Chapter Text
First of all, it should be made absolutely clear that Lucius Malfoy was as dead as a doornail (honestly, I don't know what the point of this proverb is; in my opinion, a coffin nail would be better, but whatever). The doctor declared it, the notary certified the passing of the inheritance to his son, his partner had contributed (not exactly enthusiastically) to the funeral expenses, and the body had been buried alongside so many others. Since then, seven years had passed, and there was no doubt that the man was completely and irreversibly dead.
You'd do well to be certain of that, my dear readers, otherwise the story we are going to tell would have nothing wonderful about it.
During those years, Severus Snape had led a completely normal life, carrying on the business of their office as if nothing had happened... more or less, since young Draco Malfoy had categorically refused to continue his father's business, and rather than caring about preserving or increasing assets he preferred to spend them on nonsense (so Snape considered them). Therefore, despite the fact that on the sign the name of the office remained "Malfoy & Snape" (the still-living partner had not felt the need to change it) only one of the desks was still occupied.
Was it a relief to the crowd of debtors in the bureau de change? I wouldn't say so. When they were both alive, Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape were their terror; now that the former was dead, it seemed that the remaining one had also taken his share of authority and fear. Anyone who was indebted to him knew that there were no extensions or plea bargains, no means of obtaining an extension or any hope of dissolving the contract: on the due date, you had to pay, and if you couldn't, you were in serious trouble. Mercy was not a commodity for sale in Snape's heart shop - assuming he had a heart.
There was indeed every reason to doubt this. He had no friends, Severus Snape, and he never married, which could also be considered a good thing, because he had spared any children a horrible childhood (after all, people were already wondering how his former partner had managed to get married). The only relations he had with humanity were those related to business: for the rest, they might as well disappear. When he walked past someone, in his perpetually black robe, like an overgrown raven with greasy black hair, beaky nose and small, narrow eyes, chills ran down your spine, no matter how hot the day might have been. Had he at least been prodigal enough to enjoy his wealth, no doubt hard earned! But even on that side, Snape was a disappointment. He lived in a gloomy, dusty, unwelcoming mansion, already in ruins when he bought it, in the company of only one housekeeper elf, treated none too kindly. The fire was lit only as much as was strictly necessary so as not to freeze, and the sheets were changed only once every fortnight. As for food, Snape ate as little as possible, always alone and only once a day.
On balance, I cannot say whether it is more miraculous that Lucius Malfoy, however dead, reappeared in this world, or that Severus Snape changed his character in just one night.
That year, Christmas Eve had brought snow, a white, cosy blanket, mottled here and there with blue. The shops were once again full of treats, and everyone's hearts warmed with the approach of the most pleasant holiday of the year. Citizens mingled in mutual smiles and courtesies, and that feeling of hard-working quietness so characteristic of Christmas hung in the air. Only in Malfoy & Snape's office did frost reign undisturbed. At a large desk in the back room sat the principal, hunched over the accounts sheets, his hooked nose seeming to turn into a second pen at moments. By the door, his scribe, Arthur Weasley, was desperately trying to warm his hands by the candle flame. He would have liked to add a little coal in the fireplace, but Snape held the key and watched him from under his eyebrows, ready to cut his already meagre salary if he dared move. And with the family he had, Weasley could not afford to lose any more money.
At that moment, the office door opened, and a cheerful voice, which would have put a smile on the face of anyone who wasn't Severus Snape, rang out: "Merry Christmas!"
It was a pity that the face accompanying that voice was as unwelcome to Snape as any in all of London. Whenever he saw that black hair always strictly in disarray, those round rimless glasses and especially those green pupils, Snape wanted to swallow the first poison a potionist could sell him, no matter how slow it was.
"Humbug," he muttered, trying to discourage the newcomer. Too bad Harry James Potter was one of the most stubborn people on this earth.
"By Merlin, Mr. Snape, always so gloomy? What has Christmas done to you, that you hate it so?"
"And what has it done to you, that you are so happy every 25th December of every blessed year? I don't know that it has done you any good, you are poor just the same."
"You are rich, but you don't seem to get much happiness out of it!" Harry shook his head: the more he got to know the man, the more it seemed incredible to him that his mother would continue to defend him against the more than deserved general dislike he earned.
"I simply don't understand what you all have to celebrate. After all, what is Christmas? Nothing but a day of the year, good for earning a living or lounging around like any other. People live, people die, and nothing is different from any other holiday. Why then do you not celebrate all the time?"
"Oh, my goodness!" blurted out Harry. "You can't measure everything in terms of profit! Is it possible that nothing else exists in your life? No Christmas has ever enriched me, you are right, but that is not why it exists, but rather to be a day of happiness and mutual understanding, a day to look upon other men as companions on the journey to the grave..."
"Any day is good for that," whispered Snape, leaving him interjected. Nevertheless, Harry took little time to recover.
"Strange you should say that... though you are right. But Christmas can serve as a warning for the rest of the year! And as for me, despite never having put a knut in my pocket, I'll still celebrate it because of the warmth it stirs in my chest, the joy I have in seeing my friends again, and the feeling of family that keeps me going on other days!"
This last statement was greeted by a shy applause from Arthur Weasley, who, hidden in his scribe's corner, had not missed a single word. Applause that immediately ceased when Snape darted a look at him that made him tremble.
"What an orator you are..." he then commented sarcastically, turning back to Harry. "How come you didn't become Minister of Magic? You don't lack support..."
"I don't like politics," Harry shrugged. "Anyway, I came to invite you, as I do every year, to our Christmas dinner. My mother..."
"You already know my answer, boy," Snape interrupted him. "It's the same every year. Good afternoon." With that said, he bent his gaze back to his account book. Harry knew full well that this meant the conversation was over, so he shrugged and walked towards the exit, stopping only to wish Mr. Weasley well, who enthusiastically reciprocated.
"Here's another one..." muttered Snape, thinking it absurd that a scribe paid the sum of fifteen knuts a week could be so cheerful.
Harry had only just left when the office door opened again, letting in a tall, thin man with sparse short hair and a face that looked sick.
"Mr. Snape... or Mr. Malfoy?" asked Mr. Weasley, who in response pointed to his principal.
"Mr. Malfoy has been dead for seven years," said Snape in a neutral tone, leaning back to get a good look at the newcomer.
"However, I'm sure his generosity is well represented by the surviving partner," smiled the other, holding out his hand. "My name is Lupin, Remus Lupin." He waited for a few minutes for Snape to shake it, but since the other gave no sign of wanting to do so, he withdrew it. "I am part of a committee which, you see, is collecting aid for the poor of this city, so that at least on this occasion they may have the chance of a hot meal, shelter and..."
"Prisons and hospices are no longer in operation?"
Lupin was speechless for a moment. "Well... yes, but..."
"Let them go there, then." There was no particular animation in Snape's words, just the rigid sequence of cause and effect.
"Many cannot... some indeed would rather die than..."
"Let them do so, that will decrease the surplus population. Good afternoon."
"But sir... One gesture to those people can mean a lot... it can brighten their lives, convince them that there is hope for them..."
"Hope is not a commodity I'm interested in selling," Snape interrupted him astonely. "I help to support the institutions I have named, and nothing more! Good afternoon," he then concluded, turning his attention back to the account book.
Realising it was pointless to insist, Lupin headed for the door, shaking his head. He needed to find some human warmth again.
***
"I suppose you'll be asking me for the whole day off."
This simple sentence, said in a tone of voice that was completely anonymous but loaded with subtext, made poor Arthur Weasley, who was already beginning to look forward to returning home for Christmas Eve, and the next day's party, cringe.
"Er... that is... yes..." he uttered in a feeble voice.
"I hope you realise this is an injustice," Snape continued. "If I took a knut off your salary, you would consider yourself robbed, and you would be right. But why should I not consider myself robbed, in paying you a day's work without you working?"
"It's... it's Christmas Eve..." His master's logic didn't make a wrinkle, and that was the only justification he could come up with.
"Yeah..." proffered Snape, with a grimace. "I suppose I should give it to you then. But see that you come on time the day after tomorrow."
"Without a doubt!" exclaimed Weasley, then quickly reaching for the door.
Once outside, he voluptuously sucked in the evening air. He had always thought there was something magical about the Christmas Eve air. He couldn't have said what exactly, it was something he felt on his skin, like the caress of an imaginary wind, a subtle breeze in his chest that made him want to run and jump like when he was a child.
That evening, then... with London under the snow, the chimneys smoking, the stars shining, curious eyes on the world of mortals, the silence... Merlin, that silence that is not a silence, but a concert of voices whispering waiting for the same joy, with one heart and one will... He could already feel a few tears welling up in his eyes, he could already feel it, that chorus of hopes repressed for a whole year and now free, that load of desires and love so immense...
He began to laugh, a laugh that flowed from his heart of a good man who could and should be happy after all, of that happiness that belongs to everyone because no one has the right to deprive another of the hope of at least one day feeling other men as brothers.
Had he known what that night prepared for his principal, he might have laughed even more heartily.