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's Christmas Carol by Sonorus
Chapter Endnotes: The 1991 Christmas is based on the description found in the Mirror of Erised chapter of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. The other Christmases are from my own imagination.