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Hermione sat in his office, fingers curled around a steaming cup of tea that smelled faintly of bergamot and peppermint. The warmth of it drifted across the room, clashing horribly with the cold draught sneaking in from the window that refused to seal properly.
Harry hunched over a stack of essays, quill tapping irritably against the parchment. His eyes burned from reading, and the scratchy sound of the nib only made his headache spike. He was halfway through an especially atrocious rant from one of his sixth-years about werewolves - One can become a werewolf simply by walking outside on a full moon - and he had to physically stop himself from groaning.
“Yes, possible,” he muttered to himself, “if you get actually bitten.”
He dragged a line of sharp red ink down the margin, pressing harder than necessary. The parchment crinkled in protest.
He could feel Hermione staring at him.
“What?” he snapped without looking up.
“Do you plan to come over for Christmas?” she asked, too casually.
“No.”
The word came out flat and cold.
Hermione huffed, the sound warm but laced with disapproval. Harry felt cornered enough to clarify, even though he regretted it immediately.
“You know I hate Christmas. Nothing good ever happens then.”
“Just because something bad happened once or twice at Christmas doesn’t mean you have to hate it,” Hermione said, voice annoyingly calm.
Harry scoffed, eyes narrowing at the falling snow outside the window - thick, fluttering flakes catching the grey light like ash.
“Once or twice? Hermione, it’s like ten times.”
She raised a brow. The prove it brow.
So he did.
“Right after the war, Ginny broke up with me. The following year, my flat burned down. The year after that, I was hit with a curse the day before Christmas and spent the week in St. Mungo’s. The year after that, my house was robbed. The next year I was told my Senior Auror promotion would be postponed indefinitely. Another year later, Josh broke up with me. The year after that, I got injured and was discharged from active duty. The next year - after I started here - McGonagall appointed me and Snape, of all people, to organise the Yule Ball. And last year Meredith broke up with me.”
He dropped the quill. It rattled on the desk, splattering a dot of ink onto one unlucky essay.
“That was only nine times,” Hermione pointed out gently.
“Hermione!” He threw his hands up. “My opinion stands. Nothing good happens at Christmas.”
“If you were perhaps a little kinder to your fellow human beings, they might be kinder to you,” she said, sipping her tea like she hadn’t just stabbed him verbally between the ribs.
Harry scoffed again, sharper this time. “Why should I bother being nice when they aren’t nice to me? Everyone just wants a piece of my fame anyway.”
“Harry, you’re exaggerating,” she said, but without heat.
“I’m not,” he muttered, exasperation curling through his chest like tight wire.
Hermione sighed - the long-suffering sigh he knew far too well. “You are worse than Snape.”
Harry stared at her.
She added, with infuriating sincerity, “Unlike you, Snape is a delight.”
A delight.
Harry turned toward the window instead of dignifying that with a response. Outside, the wind whipped snow against the glass in uneven bursts. The sky was the colour of old pewter. The grounds looked frozen, lifeless, miserable.
Perfect, really.
“Hermione, I need to finish marking these essays,” he said, pointedly glancing at the pile.
She rose, cloak rustling. “We’ll talk again.”
“No, we won’t,” he murmured under his breath as she walked to the Floo.
Harry stalked down the corridors toward the Great Hall, boots clicking sharply against the cold stone. The air tasted faintly of cinnamon and evergreen - evidence that the house-elves had gone overboard with the seasonal charms again. His jaw tightened.
The moment he stepped into the Hall, his mood plummeted even further. Hagrid and Flitwick had apparently spent the entire afternoon decorating: a forest of towering Christmas trees glittered along the walls, drenched in lights that twinkled like smug little stars. Charmed snow drifted down from the enchanted ceiling in slow, swirling flakes, landing on his hair with a damp chill before melting. Golden angels swooped around the rafters, chiming soft notes that were entirely too cheerful for his taste.
He muttered a curse under his breath and made his way to the staff table
Of course he ended up wedged between Snape and Trelawney. Fate clearly hated him.
What a joy.
Harry stabbed his roast with much more force than strictly necessary, the tines scraping harshly against the plate.
“The meat is already dead,” Snape drawled, voice smooth as dark silk and twice as irritating.
Harry bit back the first retort that rose in his throat.
Oh yes, Hermione. A delight. Absolutely radiant.
He scoffed quietly. “Nothing of your concern,” he said, keeping his voice clipped.
Snape arched a brow at him. Merlin’s balls, why did everyone feel the constant need to do that? Couldn’t a single person just accept an answer without eyebrow commentary?
“You are going to the Burrow this year?” Snape asked - casual, as though he genuinely cared.
Why was he trying to make conversation?
Harry huffed. “No,” he said curtly.
Another raised eyebrow. He resisted the urge to smack it off the man’s forehead.
“Christmas is such a delightful time of year,” Trelawney chimed in, swaying slightly as she cradled her goblet. “Moon and Venus are in perfect alignment. A most auspicious omen.”
Harry groaned, loud enough that two students looked over.
“I don’t care about your f - ” he swallowed the swear, barely, “ - about your stupid planets and Christmas.”
He stabbed his meat again. Viciously.
Trelawney recoiled, her enormous eyes blinking rapidly behind her magnifying spectacles. She looked like a startled, glittery owl.
Before he could relish the silence, a familiar voice cut through the air.
“Ah, Harry,” Minerva said from across the table. “Have you already submitted your gift for the Secret Santa exchange?”
His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.
“I already told you I’m not participating.”
“But everyone is participating,” Minerva said, giving him that look - a mixture of stern and pleading. “Even Severus.”
Harry scoffed, letting out a bitter laugh.
“Yeah, so that Snape gets at least one gift,” he snapped and pushed his chair back.
Hushed silence washed over the table like a cold draft, but he didn’t bother looking back. He was done. Fully, completely, absolutely done with Christmas, planets, eyebrows, and the entire glitter-drenched Hall.
He walked away, ignoring the stunned faces behind him and the soft chiming of those bloody golden angels fluttering overhead.
Harry pushed into his quarters with a scowl, the door closing behind him with a soft thud. The room greeted him with dim firelight and the faint smell of old parchment and ink - comforting on normal days, suffocating tonight. He tossed his cloak over the armchair and grabbed the next delightful stack of essays.
Fourth years.
Delightful, he scoffed to himself.
He cracked open the first parchment, already feeling the familiar irritation coiling low in his stomach. They were writing about the Unforgivable Curses. A topic he’d explained six times. Slowly. Thoroughly. With diagrams.
And still -
His eyes narrowed.
One Gryffindor had written - bold as brass - that the curses weren’t that bad if used on the right person… like Slytherins.
Harry groaned so loudly it echoed off the stone walls.
“Brilliant. Wonderful. Exceptional stupidity.”
He dragged the quill across the margin, red ink blooming like a wound. Third bottle tonight. He’d have to order more.
Hours slipped past in a blur of sloppy handwriting, smudged ink, and increasingly murderous comments in the margins. The fire crackled low, casting long shadows over the room. His eyes burned, gritty with exhaustion.
Then -
A sound.
A soft, delicate ding.
Harry blinked, head snapping up. A bell? Since when did Hogwarts have bells in private quarters?
He glanced around, confusion prickling up his spine. The shadows trembled. The air shifted, colder, lighter - strange.
And then he saw it.
A doe stood by the hearth.
He nearly shrieked.
Its form was luminous, almost liquid in its glow, white as fresh snow and shimmering with specks of gold that caught the firelight. The flames flickered inside its body as though it were made of starlit glass. Its gentle breath stirred the air, carrying a cool, clean scent - like winter wind over untouched frost.
Harry stared, frozen.
The doe lowered its head with impossible grace.
Its voice flowed into the room, soft and echoing - like wind over distant bells.
“Hello, Harry. I am the Ghost of Past Christmas.”
“You’re what?” Harry snapped automatically - his voice too loud, too human in the glowing stillness.
“I am here to take you with me,” the doe said, stepping closer. The warmth of the fire didn’t cling to it; instead, cold light drifted off its coat like drifting snowflakes.
“No. Of course not,” Harry said quickly, defensively, edging back. “Absolutely not.”
The doe tilted its head - almost fond.
Before he could reach for his wand, its luminous muzzle touched his chest with a feather-light pressure.
Harry felt the world yank sideways -
A burst of cold air -
A sound like shattering glass -
The fire vanished -
The room dissolved -
And then everything was white.
Slowly, the blurring whiteness thinned. Shapes formed - first shadows, then outlines - until Harry found himself standing in a shabby living room. The air felt stale, tinged with the dusty scent of old fabric and something faintly bitter, like damp wood. The wallpaper was yellowed and peeling at the corners, its faded floral pattern barely visible anymore. The mismatched furniture sagged under its own age, cushions lumpy and threadbare.
Beside him, the doe stood utterly out of place - luminous, graceful, ethereal. Its white glow made the dingy room seem even gloomier by contrast.
Harry opened his mouth to ask why they were here - when the door banged open and a small boy ran inside.
Harry’s breath caught.
“He can’t see us,” the doe murmured, its voice like wind over frost.
And true enough - the boy ran straight through Harry, a cold, tingling rush passing through his chest like a wisp of winter air.
The child couldn’t have been more than three or four. He wore trousers so worn they’d gone shiny at the knees, already too short for his skinny legs. His jumper was thin, stretched, and fraying at the cuffs. His hair fell in uneven, dark strands almost to his chin, and his little hooked nose and nearly black eyes were unmistakable.
Harry swallowed hard.
Severus Snape.
A tiny, painfully young Severus Snape.
“Mum, mum!” the boy called, breathless with urgency. “But Mrs. Stubbins said we need to put a plate of mince pie and sherry there. Father Christmas won’t come if we don’t put something out!”
A woman shuffled into the room behind him - tall, thin, and looking utterly exhausted. Her hair hung limply around her face, and the deep lines under her eyes made her seem older than she probably was. She resembled Snape so strongly Harry felt a jolt in his chest.
“Severus,” she said softly, voice warm but weary, “Father Christmas has a lot to do. He can’t come everywhere.”
“But Mum, we need to try.” Little Severus’s voice wavered with desperate hope. “I only wish for some sweets… the big chocolate bars. And I was a good boy this year.”
Harry’s throat tightened.
The woman rested a trembling hand on her son’s small shoulder. “I know, Severus.”
The boy lowered his voice, almost whispering, “Father… he didn’t have much to complain about me this time.”
Harry felt something cold press against his ribs from the inside. He swallowed again, harder.
His mother’s expression twisted - love and pain knotted together. She smoothed a hand over his hair. “Let’s place a candle in the window,” she said gently. “You can make a wish while it’s lit. Perhaps it will come true someday.”
Severus’s face lit up, just barely - but it was enough. He grabbed her hand and hurried with her to the window. She struck a match, the flame flaring briefly before settling into a warm, flickering glow.
The boy squeezed his eyes shut, scrunching his entire face in concentration as the candlelight reflected in the glass.
His mother looked at him with a tenderness that made Harry’s chest ache - loving him with everything she had, even though it wasn’t enough to shield him from the world he was growing up in.
Harry swallowed thickly.
“Why are you showing me this?” he asked hoarsely, turning toward the doe.
She said nothing - only lowered her head and tapped him gently with her luminous nose.
The room dissolved again -
the candlelight smearing into streaks of gold -
the shabby walls fading -
the cold air lifting -
until everything blurred into white once more.
When the glow dissolved, Harry found himself standing in the same cramped space - only now it looked even bleaker. Snape was no longer a toddler; he looked around ten. His mother’s hair carried tired grey streaks, her shoulders drawn as if the weight of the house pressed on them.
“Father won’t be here for Christmas?” young Snape asked.
“No, he’s at the pub,” his mother replied softly.
Snape pressed his lips together, jaw tight. “As always.”
A small red stocking hung crookedly at the fireplace. On the tiny table nearby sat two mismatched cups of tea and four pale biscuits. The room was cold enough that Harry could see the faintest fog of his own breath.
“Come on, Severus, it’s time to light the candle,” Eileen said, brushing her fingers over her son’s hair.
“Mum… will our wishes ever come true?” he whispered.
“We still need to believe.”
Harry looked away. The ache in his chest was sharp, almost humiliating in its intensity. He didn’t want to witness this - didn’t want to feel sympathy twist through him like this.
“I’ve seen enough,” he muttered to the doe.
She nudged his shoulder gently, and the world pulled apart again, colours stretching like paint in water. When it snapped back into focus, they stood in a bedroom. The same poverty settled over everything: thin walls, threadbare blankets, the faint smell of cold stone and damp fabric.
Snape - older now, fifteen perhaps - sat at the window. His long black hair fell around his face; his clothes looked like something Harry himself might have been stuck wearing at the Dursleys, too big and too worn. From downstairs came shouting - deep, ugly, splintering the stillness. Snape flinched at the sound, shoulders curling in.
He struck a match, lit the single candle on the windowsill, and its flame trembled in the draft.
“Merry Christmas, Severus,” he murmured to himself, eyes fixed on the darkness outside.
Harry felt his stomach twist. This wasn’t the smug, sharp-tongued adult he knew. This was… a boy. A lonely one.
“Why does he still believe the candle will change something?” Harry asked, his frustration spilling through, sharper than he intended.
“People need hope,” the doe replied gently.
Harry almost scoffed, but the sound caught in his throat.
When the blur peeled away again, they stood in a room made of cold stone. Harry felt the chill immediately - thick, old, the way Hogwarts seeped into bones if one stayed too long. Shelves lined the walls. It looked like a professor’s quarters.
The man in front of them was fully grown now, but he seemed… diminished. His face was pale, carved with exhaustion, the sort that came from years and not just sleepless nights. Snape struck a match; his hand trembled. The tiny flame stuttered before he lit the candle on the sill.
He leaned his forehead against the cold glass, eyes falling shut. He didn’t speak. Not even a whisper. Just stood there, motionless, like the room and the silence had swallowed whatever fight he had left.
Something twisted in Harry’s gut - hard, sudden, unwelcome.
He didn’t want this.
“Stop showing me that!” Harry snapped at the doe. It came out louder than he intended, but he didn’t care.
The doe only looked at him, sadness soft in her eyes. “Sometimes you need to see more.”
And just like that, the world dissolved.
Harry landed back in his quarters, breath rushing out of him. Relief poured through him. He dropped into the chair behind his desk and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. That had been… too much. Too real.
A dream. Yes. It had to be a dream. Of course it was a -
A bell rang.
Harry’s head snapped up.
A stag stood in his room. Brilliant white, its antlers branching like glowing trees.
“Oh no. No, no, no.” Harry groaned.
The stag shook its head, the bells on its antlers chiming like distant sleigh bells.
“I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,” the stag announced.
“Of course you are,” Harry muttered under his breath. Was he trapped in some deranged Dickens spin-off? Honestly, it felt like it.
The stag nudged him - insistent, oddly gentle. Harry barely put up a fight as the world spun again, pulling them into another room he recognized instantly. Snape’s quarters.
And there he was.
Snape stepped in from the side room, no robes, no severe layers. Just sweatpants, a simple shirt… and red socks with tiny bells stitched into them. They jingled when he moved.
Harry’s mouth curled, despite himself. Ridiculous. Adorable. Absolutely not something he should think about Severus bloody Snape.
Snape stood in the middle of the room, uncertainty flickering over his features. He looked smaller without the black armour of his usual clothes.
“Why do I even try to make amends with the boy?” Snape muttered to himself.
Harry’s heart lurched.
The boy.
Him.
Snape meant him.
Harry thought back - flashes of the last years at Hogwarts, Snape’s small attempts at civility, the softened tone, the careful distance. Meanwhile Harry… hadn’t been generous. He hadn’t even been fair.
But why should he? he told himself reflexively. Why should he care?
Snape hesitated in front of the window. “It’s not Christmas eve yet…” he murmured, but after a moment’s wavering, he lit the candle anyway. His eyes closed. His shoulders dropped - just a fraction - but enough to show how much weight he carried.
He exhaled deeply and moved back to the couch. A book lay open there.
A Muggle book.
Charles Dickens - A Christmas Carol.
Harry huffed a laugh. “Fitting,” he muttered.
He should have looked away. Should have felt nothing.
But he didn’t move.
Snape looked lonely.
And damn it, Harry thought, anger curling tight around something softer he refused to name, he really didn’t want to feel anything for the man.
Harry returned to his quarters in a rush of cold air and dim candlelight. He let out a long, shaky breath. The silence pressed around him, heavy and expectant. He almost anticipated the final bell… and almost feared it.
When it finally rang his heart jolted.
A tall figure stood in the middle of the room, draped in long black robes. A white beard spilled down his chest like a waterfall of frost.
“Dumbledore?” Harry breathed.
The figure smiled faintly. “I am the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, my boy.”
Harry stared. He couldn’t believe it, yet the air crackled with a cold that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. The figure moved closer, long pale fingers lifting, and with a single tap against Harry’s shoulder the world tipped -
- flipped -
- and slammed back into place.
Harry stood in Spinner’s End again.
The same poverty hung over the room like a shroud. Nothing had changed. Time had never bothered improving anything here.
A noise sounded from outside the room. Harry tensed.
The door creaked open.
Snape stepped in.
But this was not the man Harry knew. His hair was completely white, hanging limp around a deeply lined face. His back was curved, stripped of the rigid precision he used to carry like armor. His steps were slow, uneven, as though each one tugged something vital from him.
He clutched a cup of tea in a trembling hand and sank into the same worn armchair Harry had seen in the past.
A devastated tightness pulled at Snape’s mouth. His eyes sagged with a hollow exhaustion. The loneliness in the room wrapped around Harry’s ribs like iron bands.
Snape’s gaze drifted - slowly, almost reluctantly - to the window.
A candle stood there, untouched.
Harry’s breath hitched.
Come on. Light it. Please… just light it.
Snape stared at it for a long moment. Something flickered behind his expression - nostalgia or grief or something too broken to define.
Then he sneered.
“No,” Snape whispered.
He lifted his wand. A sharp spell cracked through the air, bright and violent. The candle melted into a sad, smoking puddle on the sill.
Harry’s shock punched the air from his lungs. “Why - why did he do that?”
The ghost’s voice was low, almost mournful. “Sometimes, even the strongest lose all their hope.”
“But why?” Harry snapped, his voice cracking. He couldn’t stop looking at the old man in the armchair.
“Do you see anyone else here?” asked the ghost gently. “Does he look happy? He is an abandoned man. A man without hope. Life was cruel, and no one reached out a hand.”
Snape sat unmoving, staring into nothing, his expression quietly ruined.
Harry swallowed hard as something inside him twisted so sharply. He couldn’t breathe past it.
He couldn’t let this happen.
Not to Snape.
Not when he knew now.
Not when he had seen all of this.
“I won’t let it be like this,” Harry whispered, fierce and breathless. “I swear.”
Even when Harry reappeared in his quarters, the images clung to him like frost on winter glass. Every time he blinked, he saw them again: the bright, hopeful eyes of a three-year-old Severus… the quiet devastation of the old man sitting alone in Spinner’s End. The contrast rattled something deep inside him.
He paced the length of his living room, boots thudding softly against the floorboards, too agitated to even think of sleep. The fire had burned down to faint, flickering embers. The shadows felt heavier than usual, stretching across shelves, the sofa, the essay-ridden desk like they knew his thoughts were a mess.
When the sky outside finally paled to a cold, pale grey and dawn began to lift above the forest, Harry dragged himself into the shower. The hot water hit his skin, sharp and grounding, washing away the cold dread clinging to him. He dressed in clean clothes, the fabric warm, trying to ignore how exhausted he felt. Not physically - no, his bones were heavy with guilt and something else. Something that made him feel changed.
In the Great Hall, the air smelled faintly of cinnamon porridge and morning tea. Only a handful of students were scattered across the long tables, their voices soft and sleepy.
Harry stopped short.
Snape was already there.
The man sat alone, a steaming cup of tea beside him, a worn paperback open in one hand. Dickens. A pair of reading glasses rested on his nose, glinting faintly in the candlelight.
Harry blinked. Did he always read this early? And since when did he wear glasses?
He swallowed and walked over, hesitating only a heartbeat before sitting in the chair beside him. Snape didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge him - a cold shoulder Harry had absolutely earned.
Harry reached for the teapot and poured himself black tea, adding far too much sugar. His hand trembled just slightly as he stirred. When he finally took a sip, the warmth steadied him. Enough. It was time.
“I’m sorry for my words yesterday,” he said quietly, the steam from his cup curling between them. “They were cruel and unnecessary.”
Snape’s head snapped up, dark eyes narrowing behind the lenses. “So?” he drawled.
Harry almost laughed. Of course the man wouldn’t make this easy.
A small, genuine smile tugged at his lips anyway. “Yeah, I know. I was… unbearable. And I took it out on everyone around me.”
Snape studied him for a moment before giving a stiff nod. “This is an adequate apology. Accepted.”
The relief that loosened Harry’s chest surprised him more than it should have. He grinned - an honest, warm grin he hadn’t felt on his face in years. Snape’s eyes widened a fraction, as if startled by it.
Harry nodded at the book. “You read A Christmas Carol?”
“Every year before Christmas,” Snape admitted, tone perfectly neutral.
Harry chuckled softly. “You know… I think Dickens is wrong about the ghosts. They look completely different.” He paused, then added, “The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come looks like Dumbledore.”
Snape gave him a long, unimpressed look. “You are aware this is only fiction?”
“Of course,” Harry said, maybe a little too quickly.
Snape lifted his book again - but not before Harry caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he was trying very hard not to smile.
Harry had survived the day, but only barely. By the time evening settled over the castle, he felt wrung out. He’d even managed - Merlin help him - to be nicer to his students. They had stared at him like he’d grown antlers.
Now he’d been sitting for almost two more hours, hunched over his desk again, drowning in parchment. His eyes burned from reading, the scratch of his quill felt like sandpaper, and the ink bottle was dangerously close to empty. Even the fire in his quarters seemed tired, throwing sluggish orangey light across the room.
He needed a break before he lost what little was left of his mind.
His gaze drifted to the box of biscuits Molly had sent. Bright red ribbon. Smelled faintly of cinnamon and butter.
Should he…?
He hesitated - then stood. He had promised himself he would change something.
So he grabbed the cookie box, squared his shoulders, and set off.
The corridor to the dungeons was cool. His heartbeat thudded heavily as he stopped in front of Snape’s door. One more deep breath. He raised his hand and knocked.
There was the soft scrape of locks, and then the door opened.
Snape stared at him, blinking in surprise. He looked exactly as he had during Harry’s strange visit - sweatpants, a worn shirt, and… green socks patterned with tiny red candles. One even had a flickering charm. Harry had to bite back a smile hard enough to feel it in his chest.
“Potter,” Snape said slowly. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Harry said, equal parts defensive and exhausted. “Just a stack of essays written by idiots, and I needed a break.” He lifted the box a little. “I have biscuits.”
Snape scoffed, but stepped aside to let him in.
The quarters were warm - a soft glow from a lamp, a faint herbal scent from steaming tea on the table. Papers lay scattered where Snape had clearly been marking, too.
“Is tea enough,” Snape asked, “or do you require something stronger?”
“Tea is fine,” Harry said, placing the biscuit box on the table and opening it. The smell puffed out - butter, sugar, spices.
Snape handed him a cup. Harry took one of the biscuits with jam immediately, biting into the soft center. The sweetness soothed him more than it should. Snape, however, took his time, choosing one with deliberate precision - and ended up selecting a chocolate one.
Harry’s chest tightened. That little boy from Spinner’s End, with his too-short trousers and too-big eyes, asking for chocolate at Christmas… it hit him squarely in the heart.
He glanced at Snape’s table. “You’re correcting essays too? How can you stand doing this for twenty-five years?”
“Minerva’s whiskey helps,” Snape said flatly.
Harry burst out laughing, a warm, honest sound that surprised even him. For a moment - just a flicker - he was almost certain Snape’s lips twitched.
“So,” Harry said, settling back with his tea, “what have you planned for Christmas?”
“I am staying here,” Snape said simply.
That landed in Harry’s stomach like a stone. After everything he’d seen… no. That wouldn’t do.
“Me too,” Harry said softly. “Maybe I’ll visit the Weasleys on the twenty-fifth.” He rubbed the box with his thumb. “I should. I’ve been an absolute arse these past years.”
He sighed. “But I haven’t bought any gifts yet. One more week. Still time to fix that.”
Snape only nodded, impassive, though his fingers lingered near the chocolate cookie as if fearing someone would take it away.
Harry watched him for a moment - the warmth of the room, the soft clink of their teacups, the small comfort of sharing space. And then, heart thudding, he said,
“Maybe we can have breakfast on the twenty-fifth together.”
Snape froze. “You and I?”
“There isn’t anyone else in the room,” Harry said, grinning before he could stop himself.
For a heartbeat, Snape just stared. And then his gaze dropped, his shoulders shifting in a way that felt… shy.
Harry’s smile grew. Maybe he was changing something already.
---
On Saturday, Harry braced himself and stepped out of the Floo into Diagon Alley. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts and winter spice, and the cobblestones were slick with frost. Christmas lanterns floated above the street, glowing gold, swaying gently in the cold wind. It should have lifted his mood - but instead, guilt pressed on his chest like a weight. He hadn’t been here for proper gift shopping in years. And somehow, his friends had still stuck with him. That surprised him more than anything.
He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and started walking.
He found a ridiculous pair of bright red socks covered in embroidered mistletoe for the Secret Santa exchange in a small shop. Then he picked up fresh quills for his coworkers, choosing good ones, the kind that actually made grading less of a nightmare.
For Hermione and Ron… well, he owed them more than a quill.
He booked them a three-day vacation in the Alps. The snow, the peace - something they’d enjoy together. Something they deserved after putting up with him.
By the time he’d collected gifts for the rest of the Weasley clan, his bags were heavy but his heart felt lighter. Almost done.
Only one person left.
Snape.
He found the biggest chocolate bars he could locate - thick, glossy-wrapped bricks that smelled faintly of dark cocoa even through the packaging. And then, because fate clearly had a sense of humor, he spotted another pair of absurd socks: yellow with tiny reindeers leaping around the ankles.
Harry grinned like an idiot as he picked them up.
Then a thought hit him.
He went straight to Gringotts, exchanged galleons for muggle money, and apparated to London. The moment he landed in the cold December air, he hurried through the crowd toward Knightsbridge. Harrods glowed behind him as he found what he was searching for - a tiny, cramped bookshop tucked between two cafés.
A bell chimed as he stepped in. The shop smelled of old paper, leather bindings, dust, and something faintly floral. Shelves towered on every wall, bending slightly under the weight of worn, beautiful books.
“Can I help you?” asked the shop owner, an elderly man with spectacles perched precariously on his nose. He must have seen the overwhelmed look on Harry’s face.
“Oh - yes. I’m looking for a first edition of A Christmas Carol,” Harry said, feeling strangely shy.
The man’s eyes lit up like candles. “You are lucky, young man. I just got one.”
When he showed Harry the price, Harry nearly choked. No wonder the man was thrilled. Still - he could afford it. And after what he’d seen… he wanted Snape to have this.
When Harry returned to Hogwarts, snowflakes clung to his coat and melted into cold droplets. He spent the entire evening wrapping gifts at his desk, parchment and ribbons everywhere. For the first time in years, he put genuine effort into each one. It felt… right.
The next morning after breakfast, he approached Minerva near the tree.
“Where’s the bag with the Secret Santa gifts?” Harry asked.
Minerva smiled, eyes twinkling behind her square glasses. “I’m glad you’re joining in after all. You’ve changed these last few days.”
Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve realized what a jerk I’ve been.”
Minerva nodded firmly - a yes, you have kind of nod. He took it with a wince.
---
On Christmas Eve, after breakfast, the staff gathered for the Secret Santa exchange - the last meal before most left for the holidays. Only a handful remained: five students, Harry, Snape, Trelawney, Sinistra.
Minerva clapped her hands together. “It is a joy that we are celebrating a Secret Santa gift exchange. And I am happy everyone here participated.”
She waved her wand; the enchanted gift bag floated into the center of the hall, rustling like something alive.
“Please, everyone, draw a gift,” she said.
Harry watched closely. He nearly choked when he saw Snape pull his gift. Snape’s expression froze in a moment of pure, startled delight when he unpacked the socks, before he smoothed it out into absolute unimpressed neutrality.
Harry had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.
His own gift was a large, heavy package. He braced himself before opening it - and stared.
Biscuits. Mountains of them. Dense, crumbling things stuffed with raisins, chocolate bits, and nuts. Enough to choke a troll. Definitely Hagrid’s doing. He’d need a lake of milk to survive these.
He snuck another look at Snape. The man held up the socks, fingertips grazing the embroidery. There had been a spark of genuine joy - Harry had seen it. Even if Snape now wore the blankest expression in Britain.
Harry grinned.
---
He had invited Snape over for their Christmas breakfast. They had shared an eggnog the evening before and spent a quiet evening together. And Harry had to admit, he’d enjoyed it far more than he should’ve. Snape’s candle was still burning in the window of his quarters when Harry left, its warm glow reflecting against the frosted glass, making Harry wonder what the man had wished for. Over the last few days Snape had opened up a little, and Harry himself had put in the effort to connect. It felt… good. Different. Right.
So he got up very early and prepared breakfast himself. He really put effort into it. He could have asked the house-elves, but it wouldn’t have felt the same. His quarters smelled of cinnamon, toasted bread, and frying bacon. The living room was decorated - soft floating lights drifted lazily near the ceiling, a Christmas tree glittered faintly in the corner, and the wrapped gifts for Snape lay underneath. Somewhere above the seating area hung a single mistletoe; Harry had pinned it up earlier without thinking much about it, just because it felt festive.
His Floo chimed, green flames flaring up, and Ron and Hermione appeared in the hearth.
“Morning, you two,” Harry said, wiping his hands on a towel.
Both stared at him, wide-eyed. He raised an eyebrow at them - he could do that too.
“Mate? You okay? I see a Christmas tree,” Ron said cautiously.
“Yeah, well… I changed my mind. Christmas isn’t that bad. And I’m sorry. Really sorry. For my shitty behavior.”
They still stared.
“That’s good, Harry,” Hermione said at last, her voice softening.
“So you’re coming over for dinner later?” Ron asked. “We just wanted to make sure.”
“Yeah of course. Planned it.” Harry scratched his neck.
“Harry, there are two plates on the table?” Hermione added, suspicious.
“I’m having breakfast with Snape. And I really have to go - the bacon is burning.”
More stunned silence.
“We’ll - uh - talk later,” Ron choked, and then they vanished from the hearth.
Five minutes later came the knock.
Everything was ready under a warming charm. Harry opened the door, and Snape stood there in dark slacks and a fitted button-down.
“You’re perfectly on time - I just finished,” Harry said, trying not to sound too pleased.
“You prepared it yourself?” Snape asked, surprise flickering across his usually impassive face.
“Of course. Wouldn’t feel the same if I ordered it.” Harry grinned.
Snape stepped inside, moving slowly, taking in the room. Harry guided him toward the table - until Snape suddenly stopped dead, gaze lifting upward.
His eyes fixed on the mistletoe.
A look of horror - actual horror - crossed his face.
“Come on… everything’s ready,” Harry urged, tugging him gently forward.
“Potter,” Snape said, voice strained, “this is a mistletoe.”
“Yes? I put it there,” Harry replied, clueless.
Snape let out a heavy sigh through his nose. “Potter… we are wizards. We are both standing under the mistletoe.”
“And?” Harry asked.
Snape closed his eyes as if he were in pain. “Potter, if two people stand under the mistletoe, they must kiss. If they do not, they will be cursed.”
Harry’s eyes widened. “I thought that was an old wives’ tale.”
Snape groaned - a long, suffering sound.
Harry turned fully to face him. Severus was still staring at the mistletoe like it might explode at any moment.
Oh well.
He stepped closer and leaned in, intending to brush a polite kiss to the man’s cheek.
But Snape turned his head at the same moment.
Harry’s lips met Snape’s mouth instead.
The moment their lips touched, a hot sting of surprise shot through him - then warmth flooded in, fast and bright, like someone had lit a spell right under his skin. Snape’s mouth was unexpectedly soft, warmer than Harry expected.
For a heartbeat, Snape froze. Harry felt the tension in him - tight shoulders, held breath, the faint quiver in the air between them. But Snape didn’t step back. And that single choice made something deep in Harry’s chest twist with a fierce, aching pull.
The floating lights above them flickered like tiny candles, throwing soft gold across Snape’s cheekbones. Harry moved without thinking, instinct guiding him. The tips of his fingers brushed Snape’s jaw and slid into his hair. It felt silky at the roots and Severus let out the smallest, unguarded breath when Harry’s hand settled there.
The kiss deepened, slow and careful, yet full of the kind of longing Harry hadn’t let himself feel in years. Something inside him unfurled - hope, warmth, want - and he leaned in until there was barely space left between them. He felt the faint brush of Snape’s nose against his cheek, smelled the lingering bitterness of tea on his breath, heard the soft rustle of Snape’s shirt when Harry pulled him closer.
The room felt still. Silent. As though Hogwarts itself held its breath.
When Harry finally eased back, his mouth still brushing Snape’s, his heart hammered so hard it almost hurt. His breath came unsteady, mixing with Snape’s warm exhale in the narrow space between them.
He searched Snape’s face - the slightly widened eyes, the flushed cheekbones, the startled flicker of something Harry hadn’t seen in him before. Something vulnerable. Something wanting.
“Well,” Harry whispered, voice rough with the shock of it all, “looks like I put the mistletoe at the right place.”
Snape just stood there under the mistletoe, chest rising and falling, eyes flicking briefly to Harry’s mouth again.
And Harry felt something melt, slow and warm, right under his ribs.
Harry tugged gently on Snape’s hand and guided him toward the table. “Come on, breakfast is ready.”
Snape sat down slowly, still looking as though the mistletoe had personally hexed him. His eyes held a quiet shock, the kind that made Harry’s pulse thrum in his ears.
Harry rested his hand over Severus’s - warm skin, a faint tremor beneath his fingers. “Severus… I hope it’s all right if I call you by your first name. I didn’t put the mistletoe there with any intention. It just looked good in that spot. But…” He inhaled, steadying himself. “To be honest, I’m glad I did. I felt something - something I haven’t felt in years. And if you felt even a fraction of that… I’d be very happy to see where this could lead.”
Severus’s eyes sharpened, startled, the candlelight reflecting in their dark depths. “You would wish to pursue a… relationship between us?”
“Yes,” Harry said softly. “I never saw this coming. But after these last weeks… it feels right. Really right.”
Severus swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. For a moment he seemed unable to speak, then he met Harry’s gaze fully - eyes raw, full of emotions he’d spent decades burying.
“We don’t have to talk about everything now,” Harry said gently. “Let’s just share breakfast. Gifts afterwards.”
Some of the tension slipped from Severus’s shoulders. He exhaled, the faintest easing around his mouth. His eyes drifted to the corner. “You even put up a Christmas tree.”
“Of course I did. I thought you’d like it,” Harry said. The tree gave off a soft pine scent, its floating lights reflecting in Severus’s hair.
They settled together on the couch afterward, sharing another cup of tea. The steam curled between them, warm and spicy.
Harry flicked his wand, and three wrapped gifts floated over, landing softly beside Severus. “They’re for you.”
Severus’s eyes widened. “That is… far too much.”
“There’s no such thing as too many Christmas gifts,” Harry said with a crooked grin.
Severus opened the smallest parcel first. The socks. His breath hitched faintly. Harry almost laughed at the tiny, involuntary spark of delight on the man’s face.
“So you were my Secret Santa,” Severus said, arching a brow.
“As it seems,” Harry said, enjoying every second.
The next package revealed the chocolate bars - massive ones, as big as blocks of gold. Severus’s tongue flicked out to wet his lips before he caught himself. Harry’s stomach swooped. Merlin.
“How did you know - ”
“That you’re a sucker for chocolate bars?” Harry teased. “Let’s just say… a ghost whispered it to me.”
He couldn’t stop thinking of the small boy wishing just for a chocolate bar for christmas.
Severus opened the final gift, fingertips reverent as they traced the leather cover. “Harry… this is too much.”
“No, it isn’t. I wanted something that really fit.”
Severus bowed his head slightly, voice low and sincere. “Thank you. Truly.”
Harry picked up his own gift and unwrapped it carefully. His breath caught when he saw the author’s name: Severus Snape. It was a pristine, elegantly bound treatise on the theory of Dark Arts.
“You wrote this?” Harry asked, stunned.
A flush crept up Severus’s neck. “Over the last years, yes.”
“This is incredible,” Harry said, flipping through the first pages, feeling the crisp parchment under his fingers. “I know what I’ll be doing for the next few days.” He smiled at Severus, warmth blooming in his chest. “Thank you. This means a lot.”
They sat shoulder to shoulder on the couch, the soft glow of the fairy lights brushing Severus’ profile in gold. Harry could feel the tension still coiled in the man beside him, a subtle rigidity in his spine, the careful way he held his breath. So Harry slipped an arm around him and drew him closer.
Severus let his head fall onto Harry’s shoulder and Harry felt a warm pulse of something tender bloom in his chest. Merlin, it felt good. His exhale was long, quiet, almost shaky as he finally softened and melted against Harry’s side.
Harry allowed himself the smallest smile, one he didn’t bother to hide. He had never expected Christmas to feel gentle again, much less this good - warm couch, warm lights, and Severus Snape resting against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
---
One year later
Severus stood in their shared living room, the early morning stillness wrapping around him like a familiar cloak. The air carried that faint, cold crispness of winter, and in his hand he held a single, unlit candle. Behind him, a soft, sleep-rough voice broke the silence.
“Severus… why are you already up?” Harry asked. “It’s Christmas Eve.”
Severus scoffed under his breath. Harry would happily remain tangled in the blankets until midday whenever holidays allowed it. But today was different - today was ritual. Memory. A thread to a past that still tugged at him. He had done this every year since childhood, and he knew he would continue until the day he died. The thought of his mother tightened something low in his chest, a quiet ache he had learned to live with.
Footsteps padded across the floor, and Harry appeared in the doorway, wearing ridiculous red pyjamas patterned with tiny Christmas trees. The sight of him softened Severus instantly. A whole year. An entire year of this messy, earnest man loving him with a steadiness Severus had once believed impossible. Merlin, he loved him - the chaos, the sincerity, the warmth in those green eyes.
Severus turned back to the window. He set the candle on the windowsill, lit it with a whispered charm, and closed his eyes. The small flame flickered against the glass, casting a gentle glow over his hands.
Warm arms slid around his waist from behind, firm and comforting. Harry rested his chin on Severus’ shoulder, breath warm against his neck.
“What did you wish for?” Harry murmured.
Severus hesitated. His mother had taught him this tradition when he was barely tall enough to reach the windowsill. He remembered his first wish - a chocolate bar. Later, year after year, he had wished for his life to change. Desperately. Helplessly.
But now… with Harry’s arms around him, with warmth pressed against his back and a home that finally felt like one…
“I didn’t wish for anything,” Severus said quietly. “I have everything I ever wanted. I just said thank you.”
Harry’s arms tightened, pulling him close, and he pressed a soft kiss to Severus’ cheek - warm, sure, and full of love.