HOW THE PRINCE STOLE CHRISTMAS



All the wizards at Hogwarts
Liked Christmas a lot…
But the Prince who dwelled deep in the dungeons
DID NOT!

Severus Snape hated Christmas, Yule, and Kwanzaa,
Hated every last song, hated every last stanza.
But the dungeons were home, no one doubted the fact,
And the role of professor made up for the lack
Of any true feelings taking root in his heart
Since his harsh words to Lily had torn friends apart.

But whatever the reason, his woes or his losses,
His poisonous words dribbled down like molasses.
“I detest all the cheer, blast them all to Perdition;
It’s high time I carved out my own Yuletide tradition!
No one questions their customs, so outdated and worn;
I’ll show them!� chortled he, his voice dripping with scorn.

Then he grimaced more deeply, his thin lips in a frown,
Morbid thoughts welling up ‘til he feared he might drown;
And his memories filtered through Christmases past
Filled with infernal caroling followed by the repast.
First they’d bring up the trees, drag them far through the snow,
Giving hardly a thought to when others might grow.

Not just one, oh no, sir, that would not do at all;
Never less than twelve trees to grace the Great Hall.
Then the tinsel and garlands and true fairy lights,
Draping holly and mistletoe long through the night.
“When will it end?� he’d growled time and again,
But no one had answered, looked to him as a friend.

They’d ignored his dark glances as his mother had done,
Trading gifts with each other, too immersed in their fun
To notice he was omitted, to include the outcast,
See the unloved young schoolboy walk away at the last;
Drowning tears in his potions so no one would guess
That his parents consigned him to Hogwarts, bereft.

All too young he had learned to avoid others’ company,
Shrugging off Christmas parties, full of joy and cacophony;
Where they’d unwrap their presents, fling the foil to the skies,
Scan the vague product promises that most often were lies.
Yes, the gadgets from Zonko’s were the absolute worst:
All abominable objects that spun, stank, or burst.

So Snape made up his mind and he made it right quick,
He’d purloin all the finery while dressed as St. Nick.
Not a one would suspect him, he’d outsmart all the elves;
They’d have three weeks of quietude and time to themselves.
“What to use for a sleigh?� was his next snarky thought.
“Must be suitably large to contain the whole lot.�

With specimen jars staring down from the rafters,
It did not take him long to find what he was after.
Beady eyes had caught sight of the rug on the floor:
A faded Axminster which was buoyant no more.
“It was red, oh so red!� he pronounced with dark glee.
“And roomy enough for a forest of trees!�

Should he try to find reindeer amid Hagrid’s stockade?
Or a fine brace of thestrals to lead the parade?
No indeed, he would not. He could spell it instead
With a Levitating Charm to float high overhead.
It was really so simple, such a far-reaching plan;
It would change preconceptions all over the land.

Old St. Nick needed raiments to complete the charade,
But habitual black was the sole thing he had.
He eyed the long curtains that hung ‘round his bed,
Inspiration taking root in the back of his head.
So dressed in new robes of Slytherin green,
He slunk up the stairs, down the stone halls, unseen.

Glowing purple with menace, hidden deep on his shelves
Was the illegal potion so effective with elves.
A pernicious solution, coaxed to waft through the vents,
Masked with cinnamon, nutmeg and holiday scents,
Soon sent castle residents, yawning, to bed
While the crafty old devil crept downstairs instead.

In the kitchen, the elves had succumbed to the potion,
Snoring deep in their chairs with hardly a notion
That the gifts which lay stately arranged by the fire
Would be gone -- who knows where -- when the long night expired.
With a sneer of contempt, Snape packed up all the sweets,
Took the simmering soup and the tasty roast meats.

Almost done, almost there; he had almost succeeded,
When a bend in the hall showed the last thing he needed.
Out of bed for snack, the boy named for a weasel
And the bushy-haired girl with her ginger kneazle.
With barely a flick, he Disillusioned himself,
Then the high floating rug eased behind a tall shelf.

An oblivious pair, but not so the cat,
With instincts superior to that freckle-faced brat.
Into corners it stared with its feral gold eyes
So patient it hunted, so stalwart, so wise.
In the other direction, Snape was forced to retreat;
He was hailed by Pomona with the rug at his feet.

“Gifts for orphans, Professor? How could I not see?�
“Nobly offered,� Snape lied. “Quite anonymously.�
Surely others would see through this cheap fabrication,
Then expose Snape’s dark plots, raining down ruination;
But Pomona just smiled, sent him off on his way,
With his mountain of loot on his ill-gotten sleigh.

He’d catch it on fire! Throw it over the side!
Watch the fathomless lake take it out with the tide...
In his dark dreams he reveled, in the cover of night,
When a long, bearded shape nearly gave him a fright.
“Will you make it for pudding?� “I just don’t see how.�
“Then it’s best we presented your gift to you now.�

A magnanimous wave of his glittering hand,
Albus summoned a box with its own gilded stand.
Snape was caught without words, he was caught unawares,
While the old wizard urged him to climb up the stairs.
“We’re too old to go sledding. Both too old, not like you,�
Said the dotty old man and the tartan-clad shrew.

It couldn’t! It didn’t! Yes, the tag bore his name!
And Snape’s hands hesitated as his heart filled with shame.
Still he opened the box with considerable care,
Moved the tissue and padding to see what lay in there.
From the depths shone a basin of blackest obsidian,
Nimbly crafted by elves to be extra resilient.

Oh, the potions he’d brew! He’d be world-widely famous!
He’d be free of this school and his duties so heinous.
They were watching him now, seeing how he’d reply;
Would he stumble away with another bold lie?
So he lifted his eyes to catch Albus’s grin,
While Minerva stood poised with a hand at her chin.

He thanked them profusely as he’d learned as a lad,
Hardly daring to think what few options he had.
“Must have taken you years to amass all that gold,
Yet you knew what I wanted – without being told.�
“It was easy, good man,� offered she without fear.
“Your obsession with potions, abundantly clear.�

Then they sat him right down with a blanket most sensible,
While the wizard’s blue eyes flashed him looks, reprehensible.
In the warmth of the room, his plot clearly derailed,
Severus bared his true thoughts of how he had failed.
“Confound it, Albus! Why persist with the best?
When my virulent nature is clear to the rest!�

“Not just yet,� cautioned Albus. “You’ve another chance still,
It’s unfair to exclude you from acts of goodwill.
So we took it upon us, though you find it distasteful,
To show not all the world is so callous and hateful.�
“If you’ll just allow me,� the old woman did swagger.
“I’ll put all things to right despite how late the hour.�

With a circular wave of her knobby white arm
All the trees reassembled without any harm.
All the gifts floated spritely, right in front of his eyes,
To recipient’s beds, who would never surmise
Just how closely they’d missed finding Christmas so bare,
With no gifts from their loved ones and no overwrought fare.

Did they think they’d reformed him, just as quickly as that?
So simplistic and easy, just like changing a hat.
Slapped his wrist like a child, left him toys to beguile,
Sent him off to his bed with a cookie, a smile.
Not so fast, he did think, to forgive the distress
That had long ago eaten a hole in his breast.

“I still hate all the noise, all the songs and frivolity;
I refuse to don hats, laugh at jokes, act all jolly.�
“Well, we tried,� sighed the wizard. “I’ve no power to alter
What you’ve no doubt decided.� Then he just seemed to falter.
“But a brandy that’s shared just among three old friends,
That’s not too much to ask,� said she, making amends.

“Only one day per year,� cautioned Snape, unrepentant.
“And for Christmas Eve, too,� bargained Albus, expectant.
“Fine,� snarled Snape with a swirl of his cape,
Giving grudging respect as he made his escape.
They had cleverly twisted his dark aims into theirs,
Grumbled Snape deep inside as he trudged down the stairs.

He’d no choice but to follow this tradition thereafter,
When for one day a year, he’d allow them their laughter
At his pithy remarks, every one condescending;
He’d consume their rum punch, plied with toasts never-ending.
Why he’d even make light of his role in this place:
Teaching Lily’s green eyes in James’ smug, specky face.