, leaving only Arthur, who had been charged with keeping up the Minutes and whose quill was scratching away at a tremendous pace to complete the job, and Remus Lupin, who had taken up a temporary residence in the dreary old house at number 12. Severus was on the point of departing as well, but much to his discomfort and astonishment, Remus came and sat beside him, and addressed him in an improbably friendly way, as if the two men had not been sworn enemies.

“It’s Harry’s birthday tomorrow,” remarked the werewolf, presenting Severus with a bit of folded cardstock which promptly spewed glittering confetti all over his pressed black robes. This obnoxious item appeared to have been autographed by every other member of the Order, on the inside or the reverse, in a dizzying garble of colored inks. “Did you know? He’ll be sixteen.”

“A most auspicious occasion, I’m sure,” murmured Severus, dusting the confetti away with revulsion; and he might well have added “bah!” and “humbug!” as an afterthought, if such exclamations had been in keeping with the silky drawl of his inflection.

“Of course, you’ve never been fond of the boy, I know. But you will take a moment to wish him many happy returns, will you not?” Remus said, offering a quill for the purpose. Severus eyed him with astonishment.

“Many happy returns!” he replied. “I myself should be happiest if he never returns at all. And as to that, what has he—what have any of you—to be happy about? Your lives are miserable enough.”

“We have The Boy Who Lived, now attaining his sixteenth year. That serves as some light in all this darkness, I should say.”

Severus replied with a withering look, and did not need to say “bah!” or “humbug!” to convey his feelings on the subject.

“Please, Severus. At least sign the card.”

“I shall by no means sign the card,” Severus said, thrusting that object back into Remus’ hands, where it spewed another mess of bright confetti all over the werewolf’s dusty robes. “Much good it’s done you all to get mixed up in that boy’s affairs. Is there one, even one among you—among us, I should say—who hasn’t yet risked his life to keep Potter out of trouble he ought never to have gotten himself into? And what thanks has he given you? What do you have from him in return?”

“Not all of us act solely with a mind to personal gain,” Remus pointed out gently. “If Harry is happy, then so am I, on his behalf. That is thanks and reward enough for me.”

Arthur, still scribbling at the far end of the table, glanced up through his horn-rimmed glasses to put in, “Well said, Remus.” But he quailed a bit under the glance Severus shot at him, and went back to inspecting the Minutes on his parchment as they composed themselves.

“Lupin, you are as loony as your epithet if you believe I will ever share any sympathies with that misbegotten Potter child. Sign your own name twice if you like; it will please him more than seeing mine at all, and certainly it will offend me greatly less.”

Remus, in response, regarded the Potions master with a look of pity that made it difficult for Severus not to perform a few Cruciatus curses on him; and as if the look were not criminal enough in itself, Remus finally said, “You should come to the party.”

“I—come to Potter’s party?” Severus repeated, so incredulous that he forgot himself and coldly laughed, startling Arthur nearly out of his chair. “Lupin, I would sooner endure a concert from a choir of mandrakes. I would sooner volunteer barehanded to pluck the teeth from a Norwegian Ridgeback.”

Remus shrugged, rising from the table. “Well, you are welcome to come and join our celebrations, if you change your mind. If not, I’ll leave you to keep Harry’s birthday in your own way.”

“I shall keep it as far out of my way as possible,” Severus replied; and rising as well, he said to Remus: “Good evening.”

“I’ll sign the card for you, shall I? Happy birthday, Harry—from Professor Snape?”

Nearly sputtering in his indignation at this most obscene suggestion, Severus repeated, “Good evening!” He swept past Remus and out of the room, trailing his great black cloak behind him with such energy that it collided with Arthur’s wand and sent his quill spinning off across the table, blobbing his parchment with inkspots.

Severus had every intention of departing number 12 at once, but in the hallway he found himself confronted by an unforeseen obstacle: a pair of identical redheaded Hogwarts alumni, distinguishable from each other only by virtue of the fact that one of them presently carried a metal clipboard in his hand, while the other carried a tray of unidentifiable knickknacks, and wore a little leather money pouch at his belt.

“Professor!” said the boys together, striding up to block his progress toward the exit, and grinning their identical Gryffindor grins.

“Out of my way. I have neither time nor patience for your frivolity tonight, Fred, George,” said Severus, meeting each boy’s gaze coldly in turn.

“I’m George,” objected the clipboard-bearing twin.

The other said, “Are you?”

“No, actually. I think he’s got us right this time.”

“Well done, old fellow!” said George, not quite daring to clap Severus on the shoulder in congratulation. “Now, professor, we know you’re in a hurry, but we’re sure you can still spare a moment and a handful of Knuts and Sickles for a worthy cause—a philanthropic gentleman like yourself.” The boy smirked devilishly, holding out his tray of vials and charms and assorted implements of dubious utility.

“You expect me to purchase this trash?” asked Severus, lifting his black brows in disbelief.

“Trash? Why, professor, you see before you a selection of the finest magical gags ever concocted! Besides,” Fred explained, “the money’s not for us. It’s for Harry.”

“We want to buy him something really great for his birthday,” added George, and he plucked the coin pouch from his hip and jingled it meaningfully. “But we’re a little short.”

“Not as short as you, of course, professor,” Fred grinned, looking Severus up and down.

“So, what shall we put you down for?”

Severus, snarling, shoved past both boys, roughly toppling the tray out of George’s hands and so projecting a rain of Fainting Fancies and Nosebleed Nougats across the floor with such a resounding clatter that the twins both flinched and glanced up at Mrs. Black’s portrait. Miraculously, she did not wake. Arthur meanwhile came dashing into the room with his quill bobbing after him, and demanded, pushing his glasses up again, “What is going on?”

“Just Snape being Snape,” explained George, and restored his wares to their tray with a jerk of his wand. “Won’t chip in for a present for Harry. But what do you expect from a miserly old bat like our friend Snivellus?”

“Now, boys, that’s enough,” chided Arthur, in the tones of a man trying hard to say the right thing without really believing it. “I’m... sure Snape would like to help out. But the professor has his own affairs to look after.”

“That he certainly has,” affirmed Severus, who had reached the outer door. “And may he never hear another mention of Harry Potter’s birthday in this lifetime! Good evening!”

With that he slammed the door with a cacophonous bang; and that bang would have served him for a very dramatic exit indeed, had it not caught the tail of his cloak in the jamb, obliging him to jerk the door open again and endure, briefly, the shrieking of Mrs. Black from the stairwell, and the sniggering of the twin redheaded troublemakers from the hall. He shut the door again and, glowering into the empty night, apparated away.