Myrtle was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The basilisk had been released, the body had been found and Hagrid had even been wrongly expelled for the crime. Young Myrtle was as dead as a doornail.

Well, probably even deader than a doornail for, as Professor McGonagall would tell you, a doornail can sometimes be a temporarily transfigured dormouse. Although if it is, it is probably not a good idea to nail it into your door. But I digress. The most important thing is, Myrtle was dead. That must be distinctly understood, or nothing that follows will make any sense whatsoever.

In life, Myrtle had been a pupil at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This school currently numbered among its teaching staff one Severus Snape, a Potions master. Snape was well-known and much talked about in the wizarding community, owing to his central role in the defeat of the Dark wizard Voldemort over a decade earlier, and his miraculous survival from being bitten by Voldemort’s snake in the climactic battle of the war.

Following his recovery, Snape had resigned from his temporary position as Headmaster of Hogwarts and had returned to his old job in the Potions classroom. Many had been surprised at his action, and some even more so by his decision not to apply for the vacant, and now no longer cursed, Defence Against the Dark Arts post, but Snape had never been known for taking the expected choice.

Oh, but he was a hard-nosed hand at the grindstone, Snape, a miserable, vicious, sarcastic, bitter old terror! Sharp and cruel as a knife, solitary, secret and as elusive as the bat that he resembled. The cold went with him wherever he went and warmed his heart not a bit. No wind or weather, cold or heat affected the darkness of his countenance, the sallow colour of his face, or the greasiness of his hair. And above all things he hated Christmas.

On this particular December in which our story takes place, the school term had ended a week before Christmas. Snape had been in a particularly bad mood the final day of term and had set all his students a four-yard essay to be completed over the holidays. “But sir, it’s Christmas,” one brave, disappointed soul had replied.

“Then you may write your essay on the back of wrapping paper, if you wish,” had been Snape’s sarcastic response.

He was obliged to attend the end-of-term feast that evening and had been disappointed to find himself seated next to an ebullient Professor Flitwick. All the teachers were wearing paper hats except Snape, who had refused to put his on, just as he had refused to read out the terrible joke that had been inside his cracker. “Come on, Severus, where’s your Christmas spirit?” asked Flitwick.

“Bah, humbug!” was all Snape replied.

“Don’t be so miserable, Severus, it’s the season of goodwill!”

“Goodwill, my foot. What is Christmas but a tacky, over-commercialised excuse to forget how cold and horrible it is in the middle of winter? If I could have my way, every idiot who goes around saying ‘Merry Christmas’ would be transfigured into a turkey, roasted by dragon fire and served with a dozen sprouts shoved up his…”

“Severus, please! Christmas is a truly magical time of the year. Even the Muggles recognise this. And yes, it may be gaudy and commercial, but it is the one time of the year that brings people together. Tell you what, why don’t you come round to my house on Christmas Day and share Christmas with my family. It would save you from being alone and you wouldn’t have to cook.”

Snape could think of nothing worse, and used his previous interrupted expression to explain to Flitwick exactly where he could place his invitation.

With term over, Snape returned to his home on Spinner’s End. However, he was obliged to go to Diagon Alley on Christmas Eve to purchase supplies. The shops were all brightly decorated with lights and tinsel, and the street was thronged with last-minute shoppers and Christmas revellers, but Snape paid attention to none of it as he silently went about his business.

Emerging from a potions supply store, he ran into the last person he could possibly want to meet: Harry Potter. Snape observed that he still had the same smug, cheery expression that he had always had in his school years, the expression that spoke of insolence and defiance. “Merry Christmas, Professor!” he said brightly.

“Humbug!” replied Snape. The possibility of hearing Potter boast about his achievements once more was about the only thing Snape thought he could hate more than Christmas. Potter was now an Auror, and heading for a high-flying career, no doubt trading on the prestige attached to his name.

But Potter did not begin to boast. Instead he turned to introduce the people alongside him. “Professor, you remember my wife Ginny, I’m sure,” he said, indicating a red-haired woman who returned Snape’s dark glare with one of her own, “but I don’t think you’ve met my children in person before. This is James,” he pointed out a grinning seven-year-old boy who, annoyingly to Snape, looked exactly like his father, “young Lily,” a four-year-old girl who clung tightly to her mother’s hand, “and this is Tiny Albus, as we call him.”

Tiny Albus hobbled out from behind his brother. Although only a little younger than James, he was much smaller and thinner and he walked with a noticeable limp, supporting himself with a small stick like an old man. He gazed up at Snape in awe, but Snape had to quickly turn his face away. Those eyes…

“The Healers at St Mungo’s don’t know what’s wrong with him,” explained Potter, “but he’s a fighter, like his parents and his grandparents before him. He’ll be all right.” But there was a note of uncertainty in his voice. “Anyway, don’t let us detain you any longer, Professor. Merry Christmas, and a happy new year.” Snape did not reply, but hurried away quickly. He could not bear to be around Potter for any length of time. After all these years, his loathing of Potter had not lessened one bit. And there was something about that little son of his that really unnerved Snape.

Snape left Diagon Alley and Apparated back to Spinner’s End. It was a small, grimy street in a large, grimy city, but Snape liked it. It was quiet, peaceful and above all, anonymous. Here, secluded amongst the Muggles, Snape could truly be alone.

Now it must be said at this point that, despite having spent over forty years in the magical world, Snape was probably least given to believe in the fantastic than any other wizard. So you can imagine his surprise when, upon reaching his front door, he looked into his door knocker and saw, not the usual brass arrangement, but the face of a young girl.

She was not a pretty girl, unless you meant “pretty ugly” or “pretty miserable”. Her lank hair was tied up in ponytails, her face was covered in pimples and she wore large, thick round glasses. The face was just there for a moment, and then it was gone. Snape quickly regained his composure and entered the house. The vision had been nothing; he could think of at least a dozen rational magical explanations for what he had seen.

Still, he thought it prudent to search the house in case it had been a deliberate prank by some vindictive student or Christmas joker, and there were others lying in wait. Snape hated pranks. He simply couldn’t see the point of them, or why anyone would find them enjoyable.

After having satisfied himself that the house was empty and free of unwanted magical traces, Snape settled down in the kitchen for an evening meal. For a Potions master, Snape was a surprisingly poor cook, and usually preferred to eat pre-packaged or easy to cook meals. Eating was an unfortunate physical necessity, so whatever took up the least of his time was best.

When he had finished his meal, he returned to the sitting room, took a book on Sleeping Potions off one of the shelves and sat down in his favourite armchair to read. This was his routine every evening, and Christmas Eve would be no different. The image of the girl on his door knocker had completely left his thoughts

He had barely got halfway through the first chapter, however, when there was a cold blast of wind right through the house, which chilled Snape to the bone. He looked up to see which was the offending window he had left open, but they all were shut. It must have come from some other part of the house, thought Snape, but he never opened any other windows.

He was about to get up to investigate, when he heard a hideous sound of wailing coming from upstairs, from his bathroom. Snape sat, confused and apprehensive, as the wailing and crying drew closer, coming down the stairs. As he drew his wand, a figure burst into the room. It was translucent and shimmering, an apparition in silvery-grey. And its wailing was quite real.

“Oh, poor Myrtle,” sobbed the ghost. “Poor, poor, sad Myrtle, always being ordered about. Nobody wants to listen to me, no, it’s always ‘Myrtle, do this; Myrtle, do that; Myrtle, go talk to grumpy old Snape.’ I’m sick of it, do you hear, SICK OF IT!” she screamed.

Snape was quite startled, for he knew that ghosts didn’t come barging into the houses of people they had no connection to. In most cases, they couldn’t; they were tied to a particular location. He recognised the ghost’s face as the one that had appeared on his door knocker. “Who are you and what do you want?” he demanded.

“Oh, isn’t that typical,” moaned the ghost. “Nobody cares about Myrtle, nobody knows who Myrtle is, not even Mr-Potions-Master-I’ve-been-at-Hogwarts-all-my-life. Everybody forgets about Myrtle.”

“Myrtle?” said Snape. “Hang on, aren’t you that ghost that haunts that bathroom at Hogwarts? The one that got killed by the Dark Lord’s basilisk?”

“Oh yes, that’s how everybody knows me: how I died. Nobody cared about me before I got killed and nobody did afterwards. No, it’s ‘Myrtle, tell us how you died. Was it horrible? Did you suffer? What did you feel?’ It was awful, all right? Happy?” She burst into tears again

Snape stared at the ghost with a mixture of confusion and wry amusement. She was clearly, to use a technical term, stark staring bonkers. “How did you get in here?” he asked.

“Through your toilet. It could really do with a clean,” she replied. “I’ve been sent.”

“Sent? By whom?”

Myrtle did not answer. “I have to tell you that you, Severus Snape, are in danger. From yourself. You are mean-spirited, miserable, unfeeling towards your fellow man, and have misused the time given to you. A dark fate awaits you beyond the veil if you do not turn back from this path. You have been warned.”

Snape suddenly felt quite cold. Myrtle’s voice and manner had suddenly changed to something far more serious and grave. “What do you mean? What gives you the right to talk to me like that?”

“Hey, I’m just the messenger, don’t blame me,” she said, back to her old self again. “Apparently, you have one chance to save yourself. You will be haunted by three spirits…”

“You don’t still use words like haunted?” interrupted Snape with a smirk. “This is the twenty-first century.”

“Shut up!” snapped Myrtle. “I’m talking. You will be haunted by three spirits. Without their help, you cannot hope to be saved. Expect the first tomorrow morning at one a.m. There, I’ve done my job. I’m off.” And with a final wail Myrtle flew off back up the stairs again. There was a loud splash from the toilet, and then all was quiet once more.

Sitting alone again in the sitting room, Snape’s mind ran back over everything the crazy ghost had said. It was ridiculous. Warnings from beyond? Three spirits come to mend his ways? It was ridiculous. Who did she think he was, some credulous fool? “Bah,” he muttered. “Humbug.”

The encounter with Myrtle’s ghost had quite confused and perturbed Snape, and he found it difficult to concentrate on his book thereafter. He resolved therefore to go to bed early and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. Upon reaching his bed, he found himself overcome with weariness, and he lay down on the bed still in his robes and fell quickly asleep.

He awoke to a strange sound, a chiming of a clock as if tolling the hour. He sat up in bed and looked over to the mantelpiece over the antique and long since disused fireplace. There sat the only clock in the room, but it had not worked in many years and Snape had not bothered to repair it, as he had no interest in being reminded of the relentless march of time.

But now the clock was suddenly, inexplicably working, chiming out a tune not unlike that of Big Ben at the hour. Snape waited to see how many hours it would strike. He remembered that Myrtle had told him to expect the first spirit at one a.m.

At the chime of one, Snape’s bedroom was suddenly filled with a dazzling light. Snape raised his hand to shield his eyes as the light slowly faded to reveal a young woman standing in front of the fireplace.

She was dressed all in grey, with long hair that stretched to her waist. She stood tall, and her head was raised in a proud manner, but her eyes seemed full of sorrow. She was translucent, but still seemed to shimmer in the mysterious, unearthly light.

Snape regarded her with puzzlement. “I know you,” he said. “You are the ghost of Ravenclaw Tower.” The woman nodded, but did not speak. “You are the Grey Lady.” The woman nodded again, but remained silent. “How did you get into my house?” There was no reply.

Snape was a teacher, and so was used to having his questions met with stony silence, but the effect here was quite unnerving. “I was told to expect you,” he said at last. “Have you come to teach me wisdom, spirit of Ravenclaw?” he sneered.

“After a fashion,” the Grey Lady replied, finally deigning to speak. Her voice was soft, yet haughty and proud; it was a voice that did not suffer fools. It was a voice of which Snape heartily approved. “I am here tonight as the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

“Christmas Past!” snorted Snape. “Humbug! What wisdom could one possibly learn from that?”

“I have seen over a thousand Christmases in my time,” said the Grey Lady, “and I have learned a great deal from them that would have benefited me when I was alive. But I speak not of the Christmases of history, but those of your own life.”

“There have been no Christmases of consequence in my own life,” Snape retorted.

“Touch my hand and we shall see.”

Snape stood up and reluctantly reached out his hand to touch that of the Grey Lady. As he did so, his bedroom faded from in front of his eyes, and he found himself outside, on a bright cold morning, standing ankle deep in snow and looking up at a huge stone archway, set into which were a pair of heavy wooden doors, now standing wide open.

“Do you recognise this place?” asked the Grey Lady.

“Recognise it?” asked Snape. “What sort of stupid question is that? I live my life here. This is my home.” And so it was. Not Spinner’s End, but the entrance to Hogwarts, Snape’s true home. He knew the place intimately, every stone, every tile, every passageway, every room. It was, and would always be the centre of his life.

Boys and girls ran past him from the Entrance Hall onto the grounds to join the friends playing on the grounds. He was about to instinctively shout at them to stop running, and to dock them points, when he realised he recognised them. There were Atkins and Ellerbury from Ravenclaw, attempting to construct a gigantic snowman. Willis and Larwood were racing each other up the slope. Avery and Mulciber, he saw, were hiding under the walls of the castle, ready to pelt any unsuspecting passing Gryffindors with snowballs. These were his schoolmates from his boyhood, and he almost smiled to see them once more. “What is this, a Pensieve?” he asked.

“If you like,” replied the Grey Lady. “The effect is much the same. Come.” She led Snape by the hand into the Entrance Hall. Snape turned his head to see Flitwick assisting Hagrid in setting up and decorating the giant Christmas tree in the Great Hall, but the Grey Lady would not linger. She led him up the stone staircase and along the corridors. The walls were lined with decorations, much as they had been when Snape had left Hogwarts the day before, in the present, but somehow they seemed different now. Every corner they turned, Snape saw faces that he recognised, boys and girls that he had not thought about in decades.

They reached the door to the library. “Why have you brought me here?” asked Snape. “It’ll be deserted on Christmas morning.”

“Not quite,” said the Grey Lady. “A solitary boy, neglected by what friends he has, is left there still.”

“Ah,” said Snape, for he understood, and a flash of emotion briefly flickered on his impassive face. He stepped through the open door of the library and, making his way between the bookshelves, found the boy the Grey Lady spoke of, sitting alone in a dark corner.

The boy was sitting at a table covered in books. His head was bowed as he read intently, and his long, greasy hair hung down the sides of his head, so that Snape could not see his face. His right hand held a quill, in which he was scribbling notes in the margin of a copy of Advanced Potion-Making, a book that should have been far too advanced for a boy of his age.

Snape looked down at his former self. “I was always here in the holidays,” he muttered, for he felt that something ought to be said. “I couldn’t face going home, of course, so I always stayed at Hogwarts. Besides, what better place to be than in the greatest library in the wizarding world? There was always so much to learn.” He turned to the Grey Lady. “You, above all people, must understand that.”

“Not all that must be learned can be found in books,” she answered.

Snape did not respond to that statement, but looked back at himself and said, “I wonder how old I am. Each Christmas was pretty much the same.”

“It is your third year, and you are two weeks short of your fourteenth birthday,” she replied. “Look, somebody is coming.”

Snape turned, and his heart skipped a beat. Lily Evans, her long red hair flowing behind her, was hurrying between the shelves and the desks towards them. For a moment, Snape found he could not move; he just stared, taking in the image of Lily’s face, the broad smile, the bright green eyes. He remembered, oh, he remembered far too well.

Lily passed straight by the adult Snape and tapped his teenage self on the shoulder. “Come on, Sev, what are you doing in here?” she asked. “Mary and I are going sledging, and I’ve just learned a great new spell for making miniature ice sculptures. You can’t spend Christmas cooped up in the library. Come and have some fun!”

“I’m sorry, I really can’t,” said young Snape distractedly. “I really should get this work done, you know. I’d better stay here.”

Lily rested her hand on young Snape’s shoulder. “It’s all right, the boys are busy having a massive snowball fight with a load of Slytherins.” By “the boys”, Lily always meant James Potter’s gang.

“No, I really should stay,” insisted young Snape.

“Oh, well, if you’re sure,” said Lily disappointedly. “I’ll see you at the feast, then.” She turned and left. Snape watched her all the way to the door. His younger self did not, but was busy again scribbling notes in his textbook.

“Why did you not go with her?” asked the Grey Lady.

Snape had no worthwhile answer to give. Eventually, he said, “I took her for granted. I thought I’d always have her.”

“Let us see another Christmas in this place,” said the Grey Lady. Instantly the scene in front of Snape’s eyes faded, and was replaced by a new vision. He was standing in a Hogwarts corridor. A figure strode past him. It was himself, older than he had just seen, and clutching a stack of books under his arm. “It is now three years later,” the Grey Lady explained. “Follow him.”

Snape did as he was instructed. Up ahead, as his young self turned a corner, a voice as if from nowhere cried, “Impedimenta!” and the boy was thrown to the floor, his books scattering. Suddenly, two boys appeared in the corridor, emerging from under an invisibility cloak. It was James Potter and Sirius Black. Potter pointed his wand at young Snape and Snape’s nose began to swell and turn red, until it resembled a bright red ball. “Merry Christmas, Rudolph,” said Potter, and the two of them ran off, giggling.

“I’ll get you for this, Potter! You’ll pay!” screamed young Snape after them. Awkwardly, he stood up and regathered his books, before retreating to a corner and taking out his wand, muttering counter-curses for a minute until his nose returned to its correct shape and colour.

He emerged from the corner to continue down the corridor and almost ran into a girl coming the other way. The girl was the sixteen-year-old Lily Evans.

The two of them stared at each other for a moment. Lily was not smiling; her face was stern. Snape’s usually composed expression was collapsing into a picture of anguish. Then Lily broke the moment, striding on past Snape as if he wasn’t there. “Lily, wait!” Snape called to her weakly.

Lily half turned. “Wait for what, Severus?” she asked. “It’s far too late.” She walked on, leaving young Snape to stagger away as if punched in the head.

“Keep following him,” said the Grey Lady to Snape.

“Haven’t you tortured me enough with this Christmas?” snapped Snape. “Is it any wonder I loathe it?” But the Grey Lady was impassive, and Snape went on. He followed his younger self down into the dungeons and on to the Slytherin common room.

Inside, a group of students including Avery and Mulciber were standing around by the fireplace holding small glasses. “Hey, Severus, come join us,” urged Mulciber. “I managed to smuggle in a bottle of firewhisky.” Young Snape put down his books and joined the group. Avery handed him a glass and poured him a shot of firewhisky. “I think a toast is in order on this fine Christmas Day,” said Mulciber, raising his glass. “To the Dark Lord!”

“To the Dark Lord!” repeated the group, and young Snape as loudly as any of them. The elder Snape bowed his head in shame.

“There is one more Christmas to see,” said the Grey Lady, appearing behind him and taking his arm. Nervously, Snape turned, wondering what they would see next. He thought of his Christmases as a Death Eater, or the horrible Christmas just after Lily had been killed. He waited with trepidation as the scene in front of him faded.

To his surprise, he found himself in the Great Hall in the middle of a Christmas feast. Looking up at the High Table, he saw that Dumbledore was sitting in the headmaster’s seat, next to Flitwick. To their left, Snape recognised Quirrell. He was wearing the purple turban he had used to conceal the face of Voldemort in the year he was the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, so that would make it the Christmas of 1991, Snape realised. Why had the Grey Lady brought him here?

The feast was in full swing. Explosions of crackers were going off around him, filling the hall with blue smoke, which made him cough and splutter instinctively, even though he was not strictly there to breathe it in. The bangs rang in his ears and made him dizzy. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d complained in the past that the crackers were a serious health hazard, but nobody had ever listened.

As the smoke cleared, Snape approached the High Table. He saw that Dumbledore was wearing an absurd bonnet he’d obviously got from his cracker. Oh, for crying out loud, thought Snape. I know he didn’t care much for appearances, but he was the headmaster, for Merlin’s sake. He could have shown some degree of dignity. Dumbledore was chuckling away at a joke Flitwick had just read out to him. Snape leaned over the table to see what was so funny. Flitwick’s slip of paper read:

Q: Why do wizards fly on broomsticks?
A: Because vacuum cleaners are too heavy.

That doesn’t even make sense, Snape thought. Anyway, the… But his train of thought was interrupted by the Grey Lady, who laid a hand on his shoulder and pointed to the far end of the table.

Snape turned, and saw himself. He was sitting sullenly, hatless as always, quietly eating his meal and staring out from the corner of the hall. Professor Sinistra sitting next to him appeared to be trying to engage him in conversation, but he was seemingly ignoring her.

“Follow his eyes,” said the Grey Lady. Looking closer, Snape realised that his prior self was not staring aimlessly into space, but was focussed on one particular point across the other side of the hall. He turned around to see what it was.

In the middle of the Gryffindor table a group of unmistakeable red-headed boys were making more noise than anyone else put together. Sitting in the midst of them, a smaller boy with a mop of dark hair and round glasses was laughing uproariously in between mouthfuls of turkey.

Potter, thought Snape, and he grated his teeth. Of course, this had been young Potter’s first year at Hogwarts. There he was, revelling in the company of those miscreant anarchists the Weasley twins, and their siblings. It was typical of Potter to gravitate towards them, sharing a contempt for authority as they did.

“Why are you spending the feast staring at him?” asked the Grey Lady gently.

It had seemed obvious to Snape, but now the question was asked, he found he did not have an answer ready to hand. “Because… because who knows what trouble he might cause next?” he blustered. “Besides, I was supposed to be watching out for him. It’s what I agreed with Dumbledore.”

“He doesn’t seem to need much looking after at the moment,” observed the Grey Lady. “Nor is he being at all disruptive. He is simply enjoying himself. Is it that which annoys you? You do appear to be the only person present in a sombre mood.”

“These were serious times,” replied Snape. “You will forgive me if I did not indulge in needless frivolity. I had darker matters to worry about.”

“So did Professor Dumbledore,” said the Grey Lady, pointing down the table to where the headmaster was excitedly playing with one of the toys he had got from his cracker. “So, if it must be said, did Harry Potter. Yet they, and all others here, could find time to celebrate and enjoy this day. Why not you?”

Snape did not reply. A new thought had just struck him. This is much like what Potter must have seen. Although it had been necessary, he forever regretted his decision on the night of the Battle of Hogwarts to give Potter his memories as he lay seemingly dying. His whole history, his inmost being laid bare before the man he reviled, just as it was being done to him this night. Potter had never spoken to him of what he had learned, and he was glad of it, but Snape could not bear the thought that Potter, of all people, knew his deepest secrets.

He looked down at his former self, sitting with his grim stare, and he could take no more. “Let me go,” he said. “That’s enough.”

“These are the things that were,” said the Grey Lady. “Do not blame me for them.”

“Leave me,” demanded Snape. “Take me back!” He reached out his hands to seize the Grey Lady’s shoulders, but fell through her incorporeal form. A mist clouded his sight as he did so, and when he hit the hard floor, he found that he was in his bedroom once again, and alone. “Ouch,” he said.

Snape lay groaning on the floor of his bedroom for some time, before pulling himself to his feet. As he did so, suddenly the mysterious clock on the mantelpiece began to chime again, this time ushering in the second hour. At the moment of the last chime, a bright light shone out from behind Snape’s bedroom door.

Throwing open the door, Snape discovered the light was coming from downstairs, from his sitting room. Nervously, he took out his wand and slowly made his way down the stairs. Just as he was about to burst into the room, a head stuck itself out of the doorway and said, “Are you coming in or not?”

Now a head sticking itself out of a doorway is not in itself a strange occurrence. However, it is, to say the least, unusual when it is not accompanied by a neck, or anything else that would seemingly attach it to a body, as was apparently the case with this particular head. It was the head of a smiling, middle-aged man, resplendent in beard and moustache. It bobbed there in mid-air for a moment, before snapping back inside the room.

Snape followed. Entering his sitting room, he stopped in amazement. The room had been completely transformed. The usually dark and dismal room was filled with light. A log fire roared merrily in the hearth. The walls were festooned with decorations: tinsel hanging from the bookshelves, fairy lights strung across the ceiling, holly hanging from the walls. A tall Christmas tree was squeezed into one corner, covered in lights and baubles and with a bright star shining from atop it. And spread across the floor and tables were piles of food and treats: turkey, Christmas pudding, mince pies, Christmas cake, boxes of chocolates, punch bowls filled with mulled wine. It was as if a small portion of the Hogwarts Christmas feast had exploded inside his sitting room.

Standing amidst this glorious scene was a ghost. His head still floated above his shoulders, although Snape could now see that a slender sliver of flesh connected it to the rest of his body. What remained of the ghost’s neck was concealed by a large ruff, below which he wore a finely-tailored period costume. The ghost pushed his errant head back down onto his shoulders with a squelch and beamed another wide smile.

“Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington. Resident Gryffindor House ghost,” said Snape icily. The presence of anything Gryffindor rarely put him in a good mood.

Sir Nicholas looked pleasantly surprised at Snape’s greeting. “No one ever addresses me by my proper name any more,” he said warmly. “Thank you. However tonight, you may refer to me as the Ghost of Christmas Present.”

“What on earth have you done to my room?” complained Snape.

“Do you like it?” asked Nick, seemingly oblivious to Snape’s obvious scowl of disgust. “Best that could be whipped up on short notice. I would have preferred a more traditional fifteenth-century look, but I was told this was the way it had to be.”

“Told?” asked Snape suspiciously. “By whom? Who is sending you all to me?”

Nick did not answer. Instead, he said, “You must try some of this food. If you don’t, the house-elves will be most put out. Here, try a mince pie. Or maybe you’d prefer one of these caramel-centred chocolates.”

“Humbug,” snarled Snape.

“Er, over there by the chestnuts,” said Nick, indicating a bag of sweets. There was a brief awkward pause as both men contemplated the tragic inevitability of the author throwing in the obvious A Christmas Carol joke at some point in the story. Finally Nick said, “Er, right, anyway, maybe we’d better get going. I have a lot to show you.”

“What was the point of all this, then?” asked Snape, indicating the piles of food and decorations. “To prove to me that Christmas is a time for excess and over-indulgence?”

Nick’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Snape. “What you call excess, others might call celebration. Is it not fair that ordinary, hard-working people should have one day in a year given over to the pure enjoyment of life? Would you deny it to them, Professor? And why do you deny it to yourself? If you will not enjoy what is put before you here, then come, let me show you what Christmas can do for others.”

Nick beckoned Snape out of the door he had just entered by. But when he stepped through it again, he found himself not in his hallway, but in a wide snow-covered street under a bright clear sky. He rubbed his eyes as they adjusted to the light and looked behind him, but no trace of the doorway through which he had passed could be seen.

He was in Hogsmeade, Hogsmeade High Street on Christmas morning. Most of the shops were shut, but a few were open and the taverns were doing roaring business. The street was thronged with people, hurrying through the snow, on their way to meet up with friends or family, to attend church, or simply to bask in the atmosphere of Christmas Day. But wherever they were going, no matter how rushed they were, each stopped to wish a “Merry Christmas” to every acquaintance or stranger they encountered, and to share marvels at the wonder of the day.

Snape and Nick, however, passed through the crowds unseen, invisible to those around them. None stopped to wish Snape the compliments of the season and, for the first time, Snape regretted not being able to share in their joy. To Snape’s logical mind, Christmas was a day like any other; the sun rose and set as it always did. Yet the effect it had on each and every person was plain to see as Snape walked down the high street. “Sir Nicholas, is there magic in Christmas?” Snape asked.

Nick chuckled. “Dumbledore would have said so,” he answered, “yet no spell or enchantment is at work, and no power save one.”

“What power is that?”

“The power of love,” Nick replied. “Come, let me show you.” Nick took Snape off the High Street and onto the residential streets. They passed from house to house and, looking through the windows, Snape saw family after family gathered around together laughing and talking, sharing time together. Ordinary lives, filled with happiness by nothing more than a turning of a calendar, pondered Snape.

(Of course, Nick did not take him to any of the houses where extended families who only met once a year were having blazing rows over decades-old trivial slights, or where wives were stressing over Christmas dinner and moaning that their husbands weren’t lifting a finger to help, or where kids overdosed on sugar and chocolate were driving their parents crazy, because that would rather have defeated his point. Besides, this is an adaptation of A Christmas Carol, not East Enders. To return to the plot…)

Nick eventually brought Snape to a small house close to the edge of the village. Taking him by the hand, he led him straight through the closed door into the house. Snape found the sensation of passing through solid matter for the first time quite unnerving. “Would you warn me the next time you’re going to do that?” he demanded.

“Sorry,” Nick replied. “I’ve been doing it for five hundred years. I don’t even think about it any more.”

“What are we doing here?” asked Snape. Nick simply gestured down the hallway. Snape could hear the sound of talking and laughter coming from the front room. Puzzled, he walked down the hall, through the (thankfully open) door and into the room.

It was a pleasant, welcoming room, with a lavishly decorated Christmas tree in one corner, and a roaring fire in the grate. A gathering of half a dozen people, each with broad grins on their faces, sat around in armchairs drinking cups of mulled wine. The people were of varying ages but, most noticeably, of varying heights. The shortest of them was regaling the others with a tale.

“And what did he say to that, Uncle Filius?” asked a young man in his twenties, and a little under five foot.

“Naturally, he declined,” said Professor Flitwick, for it was he, “and in terms most graphic and unsuitable for present company, I must say. But I had to ask.”

“But why?” asked a woman (mid-forties, five foot two). “Everyone knows how awful Snape is, no matter how much of a hero he might be. Why would you want to inflict him on us? Leave him to wallow in his own misery.”

“And what good would that do him, Claudia?” said Flitwick. “He will remain a miserable wretch for the rest of his life, unless someone actually tries to change him. I suspect he is beyond changing himself. At Christmas of all times, we must extend goodwill to our fellow man. Even if our fellow man is Severus Snape.” Snape glanced at Nick, standing at his shoulder, but said nothing.

“What amazes me,” said Flitwick’s nephew, “is how a man who sacrificed so much for us could so shun the community that owes him such a great deal.”

“Snape has always loathed the limelight,” Flitwick answered. “What he did in the war, he did for his own reasons, and I doubt we shall ever fully understand them. But I don’t think he can ever get past what happened. It’s as if he was ready to die in that battle, and now he has survived, he has nothing left to live for. He couldn’t change or move on. That’s why he went back to the Potions job, I think. He crawled back into the comfortable hole he had made for himself before, and can never leave.”

“It almost sounds as if you feel pity for him,” said Claudia, surprised. “For Snape?”

“Strange as though it may seem, I do somewhat,” said Flitwick. “But I would never dare to let him know that. He would take it as the worst insult imaginable.” Snape said nothing as Nick took him by the shoulder and guided him out of the house.

“There is more to see,” said Nick. He took Snape on, and they went from scene to scene across wizarding Britain, passing instantly from one place to another and seeing more of the joy and happiness of normal households at Christmas, but Snape let them pass by almost without noticing, lost as he was in his own thoughts.

At last they came to London, and passed down its narrow streets until Snape found himself standing in a wide familiar square. Nick pointed towards a row of tall terraced houses on one side. “Do you see?” he said.

Snape saw, though he wished he couldn’t. Between two houses, a third was growing, pushing its way out between the others to reveal itself. “Twelve, Grimmauld Place,” Snape uttered, aghast. “Oh no, Sir Nicholas. Of all places, don’t make me go in there.”

“You must,” said Nick. “Go on.” With extreme reluctance, Snape walked up to the door and passed inside.

It had been years since Snape had last set foot inside number twelve, and the place had changed out of all recognition in that time. Gone was the darkness, the dinginess and the sense of foreboding. Gone were the endless portraits of decrepit nobles, and the grisly trophies and ornaments of centuries of elitism and Dark magic. In their place was a bright, welcoming home that spoke of family and togetherness. Children’s pictures were stuck to the walls. A row of tiny shoes lined the hall just inside the door. Family photographs were hanging all the way up the staircase. The overall effect made the house seem much bigger and more open than Snape remembered it.

The unmistakeable excited shouts of children were coming from below Snape’s feet. Nick pointed to the staircase down to the basement, and Snape descended.

He found himself in the long narrow kitchen with the dining table set down the middle. Decorations and strings of Christmas cards hung from the ceiling. At the far end, in front of the stove, Ginny Potter, her long red hair tied up with a tinsel hairband, was busy preparing dinner. Around the table, and between its legs, two children were running, chasing each other round and round. Suddenly, they chose the same direction to turn at once, and crashed into each other, nearly pulling the tablecloth (and plates, cutlery and crackers) down on top of them. “Watch it, you two!” yelled Ginny.

“Sowwy,” said young Lily. At four, she was well past the age when she could talk properly, yet she had discovered a well-placed “sowwy” never failed to have the desired effect.

“I’m bored,” moaned James, getting to his feet and leaning on one of the chairs. “Can I go and play with the rubber Bludger Teddy got me?”

“I am not letting you get that out inside,” insisted Ginny. “Besides, your dad and Al will be back any minute, and then it’ll be dinnertime.”

Good, thought Snape, Potter’s not here yet. “Right, well, I’ve seen this place now,” he said to Nick. “Let’s get on to the next one, shall we?”

“Not so fast,” said Nick with a smile. “We’re not going anywhere yet.” I was afraid of that, thought Snape.

Above their heads, they heard the front door slam and footsteps in the hall. “Daddy’s home!” cried Lily, and ran to the foot of the stairs to look up.

Harry Potter descended the stairs and, neatly stepping over his welcoming daughter, entered the kitchen. He was carrying Tiny Albus on his shoulders. The boy looked pale and was shivering, but wore a defiant smile on his face. Harry set him down, and he hobbled to his place at the table and sat down expectantly. Snape could not but help look into his green eyes for a moment, the same eyes as his father and grandmother.

“How was the churchyard?” Ginny asked Harry.

“Beautiful,” replied Harry. “Al just sat there with me in front of the grave and asked all sorts of clever questions about his grandparents. I’m so glad I took him.”

“What grave is he talking about?” Snape asked Nick.

“His parents’,” Nick replied. “He first visited their grave at Christmas and goes every year now.”

“Hey, why did only Al get to go?” asked James.

There was an uncomfortable pause. “Because your father and I thought it best that Al learn something about his grandparents,” said Ginny eventually. A glance passed between Ginny and Harry, and Snape picked up on the unspoken reason, that Albus might not have another chance to share his father’s Christmas tradition.

“Sir Nicholas,” asked Snape, “what illness does Albus have?”

“Nobody knows,” answered Nick. “It has proved a complete mystery. Some think he was born with the condition, whilst others suspect it is the effect of some curse inflicted on him by one of the many Dark wizards with a grudge against Harry. The trouble is, there is no one with a sufficient knowledge of Dark magic to determine if that is true.”

Snape could not fail to miss the direction of Nick’s last remark. “He’s never asked me,” he pointed out. “I didn’t even know.”

“Do you need to be asked?” said Nick. “And what would you have done if you had been asked? Do you really think that Harry Potter would dare ask you for help? Is he not too much in your debt already?”

The Potter family had now sat down around the table for their Christmas meal. Crackers were pulled, releasing great clouds of red and yellow smoke. Everyone laughed heartily as the terrible jokes were read out and, to Snape’s dismay, everyone put on their paper party hats. Lily’s was too big and slipped down over her eyes. “Can’t see!” she wailed, and Ginny had to tighten it with a safety pin.

James had got a small toy whistle that blew various tunes in his cracker, and he kept blowing and blowing it until Harry was forced to confiscate it. James sulked moodily for all of ten seconds until Ginny placed the first of the carved turkey on his plate. The feast was very traditional but lavish; no daughter of Molly Weasley would ever be allowed to be anything but an excellent cook. The Potters gorged themselves hungrily, no more than Tiny Albus, who seemed to savour every mouthful with relish.

When their plates were cleared, Harry raised his glass and called for silence. “Silence, silence!” repeated James loudly and cheekily until a look from Ginny persuaded him to stop.

“As always at this time,” said Harry, “we should pay tribute to those known to us without whom we could not celebrate this day together. Those we have lost,” he solemnly, and listed their names, beginning with Albus Dumbledore (to which young Albus cheered) and Sirius Black, and eventually ending with Fred Weasley.

“Also,” continued Harry, “we should give thanks to those still with us who have given the most for us. There are too many to mention, but today, I would like to particularly single out Ron and Hermione, Neville, Luna and Professor McGonagall.” There was general cheering and clapping. “And Professor Snape,” Harry added.

The sound immediately drained out of the room. Everyone looked at each other uncomfortably. At last, Lily broke the silence. “Bad man!” she piped up.

“Professor Snape is not a bad man, Lily,” said Harry sternly.

“Why did you have to bring him up?” demanded Ginny. “On Christmas Day, must we acknowledge such an odious man as Snape?”

“Does he not deserve our thanks for what he did, Ginny?” asked Harry.

“Maybe, but does that excuse his making your life a misery for six years, Harry? Even since the war he has not changed. Did you see his reaction to seeing us yesterday? He would not even look poor Al in the face. The man has not an ounce of feeling in his body.”

“You’re wrong, dear,” Harry replied calmly. “Can you not put aside your feelings for just one day? Do you think we were wrong in choosing Al’s name?”

“What did he mean by that?” Snape asked Nick, but the ghost did not reply.

“Fine,” said Ginny, though the scowl had not faded from her face, “a Merry Christmas to Snape. He’ll be the merriest man in England today, I’m sure.”

“And a Merry Christmas to all,” said Harry, ignoring Ginny’s sarcasm.

“Merry Christmas!” said all the family.

“God bless us, everyone!” added Tiny Albus last of all, but then began coughing and spluttering loudly, and Ginny rushed to his side to tend to him.

“Time to leave,” said Nick, and led Snape out of the house. Darkness had now fallen, and the air was cold. They crossed the square and sat down on a bench.

Snape sat in thought for a long while. Then he said, “Tell me, Sir Nicholas, will Albus survive?”

“I cannot see the future, only the present,” Nick replied. “But if what we have seen is not changed, then I believe he will die.”

“So the future can be changed?” asked Snape desperately. “How? What is the purpose of these visions? Who sent you to me?”

“I cannot answer those questions. My work here is done, and my time with you grows short. I must depart, and leave you with the Third Spirit, the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come. Think well on all you have seen, and follow as he leads.” Nick stood up, and slowly faded away into the darkness, leaving Snape all alone.

***

Snape sat waiting on the bench for some moments. The chill air was making him shiver, but his mind was elsewhere and he did not notice. A thick mist floated in over Grimmauld Place and surrounded him, so that he could no longer see more than a few feet into the murk. From out of the mist, a figure approached him. It wore long, sweeping robes that were stained with silver. Its translucent face was haggard and gaunt, and its dark eyes stared out blankly.

“Good evening, Baron,” said Snape solemnly, standing up to greet the figure. “I’ve been expecting you. It was inevitable you would be the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come.”

The Bloody Baron nodded, but did not speak, and his eyes remained unfocussed. “Lead on, ghost of my house,” said Snape. “I am ready.”

The Baron turned, and pointed into the mist. Snape walked forward as he was directed. The mist swirled about him, and then dissolved to reveal a courtyard covered in a thick layer of snow. Snape instantly recognised it as belonging to Hogwarts. “We are seeing the future?” Snape asked. The Baron nodded silently. “But how is that possible. No known magic can see into the future. How is this being done?” The Baron did not answer, but instead raised his blood-stained arm and pointed to two figures greeting each other in one corner of the courtyard.

Snape approached them, and saw that they were Professors Longbottom and Sinistra. “Have you heard?” Longbottom was saying. “Is it true?”

“Yes,” Sinistra replied. “It is true. Died in his bed a week ago, by all accounts. No one found out until today. The Ministry is making arrangements for his funeral.”

“We’re not going to be expected to go, are we?” said Longbottom anxiously. “I mean, it’s not going to be a public funeral?”

“Oh no,” said Sinistra. “Frankly, I doubt anyone will go. It’s not like he had any friends, is it? No family that I know of, either. Anyway, why should anyone care that he’s gone? It’s not like he wanted anyone to care about him when he was alive.”

“It’s a terrible thing to say,” admitted Longbottom, “but I’m not sad that he’s dead. I’ve had little but abuse and condescension from him ever since I’ve known him. For twenty years. I’m not going to miss him now that he’s gone.”

“I wonder who’ll get his job?” pondered Sinistra. “I hope I’m not put on the selection panel. Those things bore me to death.”

“Thanks. You were on mine,” said Longbottom with a smile.

They walked off, and Snape turned back to the Bloody Baron. “Why have you shown me that?” he asked. “What was that about?” The Baron did not reply, but began to walk towards a corridor, and indicated that Snape should follow.

The Baron led Snape through the corridors of Hogwarts, and down into the dungeons. At first, Snape assumed they were going to his office, to see what he himself was up to, but the Baron turned a corner and they arrived instead at the Slytherin common room. The Baron indicated that Snape should enter.

Inside, Snape found the common room tastefully decorated for the season, with rows of Christmas lights and a small tree in one corner. The only students in the room, a group of about half a dozen were sitting around in front of the fireplace and talking intently.

“I heard that it was Muggles who found him,” said one. “A neighbour noticed a smell and they broke in to find him. Frankly, I’m amazed there was any meat on him left to rot.”

“Eurgh, that’s gross, Duncan,” said another. “Hey, I wonder who gets his things. He collected some pretty valuable stuff in his time, you know.”

“It’ll become property of the Ministry, unless he made a will,” said Duncan. “I doubt he did, though. He wouldn’t want anyone getting their hands on his precious stuff. He’d have preferred if it was all burnt with him. Say, Marcus, your dad works in the legal department at the Ministry. See if you can get him find out what’ll become of his collections. I’d like to get hold of… I mean, there’s a few books he had which it’d be good to have as the property of Slytherin House.”

“I’m sad he’s dead,” interrupted a young girl, provoking strange looks from the others. “I’d already made a start on his coursework.” The rest of the group laughed.

“Who’ll replace him, do you think?” enquired another girl.

“Who cares?” said Duncan. “Anyone would be better than him. A Merry Christmas and good riddance, I say.” There was hearty agreement from the other students.

Snape’s pale face was ashen as he listened to the grim conversation. “Tell me, Baron,” he said desperately, “of whom are these people speaking? What poor man do they so condemn upon his death?” The Baron again did not reply. “Please,” begged Snape, “show me no more talk about this man. Show me something different, I implore you.”

At once, the scene in front of him faded. When it resolved itself again, Snape found himself once more standing in the hallway of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. The Bloody Baron raised his hand and pointed down the stairs towards the kitchen.

Snape descended the stairs as he was bidden. The kitchen, he found, was not as well-decorated as before, but there were stacks and stacks of cards everywhere. Ginny Potter was at the stove again, stirring aimlessly at a pot, whilst James and Lily sat at the table near her in silence. Snape was shocked to see the usually energetic and lively James sitting almost motionless, his head bowed.

“I…I cannot think why your dad isn’t home yet,” stammered Ginny. Her normally strong voice was weak and broken, and when she glanced over to look at her children, Snape saw her eyes were heavy with tears.

“He’ll be here, Mum,” said James, trying to sound strong himself. Lily suddenly burst out crying herself, and Ginny rushed over and hugged her tightly. Snape looked on the scene with horror, for he understood what it meant. Tiny Albus… he could hardly bring himself to think it.

He heard the slam of the door from above. The footsteps along the hall and down the stairs were slower than before. Harry Potter entered the kitchen with a look on his face that made Snape suddenly recall an image he had seen long before. It was the image of Harry sitting in the Great Hall at the end of his fifth year, following Sirius Black’s death. The look he saw now was similar, only much, much worse.

He walked over to James and Lily and hugged them tightly, before embracing his wife. “Do you know,” he said quietly, “I ran into Zacharias Smith outside the Ministry today. I mean, Zacharias Smith of all people; we’ve never liked each other. But he saw me and actually rushed over to talk to me and offer me his condolences. He was so heartfelt, I almost broke down then and there.”

The family sat down around the table. Ginny began to serve the meal in silence. “I’ve been up to the graveyard,” said Harry. “It is beautiful, Ginny. I want to take James and Lily up there tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” asked Ginny.

“They must understand, Ginny. Believe me, I know about these things. It’s for the best, trust me.” When the meal was served, Harry raised his glass. “To those we have lost,” he said. “To Al.”

Snape could bear no more. “Take me away,” he pleaded. He turned, and found himself standing in the snow on a path on the edge of Hogsmeade. Dusk was fast approaching. The Baron raised his hand once more and pointed to a gate at the end of the path.

Snape approached the gate. “I recognise this place,” he said. “This is the Hogsmeade graveyard.” Many members of the wizarding community were buried in this graveyard, the only all-wizard cemetery in Britain. “Oh, Baron, please do not make me go in there.” But the Baron remained implacable.

With dread, Snape entered. “We are to discover who that man was those at Hogwarts were talking about, aren’t we?” he asked. “Please, Baron, I cannot bear to learn the truth.” The Baron pointed to a particular grave. “I will look if I must, but I promise I can change. The future is not fixed. Our choices determine the future. We write our destiny ourselves.”

Snape turned to look upon the grave. But, to his surprise, it was a small grave, not large enough for a full grown man. He bent down to read the name on the headstone.

ALBUS SEVERUS POTTER

Snape was stunned into silence for some time. Eventually, he stammered, “He... he gave him my name. My God, he gave his son my name. Why would he do such a thing? I thought he despised me. Have I misjudged him so much? I never looked for his gratitude. Is he the one man in all Britain who actually thinks highly of me? He knows everything I have done. Can it be that he sees something in me that I cannot see myself? What should I do now?”

Snape remained lost and adrift in a maelstrom of his own thoughts for some minutes, and only when he eventually looked up did he see that the Bloody Baron was pointing to another grave, some distance away. Snape stood up and walked over to the second grave. He knew what would be inscribed there even before he read it.

SEVERUS SNAPE

Snape turned upon the Baron. “Hear me!” he cried. “I am not the man I was. These visions have changed me, I promise. I cannot be beyond hope, or you would not have shown me these things. I promise to take heed of your message. I will honour Christmas and keep its spirit in my heart. I will live in the Past, the Present and the Future. Tell me I may yet remove the names from both of these graves!”

The Baron remained impassive. “Tell me!” yelled Snape desperately. “What must I do? Or at least tell me this: who sent you to me? Who sent you?” With that, he seized the Baron’s blood-stained tunic, but it gave way in his hands, and he found that it had become his bedsheets, and that he was kneeling on his bed in his own home once more.

Yes, the bed was his own, the room was his own, the fireplace and mantelpiece and ugly pot sitting there that he’d picked up on holiday in Egypt was his own! Best of all, his life was his own, and he could choose to change it.

He remained kneeling on his bed for some time, quietly pondering his next move. Then, all of a sudden, he leapt off the bed and ran into his bathroom to stare at himself in the mirror. The same old pallid face looked back at him, but there was a spark of light in those dark eyes that had not been there before. With a strenuous effort, he forced himself to crack a smile. The muscles of his face groaned at the unfamiliar task to which they were being put, but eventually gave way. The release felt liberating to Snape in a way he could not have imagined.

“Merry Christmas!” he said to himself. “A merry Christmas it is indeed! I will keep my promise, O Spirits of Christmas. I will live in the Past, the Present and the Future. I will not shut out my fellow man, but put others first in all that I do. This I swear.”

He rushed to his closet to find a brighter change of clothing, but discovered that every set of robes that he owned were black. “Oh, well, what I’m wearing will do,” he said. He went over to the window and pushed it open to look out at the day.

It was a bright, sunny morning. It had been snowing, but the snow had combined with the grime of Spinner’s End to create an ugly, mushy sludge that covered the street. Still, to Snape the sight was beautiful: a new day had come, a day in which anything was possible.

A thought came to him: How long have I been gone? Spotting a young Muggle boy hurrying down the street he called out to him. “Hey, you!”

Most local residents upon hearing the voice of Snape (or as they knew him “that mad guy who lives on the corner”) would have put their heads down and run. Fortunately for Snape, this particular boy was not familiar with him, as he was staying with relatives close by for Christmas. So he merely stopped and looked up in surprise.

“What day is it today?” Snape asked.

“You nuts or somefink?” the boy replied in a gruff voice.

Snape resisted the urge to correct the boy’s use of English. “Just answer the question,” he said.

“It’s Christmas Day, of course,” said the boy, and hurried off shaking his head.

“Christmas Day!” exclaimed Snape. “It all happened in one night. That was some remarkable magic, whoever performed it. This is wonderful, I know exactly what I must do.” Quickly, he washed and shaved, put on his winter coat, and Apparated away from Spinners’ End.

He arrived on Hogsmeade High Street, which was thronged with people, just as he remembered it from the vision Nearly Headless Nick had shown him. He mingled with the crowds, and to everyone whose eye he caught he offered a hearty “Merry Christmas!” and sometimes a warm handshake. Such was the change in his demeanour that by the next day the Ministry had received no less than twenty-seven panicked letters by owl, warning them that someone with Polyjuice Potion was impersonating Severus Snape.

Snape was most fortunate that a few shops were still open, as he had a couple of important purchases he needed to make. He went up and down the High Street until he had found what he was looking for, and everywhere he went he was courteous and friendly, and sympathised with those shop workers having to work on Christmas Day. What surprised him most was how much the gracious thanks of those he spoke to moved him.

At last, he turned away from the High Street and onto the back streets of the village. Soon he arrived at the house of Professor Flitwick, and he knocked at the door.

Flitwick himself answered, and his expression of bewilderment at receiving an unexpected house-call on Christmas Day turned to one of utter shock when he saw who it was standing on his threshold.

“Merry Christmas!” said Snape brightly. “I know this is rather short notice, but I was wondering if I could reconsider my decision to turn down your generous offer of hospitality on this fine day. May I come in?”

“I...I...” Flitwick was temporarily rendered speechless. “Of course you may, Severus!” he said at last. “Come in, come in!”

“Thank you!” said Snape and, reaching into his coat pocket, he took out a wizard’s chess set and handed it to Flitwick. “This is for you. Sorry I didn’t have time to wrap it. I remember you saying you broke your last set.” To say Flitwick was astonished would be a serious understatement.

Snape entered, and greeted each of Flitwick’s relatives. He spent all day there, sharing stories and joining in the festivities. Deploying his usual sardonic wit in a more constructive manner, he found that Flitwick’s relatives quickly warmed to him, and by the end of the day they were each prepared to say it was the best Christmas Day they’d ever had.

But Snape was not finished there. Boxing Day found him in London, standing in a familiar square and watching a house appear out of nowhere between houses number eleven and thirteen. He took a deep breath, walked up to the door, and knocked.

“Just a moment!” came a voice from inside, and a few seconds later Harry Potter opened the door, holding a glass of wine. The moment he saw Snape, the glass slipped from his hand and smashed on the doorstep. “Um, er, hello, Professor,” he said uncomfortably. “What can I do for you?”

“May I come in, Potter?” said Snape in his usual flat tone. “There is something I wish to discuss with you.”

Snape was prepared for Harry to refuse, but Harry replied, “Erm, well, yes, all right. Come in. Mind the broken glass.” They went inside and Harry showed Snape into the small front room just off the hall. “Sorry about the mess. Kids, Christmas, you understand.”

“Who is it, Harry?” called the voice of Ginny up from the kitchen.

“You’d better come up here, Ginny,” Harry answered. Ginny climbed the stairs and entered the front room. Seeing Snape, she stopped dead in the doorway, her mouth half-open in shock and a cold expression on her face. “So what do you want to discuss, Professor?” said Harry nervously.

“Well, first of all, I want to give you this,” said Snape. He took a parcel out of his robes and handed it to Harry. “It is by way of the beginnings of an apology.” Harry opened the parcel to discover a family-size photo album. “I thought it would be suitable to house this,” Snape explained, producing a photograph torn in half, showing a young woman with red hair and green eyes. “This should belong to you. No doubt you have the other half.”

Harry and Ginny were rendered completely speechless. “I have seen the past, the present and the future,” said Snape earnestly. “The past I cannot change, but I know the present and the future are within the power of all of us to mould.”

Harry looked down at the photograph of his mother. He remembered seeing Snape take it in the Pensieve, and knew that only he could fully understand what it meant to Snape. Looking up, he met Snape’s eyes. It occurred to him that, because of what he had seen in the Pensieve that night, he knew Severus Snape better than anyone alive. But still, there was a look in his eyes Harry had never seen before. It was a look of openness, of honesty. He really meant what he said.

At that moment, Harry and Ginny’s three children burst into the room. “What’s going on?” demanded James. “Oooh!” he said, seeing Snape.

“Go back downstairs, kids,” said Ginny.

“Actually, no, I’d like them to stay,” interrupted Snape. “You see, the second reason I came was meet your youngest son.” Albus retreated nervously behind his mother. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you,” Snape said gently. Eventually, Albus stepped forward. His face was pale and his legs were weak, but he met Snape’s penetrating gaze steadily and without looking away. “Yes, you do have your dad’s eyes,” Snape said. Harry nodded; he understood.

Snape looked Albus up and down. “I cannot promise anything, but I may be able to help,” he said at last. “You know I have an extensive knowledge of Dark magic, and if a curse is responsible for Albus’ condition, I may be able to find it.” Harry just stared at him, open-mouthed. Ginny burst into tears.

Snape was better than his word. And to Tiny Albus, who did not die, he was like a second father. He became as generous and fair-minded a wizard and a teacher as the wizarding world had ever known. Everyone around him was astonished by the change, but he didn’t care because, for the first time in his life, he was content.

He never did find out who had sent the ghosts to him, but he was never again visited by spirits. And it was always said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any wizard possessed the knowledge.

He still refused to wear paper hats, though. Some things never change.

And so, as Tiny Albus observed, God bless us, everyone!

* * *

A long way away, but also very near, in a place remarkably similar to King’s Cross Station, Albus Dumbledore looked down upon Snape, and smiled. His last task completed, his last debt paid, he turned away, boarded a train, and went on.