Chapters 41-50

All I Want For Christmas

The Mark was gone. Only scars were left. If enough time passed, the Muggle physician had told him, even they would fade.

But he still dreamed of the skull and the snake coiling around his arm. First the faint lines grew clearer, until they were black like coal on his white skin. Then a burning sensation crept over the tattoo. Increased. Warmth, heat. Fire! When he tried to flex his fingers, they remained frozen. Pain throbbed in his arm. Sweat formed on his forehead, ran down his cheeks. His throat constricted, his breath hitched, reduced to gasps, as the pain increased. Until the black lines burst apart. Charred like coal, the skin peeled back around the Mark, revealing raw flesh. Still he burned. And he couldn’t avert his gaze. His flesh crumbled away until only bones remained, strangely white and fragile. A gust of wind tore at him. And his bones turned to dust.

He lay clutching his arm while his tears grew cold. At last he turned onto his back and counted his heartbeats. Finally he rose, went to the window. Turned back. Passed the table with the newspapers. Five attacks. Eighteen dead. Ten adults. Eight children. And one cat. Turned around. Back to the window. And again.

Three years. He’d hoped for only three years! Of relative peace. Of well-known routines and small comforts. No nightmares. Control over his life. Better yet: Control over his death, thanks to a perfect plan that would grant him a painless end at the date of his choice.

Now…He stared at the picture below the headline. A balding, middle-aged wizard, his arm around a dumpy witch, smiling at him. Now the Dark was rising again.

He gazed across the lake towards the Forbidden Forest. Pearlescent mists drifted over the frozen surface. Beyond, the woods beckoned. The woods are lovely, dark and deep…

The darkest evening of the year. And then there was Christmas, the day of gifts and fake smiles.

It would be nicely symbolic, he surmised. And for the first—and the last time in his life—he’d receive the gift he really wanted.

oooOooo

It was incredibly difficult to find a suitable Christmas present for Professor Snape. Hermione wanted to give him something special, something he would cherish and value. Yet it also needed to be appropriate, something an apprentice could give to her master. In the end she had Charmed Muggle CDs to produce their music at a wand-tip, choosing songs Professor Snape seemed to have enjoyed at the Slytherin House party. Hermione was quite pleased with the result.

As she approached his library, she imagined his reaction. That special smirk. Maybe an appreciative glint in his black eyes?

But when she stood before him, she knew instantly that something was wrong. He was even paler than usual, his sallow skin tinged with yellow. ‘Miss Granger? What are you doing here? The feast is in the Great Hall.’

‘I’ve come to bring you your Christmas gift, sir. I hope you like it. I’ve created the Charms myself.’

He appeared startled, almost shocked at her words. For a second she caught a hint of unbearable sadness in his fathomless eyes. Suddenly she felt scared.

‘Ah, yes,’ Professor Snape sneered. ‘Christmas…a day of celebration and exchanging…gifts.’

‘Tell me, Miss Granger, have you ever wondered why I have taken you on as my Apprentice?’ he asked silkily.

‘I—Yes, of course I have, sir. I assumed that—’

He held up his hand to silence her. ‘Let that be my gift to you,’ he announced, ‘I shall tell you why I accepted you. And then I shall ask you for something in return. For the only…gift…shall we say…that I will ever ask of you.’

She frowned. Her heart began to race. But if he wants to ask me to marry him, why does he look so awful?

‘It’s just a little thing,’ he murmured. ‘Something you are Bound to do anyway, by your oath and by your blood.’

Her breath caught in her throat, as a horrible premonition gripped her. What if he did not want to marry her? What if he did not ever want to marry?

‘Sir,’ she started.

But he would not let her speak. Anger flared in his eyes, as he swooped down on her. ‘I shall ask no more of you than Dumbledore asked of me. Surely even a bloody Gryffindor such as you can one, just one time in my life give to me what I really want!’

His gift slipped from her grasp. ‘No,’ she cried, her voice shrill with anguish. ‘Please! At least hear me out—please!’

‘Why should I—’

‘Just three minutes, please! I promise—I will do whatever you order me to do, even help you to—to—I did swear—just hear me out, please!’

He took a step back and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Very well.’

‘Sir, please! I can—I can understand that you don’t want to go to Azkaban. I mean, who’d ever want to go to Azkaban. No one,’ she babbled. ‘And I also understand if you don’t want a wife, I mean, I know that you loved Lily Potter.’

Though she didn’t really understand. Lily had married someone else, for God’s sake!

‘Maybe—we—there could be another solution!’ she stammered. ‘ There must be a loophole! Something. I’m smart, I can find a way.’

‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Let me try! I promise, if there’s no other way, I’ll do it. Just not yet. Not when there is still time—’ She fell silent, choking on her tears. She couldn’t look away from him, from his eyes, so black, so bleak.

‘Please,’ she rasped. ‘Don’t ask this of me. Not yet.’

He slumped down on one of the armchairs near the fireplace. The silence grew, expanded, reached for her, strangled her.

‘Very well,’ he sighed at last. ‘Not yet. Now go.’