Disclaimer: I’m not JKR. She does not have a compulsion to enter any and all fanfiction challenges that she finds appealing. Or so we think....

He stood by, looking at her. Watching her. He didn’t know why. He just did. He leaned with his back against the castle wall, obscured from her view by a white-berried bush, and watched her walking in the snow. He just...could not fathom why he was watching this girl that he had known forever, though really not forever at all, watching her like she was all there was to look at in the world.

It had been purely by accident that he had even stumbled upon her refuge. A small courtyard – was that what this would be called? – surrounded by great fir trees. He didn’t know precisely where on the grounds of Hogwarts that they were, but he didn’t really care, because he wasn’t thinking of such things. He was thinking of her.

Her hair contrasted so violently with the pure, unspoiled whiteness of the snow that she did not look as though she was really there; she looked added, as if cut-and-pasted onto a greeting card. She paid no attention to him, or wouldn’t have, had she even known he was there. She walked about the courtyard and there was a look of pure fulfilment on her face. Harry felt it too. There was something about the snow, this snow, the air of this snow, the smell of it – something that was bewitching. He felt it in every breath he took.

And then she spoke:

“Hey,” Ginny said, looking suddenly at Harry. So suddenly, in fact, that Harry nearly spun with the unexpectedness of it. He lost his balance a bit and wobbled, and she grinned at him.

“You all right?” she asked, walking over to him. “You look pale.”

“I’m–” Harry cleared his throat, and tried again, “I’m fine. Just...it’s cold out here, isn’t it?”

“It is December,” said Ginny.

“Right,” said Harry. He spoke normally, and so did she. It didn’t feel odd, to be in this place. It felt right.

“So,” she said. “Did you get your assignment yet?”

Harry shook his head. “No. Tonight. How did they decide the order, anyway?”

“Dunno,” said Ginny. “Tonight’s the last night, isn‘t it?”

“I think,” said Harry. “Ron and Hermione don’t have theirs yet either.”

“Well, Hermione’s got to go last, right?”

“I suppose.”

Silence.

“Who do you want?” Ginny inquired, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her left ear. Harry noticed it was red from the cold. The ear, of course. The hair was always red.

Harry grinned. “I’m still hoping I’ll get you or Ron,” he said.

“Harry, you know that the whole point of this thing is for inter-house unity. No Gryffindors. Hermione decided that from the start.”

“I’m still hoping, though,” he said, grinning.

The Gryffindors (Hermione, mainly) had decided that it would be a good idea to ‘participate in the tradition of’ Boxing Day. They would give a box to some student (“Or professor!” Hermione would remind them) from another house, and they actually had to go to his or her house if the student wasn’t at Hogwarts for the hols. Not many were excited about that prospect. What if I get Malfoy? they all panicked, I think I’ll kill myself, before I go to his house to give him a present...

A sudden wind blew in the secluded place, and both Harry and Ginny shivered. “Let’s go,” said Ginny, and she began walking to the entrance of this courtyard, a place where the trees bent together and left a space enough to walk through. Harry followed close behind, slightly disappointed to leave.

“Did you get yours, Ginny?” Harry asked, trying to keep up with her after tripping on a tree root.

“No, not yet,” said Ginny. “Tonight as well. What time is it?”

“Half five,” said Harry.

Ginny nodded, as if approving this answer. “I’ve an hour before I’m supposed to be there. When‘s yours?”

“Quarter to seven.”

“What should we do until then...?”

Harry caught up with her and put an arm round her shoulders. It was cold, after all, he reasoned. She stiffened for a moment, but relaxed in a moment more. Yes, it was cold, and the touch felt good.

“I dunno,” said Harry. “We could fly, but there’s a bit too much snow, I reckon.”

“Yes, I suppose,” said Ginny. She looked up at Harry out of the corner of her eye. “What do you want to do?”

“I dunno,” said Harry again. “How ‘bout we just sit round the common room and do nothing?”

Ginny grinned. “Works for me,” she said. “It’s warm in there, right?”

“Of course,” said Harry, and they walked towards the double doors, away from the cold.

H ermione sat in the Potions Dungeon, working. What else did she do in the Potions Dungeon, after all? She was always working these days, either for her NEWTs or for Boxing Day. After tonight, of course, her part in the latter would be over.

She ground the root of asphodel as she knew she had to do, but she couldn’t seem to find the energy to move after that. She had to put it into the cauldron, of course, but suddenly she was simply unable to do anything but sit back and breathe.

In...

...out.

What had happened?

Hermione let her eyes close briefly, only briefly of course, because if she let herself rest then it would not be good, no, not good at all, no way, no sir...

“Miss Granger?” came a sharp voice, so sharp that it cut into Hermione’s brain and she felt her head ache with the pain of it.

Her eyes opened slowly, and there in front of her was Professor Snape, looking at her like she was mad, which he clearly was very much at the moment, if the look on his face was any indication.

“Why in hell are you sleeping in my Potions Dungeon, Miss Granger?” Snape asked, eyes shrewd as ever.

“I...sleeping?” Hermione said, drowsiness clear in her voice.

“Yes, sleeping,” said Snape again. He looked at her expectantly, sure of course that she, the insufferable know-it-all of Gryffindor Tower, could come up with some sort of lie that he could enjoy seeing right through.

“I wasn’t...” Hermione yawned. “I wasn’t sleeping...” said Hermione vainly. Surely she couldn’t have fallen asleep? It had only been a moment ago that she had been crushing that asphodel...

Snape looked mildly surprised that this was the best she could do. She herself felt disappointed, but she just couldn’t have fallen asleep. “Oh, and I suppose you were just resting your eyes, is that it?”

Hermione seized the opportunity, though surely Snape hadn’t been serious.

“Yes, I was...I’ve been very busy, lately – you know, with the Boxing Day preparations – and I just closed my eyes for a moment–I’m sure that you just happened to come into the room right at the wrong moment, and...”

“Enough,” said Professor Snape, holding a hand up to silence her. His eyes rolled up briefly, and it seemed he was contemplating something with himself. “Just...shouldn’t you be with your friends today? After all, it is the holidays. Shouldn’t all the Gryffindors burrow together?” He smiled grimly, showing no sign of actual care for her loneliness, which she only just then realised existed.

Hermione wondered what he was on about.

“So,” he said, “I insist you leave my dungeon this instant, and go run along to your little friends.”

Hermione blinked, and gathered up her ingredients together. “I’m...not being punished?” she asked, attempting to get a hold on everything so that nothing would fall.

“What,” he said, “punished for just...resting your eyes for a moment?” He shook his head, chuckling in what could be called anything but a merry way. “You must be joking.”

Hermione did not feel quite like tempting fate at the moment – in fact, all she felt like doing at the moment was closing her eyes and dreaming of a time when she didn’t have quite so much on her hands. And so, without saying anything more to her Potions Master, she stood and made to leave.

“Oh, and Miss Granger?” said Snape, calling her back. She looked round, tucking an ingredient back into her arms that nearly came loose.

“Yes?”

“When you are...resting your eyes...” he said, scepticism clear in his voice, “do you always drool out of the left corner of your mouth?” He smirked.

Hermione closed her eyes, feeling her cheeks colour. “Oh, yes, all the time,” she said, and she left the Potions Dungeon without another word.

“Do you want some more pudding, Ronald?” asked Fleur Delacour in a perfect English accent, holding a bowl in front of Ron’s face. “It is very good.”

“Oh, sure,” said Ron, and he took the pudding from Fleur.

“You’re very handsome, you know that Ronald?” said Fleur as Ron ate the pudding.

“Aren’t I?” said Ron, admiring his reflection in his spoon.

“Oh, very much so,” said Fleur, and she leaned across the Gryffindor Table, across the puddings and bouillabaisse and put her mouth to his and he opened his eyes and was in his bed, awake.

Ron grumbled. Why did he always have to wake up? He’d been trying to stay asleep ever since the hols had started, nearly a day before, and he always seemed to wake up every hour or two. He looked at the clock.

Ah, yes, it was still only six o’clock. He could sleep another half hour yet before he had to go down to that whatever-it-was.

Soon he was lost in another dream, and before he knew it, before he even realised that he had fallen asleep again, it was already twenty to seven. He groaned and stood, trying to clear the sleepiness from his body and mind. He shouldn’t still be sleepy, he reasoned, as he’d been sleeping for nearly an entire day. He should feel well-rested.

But he didn’t. And so he was disgruntled as he made his way down to McGonagall’s office, where Hermione would give him his assignment. Oh, bother.

“Yes, Miss Weasley?” said Dumbledore’s voice, and she wondered where it was coming from. She looked about her and did not see him anywhere, but then she noticed that the gargoyle’s lips were moving.

“Professor?” she said to the gargoyle, who nodded. She hadn’t known that it could do that.

“What is it that’s troubling you on such a fine day as this?” Dumbledore spoke through the stone, and it was decidedly odd for Ginny not to see his familiar face as he did so.

“Erm...” Ginny felt rather awkward speaking to a gargoyle, in the middle of an empty corridor. “Could I possibly explain...in your office?”

“Oh, certainly,” said Dumbledore, and the gargoyle said to itself, “Candy cane!” and jumped to the side. The wall behind it split in two and revealed the climbing spiral staircase. Ginny stepped on, and the wall closed behind her.

Dumbledore met her at the top, smiling merrily for of course it was the Christmas season, and he led her to his desk. He sat in his chair and she took a seat opposite him.

“What is it you’d like to speak with me about?”

“It’s this Boxing Day thing...” Ginny began. She pulled a small piece of parchment from within her robes, and looked down upon it vainly. She made to hand it to Dumbledore, but he put up a hand.

“You are not supposed to show that to anyone,” he said, smiling slightly.

“Everyone’s already shown theirs to people...I don’t think many people paid attention to that...”

“Yes,” said Dumbledore, nodding. “And I do get to do so little rule breaking as headmaster...” And so he reached out and took the parchment from her.

His eyebrows raised. “Draco Malfoy?” he asked. “You pulled Draco Malfoy out of the hat? Well, his name, anyway?”

“Yes,” said Ginny. “And I don’t exactly think that it would be the best idea for me to–”

“To be in Malfoy Manor alone?” finished Dumbledore. Ginny nodded. “Yes, that is a problem, isn’t it?”

He put his fingertips together and looked thoughtful for a while. Ginny had the odd feeling that he had forgotten she was in the room.

“Well, apparently you are supposed to go to him,” said Dumbledore. “The hat was made sure to pick whoever is in most need of the gift of a particular person, so...”

“But couldn’t there have been a mistake?” said Ginny. “It seemed to me an awful lot like I picked that myself, and the hat had nothing to do with it.”

“The hat works in mysterious ways,” said Dumbledore, “and–”

Suddenly there was the sound of knocking and Ginny didn’t know where it was coming from. Dumbledore did, however, as he immediately stood and walked over to one of his little whirly instruments. It looked like a microscope (not that Ginny knew what a microscope looked like) and when Dumbledore peered into it he looked surprised. He put his mouth to the eyepiece, and spoke something that Ginny could not hear, and returned to his seat.

“What was that?” Ginny asked, and Dumbledore smiled slightly.

“It seems we’re going to have a visitor,” he said, and though he had been in the middle of a sentence before the knocking, he made no move to resume the conversation.

Eventually, the door to the office opened and in walked Harry of all people.

“Harry?” Ginny said. “What are you doing here?”

“Yes, do tell,” said Dumbledore, though of course he had not been surprised to see Harry at the door.

“Well, I just pulled this out of the hat,” Harry said, handing a slip of parchment identical to Ginny’s to Dumbledore.

He took it, and said in a voice that indicated that he wasn’t surprised in the least, “Draco Malfoy.” His eyebrows rose, and he shook his head slightly. “Well, this is unexpected,” he said. “I don’t believe Miss Granger anticipated such a thing as this...”

“But why is it unexpected?” said Harry, Hermione having clearly not explained what exactly was odd. “She sent me here for you to decide what to do, but what’s so weird about it?”

Dumbledore looked as though he were about to answer, but Ginny beat him to it.

“I got Malfoy too,” she said.

Harry blinked. “Oh,” he said. “That explains it.”

“This is a peculiar situation indeed,” said Dumbledore. “However, I find that the solution is obvious: you both will visit Malfoy Manor for Boxing Day. Miss Weasley was just here to say that she did not feel she should go alone, and isn’t this a perfect opportunity to solve that as well?”

Both Harry and Ginny felt that perhaps there was a slight flaw in this plan, but neither mentioned it; after all, Dumbledore had always known best, yes?

“You may go,” said Dumbledore. “And I wish you luck.”

Ron stood on the High Street of Ottery St. Catchpole, looking down on the familiar town. At first he thought that there had been a mistake with the Portkey, but no; she lived here as well.

He walked, and he was struck by how close together Muggles put their houses. Not but a fence between them, it seemed. The ground was white with snow, and he noticed a few Christmas trees had been thrown out by the curb. Why would they throw them out?

Eventually he came to a tall, sky-blue house, marked with the number nineteen, and he knew he was in the right place. He walked up the garden path and knocked on the white front door. A tall, dark-haired man answered.

“Yes?” the man asked in what was certainly a pleasant voice. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Ron Weasley, and–”

“Ron Weasley?” said the man, smiling a wide smile. “Come on in then! I knew you looked familiar!”

Ron blinked. He looked familiar? And how did this man recognise his name? It wasn’t as if they had ever met before.

Ron followed the man into the front room of the house. The man looked at him expectantly, and finally asked, “May I take your coat, Ronnie?”

Ron blinked again, and did as he was asked. He removed the old, heavy winter jacket that his mother insisted he wore during the holidays. It had been Bill’s. When the man looked back round after hanging the coat in the front closet, he seemed to notice the box under Ron’s arm.

“Ooh! A present? Who’s it for? Christmas was yesterday!”

“Er...it’s for Luna,” said Ron. “Are you her dad?”

“Yes, sir, Ronnie-boy,” said Luna’s father. He extended a hand. “London Lovegood, at your service.”

“Pleasure,” said Ron, taking his hand hesitantly. “Erm, is Luna home?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said London. “She’s in the back yard, though.”

“Right. Can I have my coat back?” Ron said awkwardly.

“Sure thing,” said London, handing the coat right back to Ron, before leading him through a doorway — no door, just the way — and they were in the living-room. There was a comfy looking couch in the middle of the room, by a Muggle television, and a Muggle wireless was in a place of honour by the door to the kitchen. Directly across the room, however, were glass sliding doors, and London led Ron to them.

“She’s out there somewhere,” said London, and he took the box from Ron’s hands. “Don’t want that to get all soggy from the snow, do we? Have fun!” And he pushed Ron lightly through the door, which he had thankfully opened beforehand.

Hermione looked at the piece of parchment in her hand. Surely this was not the right place? She had always pictured him living in a grand mansion, like the Malfoys were supposed to live in. But this...it was scarcely as large as her own home, though of course her parents were not short on money and her home was of a rather large size, but...still. It was decidedly normal, apart from the bleak blackness of its walls, contrasting so dreadfully with the falling snow.

It was, however, just as imposing and imperious-looking as she had imagined. Its sharp angles jutted out in such a way that resembled an unnaturally large spider, and she felt that suited him fine. In the front lawn of the house there was what appeared to have once been a garden, but it seemed no one had cared for it in at least half a century.

There was a stone path leading to the black front door – she could not fathom why anyone would paint an entire house, doors, shutters, and gutters, black – and she followed it. Two steps up to a small landing, and there was a large, silver knocker on the door, and she used it.

Creak! Thud–creak! Thud–creak! Thud, went the old knocker.

Footsteps could just barely be heard from inside, and Hermione heard metal scrape against metal and a black eye appeared in the peek-hole. It narrowed menacingly, and then disappeared. The door creaked open, and there was Professor Snape, in his dressing-gown, glaring at her in his most loathsome way.

“What in hell are you doing at my home, Miss Granger?” he said, leaning against the open door. “I left for the holidays this year to get away from you and your classmates, and I did not wish for you to follow me.”

“It’s Boxing Day, Professor,” began Hermione, pulling a plain box from inside her robes, “and–”

“I know what bloody day it is, Miss Granger,” said Snape, sneering at her. “After all, I just had such a merry time for Christmas yesterday...”

Hermione did not like his tone, but then she couldn’t remember when she ever had.

“I brought a box for you, Professor,” she said, holding the box out to him. He glared at it for a moment, before looking up at her face and glaring there instead.

“You do know the Boxing Day traditions, yes?” he said, and she nodded. “You know that the upper classes gave boxes on the day after Christmas to those below them in the social order.” He smiled grimly. “Thank you ever so much for showing me how you think yourself my superior.” He snatched the box out of her hand and made to close the door. “Have a nice day.”

“Wait!” Hermione lunged and caught the door before he could close it all the way. She stuck her head forwards, through the bit still open, so that she could not only see his face, but also the inside of his home. “Professor, I do wish you’d actually open it this year.”

He sneered again, before shutting the door in her face with a thud. She had moved just quickly enough to avoid injury, and now the rickety walls shook with the force of his slamming. Hermione retied her scarf round her neck and glared at the door a moment, two, three...

Slowly, it opened again. She smirked.

“Are you saying,” said Snape, appearing once again, “that you also declared your superiority over me last year as well, and I...didn’t get the memo?”

“No,” said Hermione. “I’m saying this is not the first time I’ve given you a present.”

He simply looked at her, eyes narrowed, for a while, and she did not quail under his stare. Finally, with a hmph, Snape took a step onto the landing, his feet bare and hesitating on the frozen stone, and he peered up at the sky, a few snowflakes falling on his face as he did so. It was a terrible-looking day, and finally he held an arm towards the door.

“Come in, Miss Granger,” said Snape. “It is not a day for standing outside. You’ll catch your death.”

And with a small smile that he did not see, Hermione stepped inside Snape’s house. Snape, shivering slightly in his dressing-gown, took a last look at the empty outside world and closed the door behind them.

Harry and Ginny stood in the old cobblestone road, and they gazed up at the mammoth structure that loomed before them.

Malfoy Manor.

The Manor was larger than any house Harry had ever seen before, and he could hardly guess what the Malfoys did with all of the space. Nor did he want to.

“Come on,” said Ginny, taking a step towards the Manor. She proceeded at such a pace that Harry had to jog to keep up with her. As soon as they reached the frozen grass that marked the start of the Malfoys’ property, however, both stopped dead in their tracks.

“Is it colder than it was just a moment ago?” Ginny asked, shivering.

“I think so,” said Harry, and he hesitantly put an arm round Ginny’s shoulders as he had done the other day. She did not stiffen this time, however, and they continued their trek up the Malfoy grounds.

“You have the box?” Ginny asked.

“Yes,” said Harry. “I told you already. It’s right here,” and he held it up a bit.

“Are you sure that’s the right box? Because you know how horrible it would be if we gave Malfoy a...box of flowers, or something.”

“I’m sure, Gin,” said Harry reassuringly.

“Good,” said Ginny, and she let out a breath. While she wasn’t looking, Harry opened the box slightly and looked inside. Yup, right box–whew.

A sudden wind blew over them, and at the same time it became suddenly very dark. Harry wondered why for a moment, but then realised that they had moved into the Manor’s enormous shadow. They could hardly see, actually, and neither of them liked going blind into enemy territory.

Suddenly, a bright light appeared before their eyes. It was the light of a wand, and there just before them was a large man that they had not seen just a moment before. He looked vaguely familiar.

“Who are you...two?” the man said, and he sounded quite brainless. And so Harry realised why he was familiar.

“Crabbe?” Harry said, and so it was. Vincent Crabbe’s father; the Death Eater.

“No, that’s me,” said Crabbe. “Who are you? You look familiar...”

“We‘re friends of the family,” said Ginny, taking advantage of Crabbe’s lack of brains and recognition skills. “We’ve come to bring a present to Draco Malfoy.” She gestured to the box in Harry’s hands.

Crabbe’s brow furrowed. “Why isn’t it wrapped? You just stuck somethin’ in a box.”

“Yes, well they do call it Boxing Day for a reason,” said Ginny. “Now if you’ll excuse us–”

“Crabbe!” said a cold, female voice, suddenly appearing behind Harry and Ginny. Crabbe’s head snapped towards the new arrival, and so did both Harry’s and Ginny’s. “Why haven’t you brought the intruders to–and what have we here?”

“Narcissa!” said Crabbe. “These here are friends of Draco. They got a present for him.”

Narcissa Malfoy stood there, and she rolled her eyes. “Crabbe, you fool,” she said. “This is Harry Potter, for crying out loud. Don’t you see his scar?”

Crabbe furrowed his brow again. “Harry Potter? I heard that name before...”

“Merlin, could Lucius have picked a more stupid friend? Seize him! And her, whoever she is!”

And Harry and Ginny realised too late that they should have been running while the two conversed, or at least doing something productive. In a moment, they were both Stunned, and the world was even blacker than ever it had been.

Ron found himself on a back porch, and he shrugged the coat in his hands back on. Not seeing Luna anywhere, he took a step towards the stairs that led to the ground. Before he could reach them, however, a ball of snow thumped him on the back of the head.

“Hey!” he said, rubbing the spot where it hit. He spun round, but did not see anyone. The world was very white, today, and he wasn’t sure if he could have seen anyone even if they were there.

Ducking slightly, Ron took the steps to the ground and then crouched even further, taking a bit of snow in his hands. He formed a ball, and held it, ready to throw at any sign of movement.

He heard a giggle then, and spun round towards a large birch tree.

Trees don’t giggle, he reasoned. So either he’d imagined it, or else there was someone there. He liked to think it was the latter.

Creeping carefully, snowball raised, Ron made his way over to the tree. The snow was falling harder now, and it did not help him try to see the white tree. Putting his left hand above his eyes to keep the snow away, Ron moved forward, circling the tree. He found no one.

It was then that he heard another giggle, and it wasn’t so much of a giggle as it was a chuckle. Spinning round again, another snowball hit him, now right in the face.

“Puh,” said Ron, spitting the snow out of his mouth. He wiped off his face, and turned towards another birch tree, slightly smaller than the first. He had seen the snowball come from this direction, he knew, and he’d seen a bit of movement right on the tree.

Walking closer, Ron circled this tree now, and then put his hand on it, feeling it. He felt an odd inward dent sort of thing, and he fitted his fingers within it. He pulled, and suddenly the trunk of the tree had opened, and there was Luna Lovegood, smiling dreamily.

“Hello, Ronald,” she said. “Come inside.”

“Uh...sure,” said Ron, not knowing exactly why he was agreeing. He climbed in awkwardly, and found it much easier than expected.

It was very roomy inside the tree. Luna sit back on what seemed to be a beach chair, and she put an issue of The Quibbler (which she had been reading) on the floor next to her. She sat with her arms round her knees, looking expectantly at Ron.

“So you pulled my name out of the hat for Boxing Day,” said Luna straightforwardly.

“Yeah–” said Ron. “Wait a minute. How did you–”

“Do you like my tree house?” she cut in. “My mum made it for me before she died.”

Luna said this in such a plain, nonchalant way that Ron was taken aback when she used the word ‘died’. It was a word that did not seem to fit into Luna’s vocabulary, or perhaps she just did not know how to use it, for she did not sound sad, or grim in the least. Or perhaps she was just Luna.

“Oh, I uh...didn’t know,” said Ron.

“Of course not,” said Luna. “It’s not as if I ever told you. And Harry isn’t exactly the type to speak of these sorts of things, is he?”

“Harry knew?”

“Yes.”

Silence. “So,” said Luna. “Do you like my tree house?”

“Oh, sure,” said Ron, and for the first time he actually looked round. On one side of the chair was a large stack of Quibblers, and on the other was a nightstand with a lamp on it, a drawing pad and quill, and a small stack of comic books that looked oddly like–

“Martin Miggs?” said Ron incredulously. “You read Martin Miggs?”

“Doesn‘t everyone?” said Luna.

“No,“ said Ron. “But they should, that’s for sure.”

Ron looked round once more and spotted another chair (though not a beach chair), which he sat down on, for the ceiling was rather low and he was uncomfortable standing.

“Yeah,” he said. “I like it.”

“Good,” said Luna.

“So...your mum made this for you?”

“Yup,” said Luna. “When I was little. She was going to make it my Christmas present, but she didn’t finish in time, so it was my Boxing Day present–she couldn’t fit it in the box, though. You should have heard what she said–earlier that year, she’d told me that she wanted to start a tradition with me, and I was...four, I think, and I didn’t really know what a tradition was, but I went along with it, and so all year she was trying to come up with traditions to start. ‘Now this is a tradition I’d like to start,’ she’d say, when we were...eating carrots or something like that. And eventually it was either really annoying or really funny, depending on what she said it about, and then finally, when she finished this, we had a tradition, and every year after that we spent all of Boxing Day in here, and I still do it every year.”

Ron kind of just...looked at her, unsure of what to say. She had just sort of rambled on about her mother and he hadn’t been expecting it and now he was rather uncomfortable.

“What sort of traditions does your family have?” said Luna. “I know Ginny writes a poem every Christmas, but what do you do?”

“Ginny writes a poem every Christmas?” Ron echoed. “I didn’t know that.”

“But what do you do?” said Luna again, and Ron didn’t know what to say.

“Well....cheese is always good.” What the hell was that?

Luna looked at him as if hanging on every word. She didn’t seem to sense the absurdity of his statement.

“You see, every year, I...eat cheese,” said Ron. “On Christmas. Different sorts of...cheese.” Ron hadn’t a clue where he was going. He was making it up as he went along.

“And?” Luna inquired.

“And every year I...pick a new sort of...cheese, as my...as my favourite, you know?” said Ron. That was the most pathetic tradition I have ever heard, thought Ron, but Luna didn’t seem to mind.

She just nodded for a moment, and asked: “What is it this year?”

“Er...cheddar.”

“ My favourite’s Swiss,” said Luna conversationally. “You can look through it.”

“ You said that you have given me a gift before,” said Snape, sitting down in a hard-backed chair in what would probably be called a living-room, if only there was any living done in it. “Explain.”

“Last Christmas,” said Hermione, “I sent you a...present. It wasn’t anything, really, just...you never said anything about it, so I assumed you just threw it away.”

Snape blinked. “We do not live in a perfect world, Miss Granger. Not everybody sends thank-you notes. What was this present?”

“It was a hat,” said Hermione. “I made you a hat.”

Snape looked at her evenly. “So, if I understand this correctly, you botched up one of your attempts to free the house-elves, and stuck me with the result?”

“How did you know that I make hats for the house-elves?”

Snape snorted. “All the professors know that you make hats for the house-elves. I do hope you weren’t trying to keep it a secret.”

“Whatever,” said Hermione. “But no, you’re wrong. I did not stick you with the result of a botched up attempt to free the house-elves. I wish you’d just take something at face value for once. I said I made you a hat, and I meant I made you a hat. I made–a hat–for you.”

Snape narrowed his eyes, shaking his head slightly. “Why in hell would you make a hat for me? Have you ever seen me wear a hat? I–”

“Well, yes, a vulture-topped one–”

“You will never mention that again–”

“Yes, sir.”

Silence.

Snape shook his head again. “What could have possibly possessed you to make me a hat?”

“I don’t know,” said Hermione. “I felt like making you a hat. I gave everyone else presents. Why not you?”

“Because I am me, Miss Granger,” said Snape. “I have always been very proud of the fact that I have never – not once – received a Christmas gift from one of my students. Why do you want to ruin that?”

“Why on earth would you be proud of that fact?” countered Hermione. “It’s a foolish thing to be proud of.”

“Are you calling me a fool?”

“What if I am?”

Snape laughed grimly, shaking his head. “If you are, then I certainly hope you’re not expecting Gryffindor to be in the running for the House Cup this year...”

“Oh, that’s fair,” said Hermione. “You can call us Gryffindors whatever you want – insufferable know-it-all comes to mind – but if we call you anything but ‘Professor Snape’ we lose all the points in our House.”

“I never said it was fair,” said Snape. “But I am your professor, and that is the way things work. And I have been called many names without Gryffindor losing all of their points – greasy git comes to mind.”

Silence.

“So what happened to the present, Professor?” Hermione asked. “Did you just throw it away?”

Snape’s face was unreadable for a moment, and then he said: “No.”

“Then why don’t you remember it?”

“Because I haven’t even opened my Christmas gifts from last year. Don’t look so surprised – I did get some.”

Hermione blinked. “But it’s been a year–”

“It has been a very busy year, Miss Granger. I assure you, if ever I get the chance to open my gifts, I will find your present, put it on my head, throw it off in rage and promptly burn it.”

“That’s not very nice,” said Hermione.

“And what exactly did you expect? A gracious thank-you?”

Hermione glared at him, but then she noticed a bright brown owl flying into the room – contrasting completely with the dead look of the place – and land by Snape’s shoulder.

“You’ve got mail,” said Hermione.

“I’ve noticed,” said Snape and he snatched the letter from the owl. Unfurling it, he read aloud in a hushed voice that Hermione sensed wasn‘t meant for her to be able to hear:

“Dumbledore ,” muttered Snape. “Apparently, you can’t leave here because your Portkey may ‘not be safe.’” Snape looked as though he wished to bang his head against a brick wall. “Oh, and look, there’s a PS: ‘It would be wise if you yourself did not leave the house either, under any circumstances. Have a nice day!’ How delightful.”

“So I’m stuck here?” said Hermione.

“Is that not what I just said?”

“No, you said I couldn’t leave.”

Snape sort of half-yelled in rage: “Get out of my sight, you annoying blabbermouth!”

“But it says–”

“Just...get out of this room!”

And so Hermione left, practically scampering through a doorway, leaving Snape alone in his living-room, not in the best mood of his life. She let the door slam behind her.

H arry opened his eyes. Was he standing? He did not feel anything touching his body, save at his ankles, and that was an odd thing to feel.

It was dark, Harry noted. It was very dark and...he felt nauseated. It was as if all the blood in his body had rushed to his head.

He noticed that somewhere near the ceiling was a thin slit of light, much like one would see underneath a door. He wondered why it was at the ceiling.

Harry made to move, and it was then that he realised that not only were his ankles tied together, but they were also tied to the ceiling. And, inferring from this that the ceiling was above him, Harry realised that...

That he was hanging upside-down. And as soon as he had come to this conclusion, he knew it to be true. He convulsed against his will, and attempted to right himself without really attempting to do so. He was not in control of his body, it seemed; he was acting off of instinct, a sense that told him to turn himself round as quickly as possible. He could not, however, and his attempts resulted only in his swaying back and forth.

His robes, which had somehow been secured up, fell now, and they hung from his neck, pooling on the floor. He could see through the opening, though.

Closing his eyes, he tried to stop the bile rising in his throat. He continued to swing, and in one particularly nauseating turn, came into contact with something soft.

“Ginny?” he said, reaching through the opening of his robes to grab hold of her arm, and thus pulling her with him in his swing. This action caused her to wake with a start, and he saw a bit of light reflecting – from the gap which, Harry realised, was beneath the door – when she opened her eyes.

“Harry, where–” she began, but she noticed the swinging immediately. Unable to prevent it, she vomited straight down onto the floor above them, and the splattering noise was sickening to Harry, who did not need any more sickening. She vomited once more, and this time a bit flew right at Harry’s face. It was sufficient to cause him to throw up in his mouth a small bit, but somehow he managed to hold most of the bile down.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked eventually, once he felt Ginny was not going to throw up again, and he was sure that the vomit was out of his mouth. He reached down and wiped the vomit from his face with a sleeve.

“That was... really gross, wasn’t it?” said Ginny, sounding quite sick.

“Yeah,” said Harry.

“Sorry.”

“No problem.”

They hung in silence for a few moments.

“So this is...what you get if you try to give a...Malfoy a present,” muttered Ginny.

“Apparently,” said Harry.

“I can’t...feel my feet,” said Ginny.

“Neither can I.”

Neither had anything to say. After all, what is there for one to say when one is hanging by the ankles in a dark room? What possible conversations are there to be had in such a position?

Suddenly, the light under the door – above the door, to Harry and Ginny – disappeared, as if someone had stood in front of it, blocking it.

The door opened, and there was the silhouette of Draco Malfoy, seemingly upside-down, but of course Harry knew that it was the other way round.

“Potter,” said Malfoy. He made no note of Ginny’s presence.

“Malfoy,” said Harry.

Malfoy smirked, though it was hard for Harry to tell at the moment. “Mother said you’d be...hanging around down here.”

“Go ahead and laugh, Malfoy,” said Ginny.

“Oh, I plan to,” said the smirking Slytherin. “But first...”

He waved a wand, and Harry saw Ginny’s robes fall as his had, but with them fell her skirt as well, revealing her knickers.

“Hey!”

“Oops,” said Malfoy. “I was trying to put you two right side up....my mistake.”

“You bastard!” shouted Harry, and when Malfoy smirked again, he – quite futilely – made a lunge for him. Harry came nowhere near the Slytherin, and the lunge only served to make him swing fully once more. He swore under his breath.

“Now,” said Malfoy, “now that that’s out of the way...Father has granted me the pleasure of interrogating you both. What on earth possessed you to...visit me for the holidays? It must be more than just desire for my good looks...you get to see them every day at school...”

“We came,” said Ginny, trying without result to flip her skirt back up to cover herself; “to bring you a...Boxing Day gift.”

“Oh really?“ Malfoy snorted. “Like I’m going to believe that.”

“We did! I don’t know what happened to the box, but we had it before that brute and your bloody mother put us up in here...”

“You speak of Mother with respect!” hissed Malfoy.

“Will you just shut up, Malfoy?” said Harry. “Dumbledore won’t let you do anything to us. He knows we’re here, you know, and if we go missing, he’ll know whose fault it was.”

“Oh, and why should I believe that?” said Malfoy. “I don’t believe you’ve ever told our fool of a headmaster before any of your previous heroics. Why would this be any different? Though I do wonder why you came in the first place?”

“We told you,” said Ginny. “It’s Boxing Day, and–”

“Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds? No, just picture what you’re saying: you and Potter coming to Malfoy Manor....bearing gifts? That is the most ludicrous thing I have ever heard...”

“Ask Crabbe!” cut in Harry. “He probably has the box.”

Malfoy had a look of incredulity on his face. “You’re serious?”

“Do we look like we’re joking?” Ginny demanded.

“No,” said Malfoy. “You know, I think I will ask Crabbe about that. But in the meantime...” And he walked up two the two of them, grabbed each by a leg – Harry scowled when he saw Malfoy finger Ginny’s bare one – and shoved them into a spin.

“Have fun,” Malfoy said, and shut the door behind him, leaving Harry and Ginny to spin in silence.

“Yeah, I’m–” Ron stopped short, looking at Luna incredulously. “How did you know that I didn’t eat–”

“Never mind that,” said Luna, and she stood, put on a heavy winter coat that was hanging by the entrance, and led the way out of the tree. Ron followed.

“Ah, Luna, you’re out of your tree,” said London once they returned to the living-room. Ron noticed the large, aluminium Christmas tree on the opposite wall. “Would you like some hot cocoa?”

“Sure,” said Luna. “Ronald would like some as well.”

Ron looked at London shrewdly. “You knew she was in the tree? Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“Oops,” said London, chuckling. “Must have slipped my mind for a moment.” As Ron closed the sliding door behind them and shrugged off his coat, London opened the door again and stepped out onto the snowy porch. Ron, confused, watched as Luna’s father walked across the porch to a door, which he opened and stepped through.

“Where’s he going?” said Ron to Luna.

“The kitchen,” said Luna, walking through a doorway off of the living-room. Ron followed, and there was London, stepping in from outside.

“Why didn’t you just...” Ron began, but he decided that perhaps he didn’t want to know.

“Oh, by the way,” said London, filling a teapot with water from the sink, “I got a letter from Professor Dumbledore. He says you have to stay here for at least a week.”

Ron blinked. “What?” he said.

London took a folded piece of parchment from his pocket – he wore Muggle jeans and a blue Christmas sweater – and handed it to Ron. “Read for yourself.”

Ron did so, and blinked once again once he was done. “This doesn’t say that I have to stay for at least a week...”

“Yes, well whenever somebody says ‘a bit longer’ they mean at least a week. Every time, I guarantee it.”

Ron narrowed his eyes. “I’ll stay until Dumbledore says,” concluded Ron, though he wasn’t exactly excited at the prospect.

“Whipped cream or marshmallows?” London said, changing the subject.

“Both,” said both Luna and Ron.

“I know that you like both, Luna, there’s no need to tell me that–”

“I didn’t,” said Luna, and she left it at that.

London took two mugs out of the cabinet with the hot cocoa mix in it, and placed them on the counter. He took out the whipped cream and marshmallows, and put them on the counter as well. Then he hoisted himself onto the counter to wait for the water to boil, purposefully looking anywhere but at the teapot.

“You know, a watched pot never boils,” he said.

“Why don’t you just magic it to boil?” inquired Ron.

“Oh, Daddy’s a Muggle-born,” said Luna, “and he prefers most things the Muggle way, because otherwise it–”

“–just doesn’t taste right,” finished London and Luna simultaneously.

“Fwooooooooooooh!” said London suddenly, just in time with the whistling of the teapot. “See, I didn’t look, and it’s done already!”

He poured the water into the cocoa-filled mugs, fzzzzzzzed the whipped cream on top, and plopped three marshmallows in as well. “There you go,” he said, handing one to each of them. “I’ll leave you to it then, shall I?”

And he left without another word.

“Ah,” said Ron. “Your father is rather...unique.”

Luna shook her head, sitting down at the small kitchen table under the sole window. Ron sat down opposite her. “No,” she said, sipping her hot cocoa, “you can’t be rather unique. To be unique is to be completely different from everybody else. You’re either unique, or you’re not.”

“Well, you are, then,” said Ron, and Luna’s large eyes looked at him from behind the brown mug raised to her mouth.

“And so are you,” said Luna.

Ron snorted into his whipped cream. “Me? I’m not unique–I’ve got five brothers just like me–”

“They’re not just like you–”

“You don’t even know them!”

“But I know you!”

Ron blinked, and placed his mug on the table. He pulled his chair in closer and leaned further towards Luna.

“And just how exactly do you know me so bloody well? Why does it seem like you know everything about me? Do you constantly...watch me, or something?”

“Yes,” said Luna plainly.

Ron was taken aback. “Oh. You...you do?”

“Yes,” said Luna, sounding as if she was perhaps wondering why it had taken so long for him to notice.

“Why?” said Ron. “Why on earth would you watch me?”

Luna smiled at him, lowering her mug slightly.

“Because you’re unique.”

Hermione had left the living-room in such a hurry that she had not even noticed which room she had dashed into. It was, apparently, Snape’s bedroom, and it was the least personable bedroom she had ever seen. The bedspread was black, the drapes were black, the pillows were black, the curtains round the four-poster bed were black, and the walls were a very, very, very dark shade of grey.

She could not say she had ever imagined what her Potions Master’s bedroom would look like, and if she had, she would likely not have pictured anything different from the reality, but something was so very wrong about the place that she couldn’t imagine that even Snape actually liked it.

There was a wardrobe on one side of the room, and part of her wanted to open it to see if there was anything that was not black in there, simply so that her eyes could have some rest, but...she did not. After all, Snape was sure to realise soon that she had gone into his bedroom, and he would likely be madder than she had ever seen him when he did.

Hermione could not, however, stop herself from walking over to a nightstand by the side of the bed. There were picture frames on it, all flat face-down on the wood. She picked one up and turned it over. The photograph within showed a tall, hooked-nose man that looked much like Snape, apart from his brown hair, and a short, unimaginably thin woman with black hair, both of whom stood behind a teenage Severus Snape, who had his arms folded and was looking at the ground. The woman – Snape’s mother, Hermione supposed – seemed to be at least trying to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. The father looked just as unhappy as Snape himself, and kept muttering something to his wife. Behind them all stood a large Christmas tree, bare with no decoration adorning its branches.

Hermione placed the photograph back precisely where it had rested before, and picked up another one – this one showing a slightly older Snape, looking about Hermione’s own age, scowling at her. It was odd to see Snape at her age, to see him without the clear superiority that he had always imposed on her and her fellow Gryffindors.

This picture seemed to have been taken at a Hogwarts ball, and by the looks of the decorations, it had been a Christmas ball. There were couples dancing behind Snape, and it seemed as though the teenager had been at the refreshments table when someone had snapped a photo of him. Hermione could not imagine that Snape had asked for the picture afterwards, though.

Hermione made to put this one back as well, but she couldn’t seem to do it. She just looked at the Snape in the picture, and thought.

She did not think that Snape kept these pictures at his bedside all the time, so...perhaps he had brought them out yesterday, on Christmas, to sulk about Christmases long past? It seemed an odd thing to do, for Snape especially. He had always struck her as the type of person who put the past behind him and then left it there to rot.

Finally she did put the photo down, and she made to pick up another when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement.

Spinning round, there was Snape in the doorway, watching her. His mouth was open, and his eyes were blazing. He just stared at her for a very long time, and she seemed to be frozen, unable to move, unable to speak.

“What–” he finally said. “Miss Granger, what in hell are you doing in my bedroom?”

“Nothing,” said Hermione, “I just–you told me to–”

“I told you to get out of my sight–” He paused, as if willing her to contradict him. “I told you to get out of my sight, and you traipse about in my private quarters–”

“I didn’t traipse about!” said Hermione. “I didn’t even know this was your bedroom, until I came in here, and then I–”

“You touched my personal belongings!” Snape said. “Do you know how much I want to take three hundred points off Gryffindor right now?”

Hermione marched up to him, looking him right in the eye, and glared. “Then why don’t you? It would surely make everyone else hate you even more.”

Snape looked so very mad that it seemed he had taken a large amount of Pepperup potion. He pointed a long finger right in front of Hermione’s face, and said: “Now, see here, Miss Granger–” But he stopped, narrowed his eyes, and looked confused. “Everyone else?”

“What?” said Hermione.

“You said it would make everyone else hate me even more,” said Snape. “Are you saying you don’t hate me?”

“Why would I hate you?”

“Answer the question,” said Snape.

Hermione blinked. “No, I don’t hate you.”

Snape looked undoubtedly confused for a few moments, before regaining his normal composure. “Then I must try harder from now on,” he said finally.

“That is just simply horrible,” said Hermione. “Is that how they–” and she pointed back at the picture of his parents, though it was face-down on the nightstand, “wanted you to be?”

“You never speak of my parents again, Miss Granger, do you hear me?”

“I hear you fine, Professor,” said Hermione, glaring.

“And you will not speak another word to me for the rest of the time you are here.”

“Fine,” said Hermione.

“I said, not a word.”

Hermione promptly closed her mouth. However, not willing to simply disappear from his sight again, she plopped herself down on his bed, and crossed her legs.

“Miss Granger, may I ask what in hell do you think you’re doing?”

Hermione raised her eyebrows, indicating that of course she could not say a word. Snape glared at her and crossed his arms. “Fine,” he said, and he walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

She smirked.

“Do you want some more cocoa, Ronald?” asked Luna in an odd voice, glancing away

from Ron’s face for a moment, looking to the counter.

“Oh...sure,” said Ron, who had plenty left in his current mug, and Luna stood, walking over to the stove. She poured more water into the teapot. Her back turned, she spoke as Ron took another sip:

“You’re very handsome, you know that Ronald?” she said, and Ron could see his reflection in the bottom of his mug as he sipped. He blinked.

“Am I?” he said, bewildered, looking at the reflection in his mug. He didn’t think it particularly handsome.

“Oh, very much so,” said Luna, and she returned to the table, leaning across to place his second mug in front of him. She sat down again, somehow with her feet on the seat and her arms round her knees, yet still sipping her cocoa.

“No I’m not,” said Ron, shaking his head defiantly.

“Yes you are,” said Luna, insisting, and Ron’s ears were redder than the vegetables in Luna’s. “Hasn’t anybody told you before?”

“Er...my mum has, I guess,” said Ron. “Why exactly are we having this conversation?”

“Well, what conversation do you want to have?” said Luna, pale eyebrows high on her head.

“Er...how ‘bout...how was your Christmas?”

“Oh, fine,” said Luna. “Except Daddy had the sniffles all day long, because the tree had to come from the attic and Daddy’s allergic to attics. How was yours?”

“Fine, too, I guess,” said Ron. “Hermione was working most of it, though....” Ron couldn’t figure why, but Luna narrowed her eyes at this, frowning slightly.

“Oh,” said Luna evenly. “And what did...Hermione, what did she make you for Christmas?”

Ron shook his head slightly, chuckling. “It was this...thing. I don’t really know what it was, but it had something to do with schoolwork, I’m sure. And she bought it, she didn‘t make it.”

“I made you a present,” said Luna, and Ron was surprised.

“You did?” said Ron. “Why?”

Luna blinked. “Why not?”

“I dunno, it’s just that...I didn’t get you a present, and–” he stopped, a look of recollection covering his face. “Yes I did! That’s why I’m here! I forgot all about it!”

“Then you go get mine, and I’ll go get yours,” said Luna, smiling once again. It had been odd, to Ron, to see her with a frown for a few moments. She didn’t usually frown–it made her look...quite unlike herself.

So Ron stood, and so did Luna. Luna dashed up the stairs (there was a set in the kitchen by the wall, as well as in the living-room), and Ron walked out of the kitchen, into the living-room.

“Mr Lovegood,” Ron said, walking through the doorway; “do you know where you put my...”

Ron had stopped, for he had found London Lovegood sitting on the sofa with Ron’s open box on his lap, crying. He was just crying, and Ron didn’t know what to do. Ron’s first instinct was to ask why he had opened Ron’s box, but he thought that wouldn’t be very nice, considering the gift had, apparently, made the man cry.

“Er...excuse me?” Ron said finally, stepping closer to London. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s so...beautiful!” said Luna’s father. “Just...” And instead of describing it in more detail, London wrapped his arms round Ron, taking him aback. London sobbed into Ron’s shoulder, and he shook him–happily, apparently–until Ron was getting a bit dizzy.

“Er...what?”

London let go of Ron, and hastily recovered the box, shoving it into Ron’s hands. “Go show it to Luna,” he said. “I know she’ll love it. It‘s sonderful–simply wonderful.”

And Ron blinked once again, as London dashed up the stairs, crying into his arm.

“All right, then,” said Ron. “Hadn’t expected that.”

Harry and Ginny hung silently still, having not said a word since Malfoy had gone. After what seemed an hour at least, Harry saw the light disappear once again.

“Is this the box you were talking about?” said Malfoy, holding a plain, square box in his hand, holding it out towards Harry and Ginny.

“Yes.”

“All right then,” said Malfoy; “guess you’ve finally gone completely barmy–getting me a present? Honestly,” he said, and Harry noticed that his gaze lingered on Ginny. Harry noticed, and he did not like it, oh no he did not.

“If you so much as...touch her...” he began, resisting the urge to lunge again.

“You’ll do what, Potter?” asked Malfoy, shifting his glance to Harry. He raised a hand out towards Ginny, and though Malfoy was nowhere near her, it aggravated Harry even farther.

Harry sneered at him. “...something–something you won’t like!” he said, unable to come up with a better threat in his current position.

Malfoy’s eyes widened, feigning fear. “Oooh,” he said. “Now I’m scared!” Malfoy turned back to Ginny. “Are you scared, Weasley?”

Ginny furrowed her brow, thinking that perhaps she had heard wrong, for her light-headedness. “Why would I be afraid of Harry?”

“Not afraid of Harry, afraid of me,” clarified the Slytherin. He walked over to Ginny, placing his hand behind her left knee. “Are you afraid of me? After all, I can do whatever I like with you...”

Forgetting all logic, Harry lunged once again, grunting, spinning and spinning and suddenly he stopped spinning and fell to the floor, ropes untying themselves some how or another. Both Ginny, who had been glaring determinedly at Malfoy’s hand, and Malfoy himself, snapped their eyes to him. Harry dove at Malfoy before he even knew what had happened, knocking him to the cold floor of the chamber.

S nape‘s bedroom door slammed open. Hermione looked up–she had been admiring her professor‘s bookshelves–to see a bewildered Severus Snape in the doorway, holding her open box. “You made me another hat?” he said, and his voice didn’t sound as angry as it had, just incredulous. “What is it with you and hats?”

“I don’t know,” said Hermione. “They’re easier to make than socks, and I didn’t think you’d like socks either.”

“No, I–” Snape stopped, a smirk appearing on his face. He took the hat from within the box, shoved it on his head–it looked very silly on him; bright green, with silver ‘S’s in the shapes of snakes on the front–and walked over to the fireplace. He ripped the hat from his head and tossed it into the flames. “There you go,” he said. “One down, one to go.”

Hermione crossed her arms. “That was a perfectly good hat–the least you could have done was give it to someone else.”

“Oh, and who might I give it to? Salazar Slytherin?” He snorted. “Besides, what makes you think I’d like snakes?”

Hermione blinked. “Well, it seemed a rather logical assumption–”

“There are no logical assumptions,” said Snape. Neither spoke for a while, and Snape watched her as she looked over his books. Then he spoke words that seemed to have been building up all day:

“So I assume,” he said, “that it was a complete coincidence that you pulled my name out of the...” and he paused for effect; “...hat?”

Hermione looked downward for a moment. “I thought there were no such things as logical assumptions,” she said.

“Oh, I never said it was logical.”

“Well, yes, Professor Snape,” said Hermione finally. “It was a complete coincidence–though I don’t believe much in coincidences these days.”

“And why might that be?”

“Because...I don’t know. It just seems to me that everything that happens to us–”

“Us?” Snape cut in curiously.

Hermione tensed a moment. “All of us–everyone in our world, in Hogwarts, in the Order, in everything–it seems as though everything we do is...I don’t know...planned. Planned beforehand. Everything follows a predetermined sequence of events...do you believe in Fate, professor?”

“Fate?” echoed Snape. “What does Fate have to do with anything? You’re not suggesting that we are stuck here in this hellhole because Fate wanted us to have a nice tea-party?” He scoffed. “Why should Fate wish to pair us together?”

Hermione had been taken aback for a moment–Snape considered his own home a hellhole? But then she spoke the words that she had been itching to say, in some form or another, since the start of the conversation:

“To befriend you.”

Snape blinked. “To befriend me?” he said. “Why do you assume I need you as a friend? I have plenty of friends–”

It was Hermione’s turn to scoff. “Yes, like Lucius Malfoy!” she cut in. “You have friends that you constantly have to hide your true feelings from–that’s no fr–”

“What makes you say that I hide my true feelings from them?” Snape said. “Why do you not consider that I may still be a true Death Eater, and even now that your life may be in danger?”

Hermione looked him in the eye. “Dumbledore trusts you,” she said. After a moment’s hesitation: “I trust you.”

Snape smirked grimly. “And there you have it–a friend of mine.”

“Who, Dumbledore?”

“No, Father Christmas–yes, Dumbledore. Dumbledore is my...friend.”

“But that’s one friend, Professor!” said Hermione. “You can’t just have one friend–”

“I can, and I do.”

“I have lots of friends – lots of people that I can trust. If...”

“Then you clearly don’t need me, as well,” said Snape, “since you’ve got lots.”

Hermione frowned. “Fine,” she said. “Have it your way.”

And so he walked from her presence, from his bedroom, leaving her once more alone in the silence of his chamber.

Ron walked back into the kitchen to find Luna had already returned, sitting on the kitchen counter, her arms behind her back. Ron walked over to her, holding out the small, plain box. She held out her box, wrapped in what seemed to be Quidditch posts.

They switched boxes, and even though Ron had to unwrap his, and Luna to simply remove the top, both opened their gifts at the same time.

“Uh...” said Ron unsurely, looking inside his box. “It’s a...”

“Your very own lion,” said Luna, reaching into his box, scratching the lion’s nose. It roared.

“Is it a...hat?” Ron asked, tossing the box aside and removing the lion.

“Of course not,” said Luna. “It would look silly on you–no, it’s just the lion part. It does, however, attach wonderfully to bedposts.”

Ron blinked. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He looked up from his gift, noticing that Luna had not looked in her box yet. “Aren’t you going to...?”

“Of course,” said Luna, and she pulled away the tissue paper, to reveal...

“Oh, Ronald, how sweet...” she said, reaching in with two hands. “Earrings!”

Ron blinked again. “Actually–it’s just vegetables. Can’t imagine why you’d like it, but Ginny told me–”

“Of course I like it,” said Luna, removing an onion that had been bruised a bit, sort of cut open on the side of the box–she sniffled. “It’s the most thoughtful gift you’ve ever given me.”

And Ron felt quite proud of himself for precisely three seconds–”But I’ve never gotten you a–”

He was cut short–as was his breath–by an utterly unexpected gesture: Luna, quite simply, hopped off the counter just onto him, in what resulted in a sort of half-hug, half-catch, half-pounce. Of course, Ron was too surprised to remember that three halves don’t make one whole.

Ron set Luna to the floor awkwardly, ears flaming as red as the tomato that he had mistakenly included in the vegetable gift.

“Thank you, Ronald,” said Luna, and she did not seem to notice the obvious awkwardness Ron felt–she simply lifted the box of vegetables to her face, sniffed, and began walking out of the room. Ron watched her go, lion drooping in his hand.

Hermi one stepped into the living room, closing the bedroom door behind her with a quiet click. She took a breath–let it out. Snape was sitting by the fire, gazing into the flames. She had made no noise when she entered, and he did not look up, but he knew she was there, just the same.

“What are you doing here, Miss Granger?” he asked, sounding tired. He did not look up.

“I already told you,” said Hermione.

Snape snorted languidly. “Oh, to befriend me?” he said.

“Yes,” said Hermione.

“Hate to break it to you, but you’re out of luck. There is not a chance in hell that the two of us could ever be...friends. Nor do I want to be.”

“And why is that, Professor?” said Hermione. “All you do want is to harass Gryffindors, torment Hufflepuffs, disgrace Ravenclaws and praise Slytherins–oh, and be friends with Professor Dumbledore, don’t forget that one.”

“I’ll be sure not to,” said Snape. He had still not looked up from the fire.

Hermione breathed out sharply–”Professor, it’s Christmas–”

“Boxing Day, technically.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Boxing Day then. This is supposed to be the season of...happiness, of tenderness–”

“’Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la la la, la la la la!” Snape sang mockingly. “Oh, and be sure to throw in Weasley’s favourite: Jingle bells, Snape sure smells–”

Hermione blinked. He had heard that one?

“What I’m trying to say,” said Hermione, “is that this is supposed to be the time of year when we...get along.”

Snape quirked an eyebrow she could just barely see. “We?”

“All of us, everyone, mankind–”

“That’s not about to happen–”

“You know what I mean!” shouted Hermione, and by now she was becoming frustrated. “Why do you insist on being a particularly greasy git round Christmas time? And yes, I did just say that to your face–well, the back of your head. You deserved it this time.”

Snape turned round finally, and looked Hermione over evenly, just gazing for a long while, eyes narrowed menacingly–she now knew what wizard photographs felt like.

“You saw the photographs,” he said finally. “I have not had a particularly...happy Christmas past. Why should I have to sit by while everyone else brings their bloody cheerfulness upon me? I do my best to stamp it out before I come into contact with it–I hear it’s catchy.”

“But that’s the past–this is the present, Christmas present–that stuff doesn’t need to affect the here and now–”

“Yes, but it does,” said Snape. “It does affect the here. It does affect the now. And we are powerless to stop it.”

Hermione’s eyebrows raised–“We?”

“All the ones like me,” said Snape. “The ones that would much rather forget that Christmas ever existed.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“And it’s a horrible person who’s saying it,” said Snape grimly–“so it doesn’t much matter, does it?”

Silence. Hermione tried to think of what to say, what to do, what to think.

“You know that you hate me,” said Snape suddenly, in what could only be called a pained voice. “Deep down. No matter what foolish thoughts you force yourself to believe–you like to think of yourself as better, as wiser, for you will try to talk to me, the ones like me, you will attempt to change us–but you yourself are just as bad. You feel so that you may say you have felt. That is no way to live.”

Hermione felt the odd sensation of a sharp knife, scraping away at her brain, just a few cells at a time, scraping them into a dish for later inspection.

“I do not hate you,” she said finally. “I really don’t.”

“Yes you do,” said Snape, nodding to himself. “You know you do. And each time you think of me, you think There is a man that needs help; I think I shall try to help him. You think because you pity me. You pity me, when it is me who should pity you–I do not feel at all, and I don’t claim to.”

“Of course you feel,” said Hermione. “Everyone feels, except perhaps Voldemort. It’s a part of being human–”

“Then perhaps I am not human–and do not say that name.”

“You are human. The others, the ones you speak of – the ones like me, they might think you’re not. But you are.”

“ There are no ones like you,” said Snape softly, coldly, harshly, all at once.

Scrape...and Hermione knew what Snape was doing. He was inside her mind, reading her thoughts, or perhaps not, no, analysing her thoughts, her memories.

He was inside her brain; yes, that explained it. For he was not inside her heart.

“Legilimency,” said Hermione, “does not tell you everything about a person.”

Snape smirked. “It took you long enough to sense it. But you are wrong–it shows all thoughts, everything that goes on within the mind of the person it is being used upon–”

“Precisely,” said Hermione. “And you cannot...you cannot tell everything about a person by their brain.”

Snape snorted. “Ah, this comes from the insufferable know-it-all...what, had a change of heart?”

And Hermione was silent for a moment, and then: “Yes. You could say that.”

He looked at her for a while, looked at her eyes, for the eyes show at once more than the mind ever could. “Fine,” he said, and with that he stood from his place by the fire, stood and walked, made to leave the room.

“What’s fine?” Hermione called after him, following.

Snape halted, turning round. “Fine. I shall befriend you–for ‘tis the season. But that is all–the holiday, and then nothing, nothing more, never again.”

“Good,” said Hermione. “But shan’t we make a tradition of it?”

Snape blinked, curious.

“Every Christmas,” said Hermione. “Only for the holiday–we can be friends. And then nothing, the rest of the year.” She put out a hand, a gesture of friendship at its very foundation, its very beginning.

Snape, slowly, hesitantly, shook it. He spoke but a word:

“Fine.”

Harry had Malfoy down by the neck, pushing him, strangling him into the floor. He was going to kill Malfoy, no regrets. The...the bastard, he didn’t deserve to live. No, and now he was going to die, die and there was nothing he could do to stop it...

And then...Harry could not figure why, could not believe he was seeing it, but...Malfoy smirked. Harry’s grip loosened slightly, and the Slytherin had enough air flowing so that he could speak:

“If Dumbledore really knows you‘re here,” said Malfoy, ”I suggest you stop now.”

And Harry knew what he meant; not only would all the dark wizards in Malfoy Manor know that Harry Potter had killed the Malfoy boy, but so would Dumbledore. And once the thought of Dumbledore had entered Harry’s mind, he could do nothing to Malfoy.

Malfoy rolled out from under Harry, rubbing his neck. He cleared his throat–”That wasn’t very nice, Potter,” he said. “I was only asking her a question.”

“Perhaps you should open your present,” said Ginny, “and then you can leave us alone.”

“This?” Malfoy said, holding the plain box. He turned it over in his hands. “And what is this supposed to be?”

“It’s a box, you idiot,” said Harry, and he worked to untie Ginny, making a point to look at the ground while doing so. “You’re supposed to open it.”

Malfoy sneered at him, and then ripped the lid off the thing gracelessly. His face looked confused as he looked inside, before he reached in and took the contents out.

It was a small mirror, silver, with small Christmas decorations adorning the frame. Malfoy narrowed his eyes, holding the thing up to his face, turning it round to look at the back.

“What’s it supposed to do?”

Ginny sort of flipped into Harry’s arms as the ropes fell away. He let her down, and she shook her head a bit to clear it. She spoke: “It’s a mirror–”

“I know that,” cut in Malfoy. Ginny glared at him.

“It’s a mirror that shows the Christmases of long ago. It...well, it’s sort of like a penseive–you know what a penseive is, right? Well, it shows your memories of Christmas, only Christmas, so you can look at them any time you wish.”

Malfoy was silent for a moment. “You made this?” he said finally, softly. “You two made this...for me?”

And Ginny thought that perhaps he actually liked it. “Well, Hermione helped a bit with it, but–” She trailed off.

Malfoy turned the mirror round again and looked into the face of it for a moment–there it showed a young boy, sitting alone in a room full of gifts of all sizes, looking all round. The image faded to an even younger boy, crying in his crib, alone, while his parents held a dinner party in the next room. Malfoy’s face contorted in rage.

“Why in hell would you think I wanted this?” he screamed, and he threw the mirror to the ground, smashing it into a million pieces. Ginny winced, and Harry threw her an I told you so look. “What would make you think–make you assume–that I wanted to be reminded of Christmases... I hate Christmas, I always have, and you have no right to–to think that–”

“What, that you might appreciate a gift?” demanded Harry. He shook his head grimly. “Don’t worry, I didn’t.”

Malfoy dove at Harry now, grabbing him round the neck instead. Ginny tried to pull him off, but she could not, he would not let up. Malfoy’s fingers tightened on Harry’s throat and Harry could not breathe at all, his heart pumped extraordinarily fast and he could not see much. Just the panicked form of Ginny attempting to pull off his attacker. A random thought suddenly found its way into his brain: She’s so beautiful when she’s panicked. But not so much as in her place, her courtyard; no, nothing could compare to that, no not ever...and she likes peanut butter, too.

And then he could see not even her clearly, just a blurred sort of red, and at first he thought it was her hair, which was very beautiful, but it was not, this red was not beautiful at all, for he could not judge this red. This red was part of his very self, and he handed his vision unwillingly over to it. All Harry could see now was this red, and he was glad it was not black, because red was better. Or brown; brown would be bad too.

And then even the random thoughts could not reach Harry’s brain, and there was nothing more in his mind, no blood, no thoughts, no feelings. He was nothing now, nothing at all. It was sort of nice, but he missed being something. Something was better than nothing, after all.

And to what would have surely been Harry’s dismay, if Harry had any dismay left, the red faded to black, and then even the black was gone, and the world was colourless. And in that moment, Harry, he...stopped being alive.

Funny how in moments of extreme panic, we scream, even if screaming does absolutely nothing to aid our situation. Hilarious, then, how in moments of even more extreme panic, we cannot even scream, we cannot do anything, we freeze.

Yes?

Ginny could not scream. She could not move, she just...the fingers that had been gripping Malfoy tightly, trying to tear him off of Harry, her Harry, they just...could not grip any longer. And her eyes were wide, and she fell backwards, onto the floor of the chamber. Her heart, it...it was as if it had been stabbed, no, as if it had been chopped into pieces and then ground up and added to a boiling cauldron. As if it had imploded upon itself, as if it were gone.

It was gone. Ginny’s heart was no longer there, she felt. Surely it could not be, for the way she felt now? And she knew what had caused it, oh yes, she knew, for there was nothing else in the universe that could make her feel this way.

Harry wasn’t there. Malfoy had...had...

An inarticulate screech sounded from Ginny’s throat, and it was all she could do just to... breathe. In, out, in, out.

Harry was gone. Harry wasn’t there. Harry was ... was....

No.

Ginny ’s eyes snapped shut, and no longer was she alert to any thought, any feeling. She was inside herself, deep inside, and the world was black to her.

But she could sense still, though not in the room with Malfoy–somewhere else, and she did not know just where. She could sense a place of torment, a place of relief, a place of loss.

And she could sense him in this place. Could feel him.

And then there was a bright light–but her eyes had been closed, had they not? How could she see that light? It...was brighter and greater than anything she had ever seen before, and then she heard a voice, a voice of great power, a voice of great wisdom–a voice more beautiful and terrible than anything in all the world. It spoke, and Ginny could not understand the words, though perhaps Harry could–but it was not Parseltongue, oh no, not at all. It was the very opposite of Parseltongue, though how that was, Ginny did not know, could not know. She felt her heart now slowly piece itself back together.

Her eyes opened again, and she felt breathing, in her self and in him, in Harry. But she was not touching Harry, was she? No, she wasn’t–perhaps she heard his breathing. The bright light was not quite as bright, but the world was still white, yet...familiar. More familiar than it should have been.

Ginny found it difficult to turn her head, as if it was stuck in something. Something cold, yes, it was very cold. Finally she leaned forwards, sitting up, and she saw that it was snowing, and also that she was out-of-doors.

She looked round, and at once she knew where she was–in her courtyard, at Hogwarts. She saw the trees, the fir trees surrounding her, all covered in snow, and the snow was on her as well, a light dusting upon her black robes. And the snow was on him as well, for there he was, just beside her.

“Harry,” she said breathlessly, collapsing atop him, arms circling him, feeling him, waking him.

“...Ginny?” he said sleepily, sounding like it was difficult to find a voice. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” said Ginny, and she hugged him, simply hugged him, squeezed him as tight as she could and eventually he tried to move. He unstuck his arm from beneath her, beneath the snow, and embraced her back. “I don’t know. Harry, I was so afraid, I panicked...”

Harry smiled slightly, raising a hand and stroking her cheek. “You’re beautiful when you’re panicked,” he said. “But not so much as you are here,” he continued. “Here, you’re the most beautiful-est person on the planet.” And Ginny smiled as well, his frozen fingers bliss against her cheek.

“Thank you,” said Ginny, “even though you’re completely making that up.”

Harry chuckled. “No, I’m not,” he said.

She laughed as well. “Of course you are. If I said you were unbearably handsome when you are frozen solid, what would you say?”

“I’d say I can’t feel my body,” he said, and she realised that all of her weight was on top of him. He rolled them both over, and he was atop her now, though of course not letting his weight crush her.

She leaned up suddenly, yet slowly as well, and kissed him lightly, ever so lightly, and he was taken aback at first, of course. How else would he react? But then he kissed her back just the same, briefly and so that they both laughed after a moment.

“Your lips are frozen,” they both said, and then laughed again.

Harry let himself fall into the snow on one side of her, so that he was leaning on her slightly, but without much pressure. They tried kissing again, but still their lips were unbearably cold, and so they just lay there on the cold snow, simply breathing. Neither had anything to say, nor did anything need to be said. The snow fell silently atop them, burying them a little. Neither minded.

“It’s really very cold, isn’t it?” said Harry finally.

“Yes,” said Ginny. “It is.”

Silence.

“We should probably go.”

“I know,” said Ginny. “We should.”

But they didn’t. They watched the snow fall atop them, and neither really wanted to move an inch. Only a bit of heat permeated from each of their bodies, but it was enough.

And the she spoke:

“Boxing Day is a...is a silly tradition, isn’t it?“ said Ginny finally, her voice chattering a bit, and she felt Harry nod. “This...what we’re doing right now, this laying against each other...this is one tradition I’d...I’d like to start. Much better than Boxing Day, don’t you think?” He nodded against her again. “Yes, this is...this is wonderful, this is. Let‘s do it again next year.”

Author’s Notes: This story can, and likely will, be construed in many different ways; I actually didn’t write it to be that way, it just sort of happened, developed organically, on its own. I’d just like for you to...just sit for a moment, and think. I know that I have already taken a large amount of time out of your day with this 14,000 plus word tale, but just reflect on it a moment longer: