TITLE: THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS
Author: Josan
Date: December 2004
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: SS/??
Disclaimer: The HP characters belong to J. K. Rowling: I merely borrow
them to play with before returning them to her.
Feedback address: leave a comment below or jmann@pobox.mondent.com




On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me...


Severus Snape rested his shoulders against the closed door to his private
quarters and sighed loudly.

Well, that was over and done with for another year. He'd presented himself
in the Great Hall and had endured the annual frou-frou-all over the
Christmas meal followed by the handing out of gifts. He'd received his usual
bottle of firewhiskey from Albus and watched the Headmaster open his usual
gift of socks and only then had he been allowed to escape.

He hefted the bottle of Ogden's and was on his way to the cabinet which held
several crystal glasses of adequate size to deal with the aftereffects of his
‘celebrations' when he realised that there was something in his sitting room
that hadn't been there prior to his departing for the festivities.

At first glance, it appeared to be a small tree. One of those artistically
altered ones, with a braided trunk, all greenery tamed to appear like some
kind of open parasol. The firelight reflected on something that on closer
inspection turned out to be a pear. One, single, perfectly ripened, golden
pear.

As Snape went to touch it, there came a soft sound from the other side of
the greenery, one that called for immediate investigation. A bird. Reduced
in size to roost comfortably on one of the internal branches. Not just any
bird, concluded Snape, but a partridge.

As he reached for the bird, it opened its beak and magically ‘warbled' a tune
that Snape had endured only hours earlier in the pre-meal activities.

"Bloody hell! What the hell... *Who* the hell..."

He had the house elves roast the re-sized partridge for a late-night supper
and finished his meal with a pear tart, both accompanied with far too much
firewhiskey. The pear wood added a nice golden hue to the flames in his
fireplace.


On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me...


He was dreaming about cooing.

That had to be it. Though why cooing, he couldn't determine. Never before
had his annual hangover included cooing.

Had Albus fiddled around with his gift before wrapping it for Snape?

Eyes tightly shut, Snape slowly pulled himself up into a sitting position. He
could feel the root of every one of the hairs on his head. His stomach roiled
unhappily and Snape swallowed gingerly, waiting for his world to settle.

He could still hear that bloody cooing.

He carefully opened blood-shot eyes and squinted about his bedroom. There
was just enough light coming through the drapes for him to know that the
unfiltered form would be sending thunderbolts through his brain.

There was that bloody noise again. Where...

He listened more carefully, trying hard to ignore the drummers and canon
shots dueling in his head. Ah...

He looked up and found two doves nestling against each other perched on
one of the upper folds in his bed curtains.

He reached for his wand and wondered what kind of recipes the house elves
had for a dove pie.

It was only after he had dealt with his hangover, washed and dressed that
he took the time to identify what would be the contents of his lunch.

Turtle doves in hand, he approached his sitting room with held breath. No,
but he was safe. Nothing else avian would be joining the meat in his pie.


On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me...


Snape entered his rooms, his mind still on the potion slowly stewing in his
private laboratory.

The sight of three hens roosting on the back and arms of his couch brought
him to a standstill.

He knew they were hens because of the three eggs that lay glaring white
against the darkness of the seat of his battered leather couch.

All right. This had to end.

Only bloody Albus Dumbledore had the passwords to his rooms. School
rule...well, the Headmaster's rule since the final days of Voldemort. Just in
case someone, meaning Severus Snape, was in trouble.

"Can't have you dying of some curse in your rooms and no one able to get to
you," Albus had smiled, shaking his head sympathetically.

To make it seem less intrusive, Albus had insisted that all staff members had
to keep him up-to-date on their passwords. Just in case of accidents. So
every time Snape did change his passwords, they appeared on the list the
Headmaster kept in his office. Even though Voldemort had been dealt with
on Hallowe'en two years previously.

Snape glared murderously at the hens who were cackling happily amongst
themselves. It was the matter of a few minutes' work, even without a wand,
for him to slip the eggs into his pockets and grab the hens.

The few inhabitants of Hogwarts who were spending the holidays at the
school were all drawn by the sound of squawking fowl as Snape, holding the
terrified birds by their feet, wings flapping, feathers littering his path, took
the absolute longest way down through the halls down to the kitchen.

There, a rather bewildered chief house elf accepted the hens and added
them to the small school flock, where they lived happily, producing many an
egg for the Potions Master's meals.

With those eggs already laid, the house elf chef whipped up a custard served
up to Snape with his favourite black current jam.

Albus Dumbledore swore to Snape that the bottle of firewhiskey had been
the only gift he had made to his Potions Master that year. Swore on his
wand.

Snape had to believe him, though he still had his doubts.


On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...


"Oh, for crying out loud!"

The cage was massive. The height of a man. And it hung from a solid cast
iron stand.

The cage itself was a masterful work, with filigreed hearts and love birds
woven in what had to be silver wire.

And inside the cage, nestled happily together on a thick branch, were four
birds cheerfully chirping away, blissfully unaware of Snape's stormy
expression.

He stomped over to the fireplace, threw a handful of floo powder and snarled
into the green flames, "Headmaster!"

Dumbledore's head appeared. "You...paged me, Severus?"

Snape stepped back, gesturing towards aviary. "Are you still going to insist
that this is none of your doing?"

Albus blinked. "Oh, dear."

"Well?"

Albus blinked again. "I swear, Severus. I have no idea how that got into
your rooms. Nor who would have done so."

Usually Snape would have scoffed, but the Headmaster looked so very
sincere. There no hint of that infuriating twinkling in his eyes whenever he
had successfully pulled some joke on a member of his staff.

Snape nodded and Albus disappeared.

The glare on his face did not lessen as he dropped into his favourite
armchair, slouched down and debated hexing the joyous chirpers.

Instead, he pulled out his wand and, taking the Headmaster at his word,
cast a tracer spell on the cage and its occupants. Nothing. Not a hint of the
jokester responsible for these...these ‘gifts'.

Well, he would change his passwords again even though he knew the
passwords would go straight to Dumbledore. He didn't doubt that the
jokester probably had some inside connection and would know about them
soon enough. But a few new wards on his quarters would be a different
matter.

An hour later, a pleased though very surprised Sprout was examining the
wondrous cage that had mysteriously appeared in her personal greenhouse.
Moreover, a series of complex wards had now been cast on all entries to
Snape's rooms.

"Let's see you try to make your way past those," Snape challenged his
jokester.


On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...


It was a small box this time.

Snape hadn't seen it immediately on entering his rooms and so thought that
his warding had been successful. In fact, he'd allowed himself a small
chuckle at his victory.

It was only after he'd settled on the couch, glass of firewhiskey in hand, with
the day's mail, especially the latest ‘International Journal of Potions Masters',
to be read, that he noticed the gaily wrapped box sitting on the table next to
the couch.

The air blued with curses as Snape grabbed the offending box and pulled his
wand out of his sleeve to blow it up to smithereens.

Then he remembered the gift of the fifth day and slowly allowed his curiosity
to cool his temper. With a certain amount of care, he tore the silver and
green wrappings off to discover a squarish, black velvet jeweler's case.

The rings were indeed golden. Pure gold in fact. And there were five of
them.

But it was the presentation that caused Snape's jaw to drop.

A ‘gates of hell' cock ring.

What indeed the hell...

Snape sat back, staring every which way at the rings in his hands.

There was a message in this somewhere.

But where?

And more importantly, who?

Suddenly, Snape's heart fluttered in his chest as though it had some trouble
beating. A name flickered through his mind but then...no, it couldn't be.
Not now. Not after all this time.


On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...


By now, of course, Albus had shared Snape's gifting with the rest of the staff
who had, of course, been overheard discussing said gifts by some of those
students who were spending the holidays at school. Who, as it had been too
good to keep to themselves, had owled the news on to their best friends.

So when Snape stomped into the Great Hall for breakfast, all witches and
wizards present were sitting at the table, waiting to see if he'd received his
Sixth Day gift.

He condescended to scowl at them, happy to disappoint them.

"Seen any geese?" Albus dared inquire.

Snape's glare managed to convince the Headmaster to examine the contents
of his morning porridge. The table was disappointed but cheered up when
the youngest, a Hufflepuff, was heard to say, in a very soft voice, "Day's not
over yet!"

Snape ignored the expectant looks and nudges, finished his breakfast and
went off to brew a potion that Madam Pomfrey had requested against some
new strain of influenza. And it was only because she wanted to discuss last
minute specifications with him that she was accompanying him.

"Really, Poppy, I do know what is needed. You've discussed this with me
every time you've seen me this last week."

He opened the door to his private workspace and froze.

There, in a row, on the counter that he had cleaned thoroughly only
yesterday, were six nests. Large nests. And in each was a goose. A large
goose.

Several were looking at him with suspicion. One or two were inspecting the
contents of their nests, using their bills to rotate an egg more favourably for
hatching.

"Severus, is anything wrong?"

And before Snape could block her, Poppy Pomfrey ducked around him to see
why he hadn't moved.

"Oh. Yes. Well," she said, her hands coming up to cover her mouth and her
giggles.

Which only grew louder and more out of control when Snape, livid, stalked to
the nests in a threatening manner.

Later, Poppy fought hard to keep a straight face as she worked some of her
medical skills on a badly bitten and nipped Potions Master.

"I...want...them...OUT!" Snape growled.

"Yes," she said, in her most calming tones, "already done, Severus. Minerva
was raised with geese and so knew how to handy the situation. She and
some of the younger children have rounded them up and herded them to the
fowl shed. Albus said he would see to the removal of the nests and the
cleaning up."

Snape tried to sit up and winced. "Bloody hell!"

"Did I miss a spot?" Poppy asked innocently. "I'm sorry. This is a little out
of my sphere of experience, you understand."

Snape leaned over again and endured the indignity of having his arse de-
bruised.

"By the way," Poppy asked, "do you have any plans for those geese? Other
than wanting them out of your sight?"

Snape didn't bother vocalizing an answer to that. She nodded. "So we can
keep the eggs as well? Good. There's this medical potion that requires
goose eggs as a base."

At the darkening look he sent her, she bit her lip nervously. "Of course, I
wouldn't think of asking you to brew it: you do so many potions as is. I'm
certain that Albus..."

Snape gathered up his remaining dignity and, with a muttered "Whatever,"
went to hide in his rooms.


On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me...


Snape dreamt of the many ways he would exact revenge when he got his
hands on the jokester who was making his life a misery.

Here it was, the last day of the year, and instead of working on his annual
inventory of his laboratory, he was lolling in bed like some Philistine.

He rolled over onto his back and stared at the bed curtains. No surprises in
them this morning.

He sighed and decided to take a long, hot shower. His arse and legs still
ached, in spite of Poppy's magic, where the geese had gotten him. With a
certain reluctance, he rolled stiffly out of bed. Grabbing his dressing gown,
he headed for his bathroom.

He opened the door. Stared into his bathroom. Shut the door.

He stood there for several minutes, surprised to discover just how composed
he was. Yes, of course. There was no real reason for him to be surprised.
Was there?

He was quite pleased that he could calmly walk over to the fireplace and put
in a call to Dumbledore.

"Headmaster. My rooms. Immediately." He spoke as to one of his classes,
his tone indicating his expectation of total compliance and obedience.
Wrapping the dressing gown more securely around himself, he sat down
gingerly on his couch and stretched his legs out before him.

Albus Dumbledore stepped a little warily from the fireplace and said nary a
word. Snape merely pointed to his bathroom door and crossed his arms
over his chest.

Dumbledore grimaced slightly and went over to the door. Opened it. Wisely
made no comment on the fact that Snape's bathtub now filled as much of
the room as possible. Nor on the seven, very large swans swimming
gracefully on the small such pond.

He closed the door and cautiously turned back to Snape.

"I swear I had nothing..." began Albus but stopped when Snape merely
quirked an eyebrow at him. "Yes, well. I'll see to it that these are out of
your quarters as soon as I can arrange it."

"Immediately," said Snape, very softly, lowering his head.

Albus knew that look. He cleared his throat and nodded.

At Snape's request, the house elf chef served roasted swan for the meal that
welcomed in the new year.


On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...


Snape no longer tried to avoid the situation. There were, he consoled
himself, only five days left and, if he remembered well, none contained
anything feathered.

Still, he was admittedly cautious when he opened any door that morning. It
was a relief to find nothing untoward in his bathroom, nor the sitting room,
nor his lab.

He forewent lunch in the Great Hall and ordered up a cold roasted swan
sandwich from one of the house elves. He finished his inventory in time for
tea and decided to join his fellow instructors in the staff room.

They had already started before him, but Minerva quickly fixed him a cup of
tea the way he liked it, with three sugars and a drop of...

"There's no milk left." Minerva smiled nervously at him.

"I'll take it as it is then," he said, not willing to play into the situation.

Minerva shook her head. "No trouble. I'll just call..."

The door to the staff room slammed open and, improbably, a house elf stood
in the doorway, eyes nearly popping out of her head. Before anyone could
say anything about this most un-house-elvish of behaviour, a doleful, lowing
"Mooooooo!" was heard from the hallway.

All present in the staff room looked towards the door. All except one who
closed his eyes, muttering invective under his breath.

"I don't think that's possible, Severus" said Flitwick as he slipped off his chair
in response to another plaintive moo.

Apart from Snape, the room was suddenly emptied as the instructors stood
staring, mouths agape, in the hallway.

Minerva looked over her shoulder at Snape who met her glance with one of
his renowned eyebrow-quirks. "Guernseys," she said.

Albus, probably drawn from his office by the commotion, stuck his head
around the doorway. "Eight of them."

Snape reached for a chocolate biscuit and snapped a bit off it.

"Very pretty," said Poppy. "Almost beautiful."

"Very intelligent eyes," Flitwick agreed.

Albus nodded. "Someone has very good taste."

Snape ignored them all for another biscuit and swore he would never again
take milk in his tea.

Albus popped back in. "Aren't you interested in the maids?"

Snape shook his head. "I have always preferred men," he said.


On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...


Snape avoided the Great Hall for most of the day. He worked and ate in his
rooms. Breakfast was an egg provided by one of his french hens and lunch
was swan soup with a fried egg sandwich.

Snape placed the book he'd been leisurely reading on the side table and
finished up the milk-less tea. Well, there was no use putting it off: he would
have to join the others in the Great Hall for dinner, like it or not. After all, if
the nine ladies dancing hadn't shown up yet, that didn't mean they would
not.

And nine ladies dancing required a lot of room. Might as well give them as
much as the school could offer.

He strode through the Hall, up to the table where all the others,
Headmaster, instructors, students were waiting. Ignoring the expressions on
their faces, he took his place and condescended to look around at them.

"Sorry," he said, not meaning it in the slightest.

The youngest Hufflepuff sighed loudly. "I bet I'm going to miss all the fun,"
he moaned.

He didn't.

No sooner had Snape swallowed his last mouthful of chocolate pie made with
thick Guernsey cream accompanied with a whipped cream so rich it was
yellow than the sound of music filled the Great Hall.

The females that danced in were not exactly ladies; they were too scantily
clad for that nomenclature. So much so that Minerva tried to edge the
younger students away from the table. And when that didn't work, she was
heard to mutter about casting a blinding spell on them.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Minerva, give over," Snape rolled his eyes at her,
much to Albus's amusement. "You can cast Obliviate if you feel the need,
but I'm certain the jokester knows very well who is in attendance. I doubt
that there will be anything..."

He paused as one of the females draped her chiffon-scarf over him and drew
it back suggestively. The youngest Hufflepuff nearly fell off his chair in an
attempt to restrain his shocked giggles. The older students didn't bother
and neither did most of the staff. Only Minerva shook her head and looked
disapproving.

There was a limit to Snape's forbearance: a very short limit. After a well-
directed glare, the females turned their attention to the other males at the
table, including the youngest Hufflepuff who always attributed his love of
certain ‘rhythmic' music to that night.

When everyone's attention was on the dancers, Snape slipped out of the
Great Hall and found the restful quiet of his rooms. He was getting ready for
bed when he opened the drawer of the night table and saw the black jewelry
case. He picked it up and used his thumb to flip it open. With the tip of a
finger, he stroked the five golden rings that rested one against the other and
wondered if this gift would prove to be as worthless as the others.


On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...


Everyone waited, with varying anticipation, for the appearance of the leaping
lords. For once, the students from the four Houses were united. The only
prefect who was there, a Slytherin, had organized the ten students in
competition against their instructors. Their goal was to be the first to
announce the day's arrival. And there was something more important than
money riding on it: there was pride. Pride at beating their instructors.
Grounds to boast when the others – who had offered false sympathy about
their being stuck at Hogwarts during the glorious time of holidays –
returned.

As usual, Snape presented an indifferent facade. But he was curious. In
spite of the Fifth Day present, he was still not thoroughly convinced that
Dumbledore wasn't behind this, just to keep everyone amused over the long
holiday.

He was in the library when the cry went up. Madame Pince took one look at
him and waited for him to say something. He didn't. He shrugged and went
back to perusing "Portent Potentials in Potent Potions". She snorted and he
could hear her robes swishing as she ran out of the library.

He waited a few minutes until, confident he was alone, Snape ambled over
to a near-by window, one overlooking the side from which all noise was
coming.

He found himself smiling slightly and nodding his head in recognition of what
had to be the jokester's sense of humour.

Yes, there were ten. Yes, they were, in a sense, leaping. Yes, they were
lords. But not of the peerage. The bright green and white robes had a large
golden crown on their chests. The Lairds of Forres were an amateur
Quidditch team who were most successful in one of the minor Scottish
leagues. As Snape watched, they quickly organized the students into a team
and soon had an impromptu match in progress.

Snape picked up his cloak from his room and made his way out to the stands
where those not playing were cheering on one side or the other. Besides the
team itself, there was the coach, the substitute Seeker, and the Lairds'
trainer, all yelling advice to the children, a couple of whom were playing with
reckless abandon.

Snape sidled up to the Headmaster who was exhorting a certain caution.
After a few minutes he asked, "Do they know who organized this?"

Albus tore his eyes away from the little Hufflepuff who was squealing with
delight at this afternoon's pleasure. "No. Was all done by owl. They were
paid a nice, tidy sum, too. Won't tell me how much, but they will be happy
to remain for an early dinner."

Snape said nothing, just watched as his Slytherin prefect copied some
twisting movement that would be sure to add points to the next Slytherin
match. Then, as Albus cheered the fairly illegal block, he said, "Pity there's
no roasted swan left."


On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me...


No one slept in any longer. Even Albus appeared bright-eyed and bushy-
tailed for breakfast, in spite of the fact that there were only three days left
before the holidayers would return.

Snape's prefect organized the students once more and they were huddled at
the end of the table, planning strategy, with much whispering and muffled
laughter.

Minerva gestured with her head at the group and leaned over to whisper,
"Do you think this truce will hold?"

Snape looked at the students who were listening intently to his prefect's
instructions. "Who knows? Stranger things have happened."

Snape was sitting in his office, going over some of the lesson plans he was
preparing for his senior students this term. Unlike a certain few of his
colleagues, he refused to use the same lesson plans from year to year. The
mere thought was enough for him to fear being driven crazy from the
boredom.

The door to his office opened and the little Hufflepuff's head appeared. "Sir?
Professor? If you would care to accompany me?"

Snape pretended to give it some thought during which the Hufflepuff's eyes
grew a little nervous. "All right. I assume this has to do with the pipers?"

The Hufflepuff lead the way, not to the Great Hall, not to the outdoors, but
to the door of the DADA classroom. Snape glared at him just to get the
message across that he did not find any of this amusing, then opened the
door onto...

Well, even Snape had to admit that this one took him totally by surprise.
Not just the cacophony of noise, but the fact that eleven Cornish Pixies,
dressed in the Slytherin tartan of green, black and silvery-grey, were flying
through the classroom over the heads of ten delighted students.

"What in the name of all..."

Snape glanced over his shoulder at Minerva McGonagall, who was shaking
her head in amazement.

"What on earth is that noise supposed to be?"

Snape listened to the shrieking pipes played with no real sense of melody by
the Pixies who were using the instruments to shoot spit balls at the students
who were ducking right, left and centre.

"I believe," said Snape, "that is supposed to be a version of the 'Twelve Days
of Christmas'."

"Oh, dear," was all that Minerva said.

Then one of the Pixies took advantage of the open door to take off on an
exploration of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. To be quickly
followed in succession by the other ten. It took the students until dinner-
time to find all eleven and try out what they had learned in DADA to capture
them.

Peeves was the only one who dared complain to Dumbledore, mainly
because none of the students and staff had paid any attention to his antics
that day.


On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...


Snape did his best to ignore Minerva McGonagall peering at him over her
morning cup of tea. She was polite and old-fashioned enough to wait until
he was on the final sip of his to address him.

"It's the last day."

He stopped himself from rolling his eyes at such an obvious statement.

"It's been...interesting."

He poured himself another cup of tea, sugared it and shook his head,
refusing the milk he had always taken.

"Don't be daft, man," she complained, pouring the few drops he'd always
taken into his brew.

He said nothing, glad that he now had the perfect excuse to continue
drinking his tea as he liked it.

"Have you..." She chewed on her lower lip.

He looked at her over the rim of his cup. "Finish the question, Minerva. We
wouldn't want curiosity to kill..."

"...the cat." This time she was the one to roll her eyes. "All right. Do you
have any idea who is behind all this gifting?"

Snape stared into his cup as though, like Trelawney, he expected to see the
future in it. "I have...an idea. A suspicion."

"Nothing more than that?"

He shrugged.

Minerva sighed loudly, indicating that she felt his reticence was more than a
little devious. "Do you think you'll ever know?"

Snape placed the cup onto the table and rose, stepping away. "That will all
depend, won't it?" he said over his shoulder as he walked away. Though on
what, he really couldn't tell.

The students, he noted, were all taking off for different parts of the castle.
He would have to pay a little more attention to his prefect after this: the lad
was showing definite strategic capabilities. The Department of Mysteries
was always on the look-out for decent strategists, no matter which House
they came from.

It was afternoon and Snape was double-checking the ingredients in his
classroom, in preparation for the start of classes. The Hogwarts Express
would be pulling into the station the following evening and he had planned a
fairly complex potion to be brewed that first day back. Nothing like the
possibility of having a cauldron explode in one's face to sharpen the
concentration after more than two weeks of over-eating and lounging about.

At first he thought the sound was thunder but a quick glance out the window
showed blue sky. Besides, when he listened carefully, he realised it was
coming from inside the castle.

He went to the door and opened it, wincing at the loudness of the drums
that resounded through the hallways even down here in the dungeons.
Resigned to his fate, Snape followed the drums up into the Great Hall where
the others had already congregated.

On the steps leading up to the table at which the staff usually sat were
twelve young men and women, all dressed in what appeared to be tattered
robes of varying colours. Colours which matched those of their hair.

It was obvious the students knew exactly who these people were: there was
lots of squealing, ohhing and ahhing. Especially when two of the males
removed their robes, allowing them to drop onto the steps.

Snape took a moment to appreciate the view. There was nothing like firm
young male bodies, torsos slightly oiled, jeans so tight that he wondered
how they could crouch in them without the sound of accompanying rips.

The drums that were suddenly transfigured were huge, so much so that to
play them, the two had to sit on the floor, a leg to either side. They leaned
back... Snape's eyes weren't the only ones drawn to stomachs that rippled
tightly as they did so. He heard Minerva gasp in what could only be
described as appreciation. He spared a glance for his colleague who was
licking her lower lip like a cat cleaning milk off itself.

The two began beating their drums softly, the rhythm hypnotic, the sound
growing louder and more powerful. At some point, other drums joined in and
the Great Hall throbbed as though with heart beat.

Albus came to stand besides them, his eyes gleaming with enjoyment.
"More than a few of those were once ours," he yelled into Snape's ear.

Snape winced at the shout but began examining the group, trying to see
beyond the hair colours, the exaggerated make-up, the robes that looked
more like rags.

Yes, Albus was indeed right, he thought. And not just ours, but mine.

One of the witches beating a synchronized rhythm on a kettle drum was
grinning at him. He nodded, face most serious. And without losing the beat,
she waved her stick at him, grinning all the more widely.

The students began picking up the rhythm, beating their hands on the
tabletop, on their thighs, stomping their feet on the floor.

Minerva took advantage of a quieter moment to lean into his ear – at this
rate, he would be lucky to survive this undeafened – to inquire, "How much
headache potion do you have on hand?"


January 6


Snape got up before sun rise and dressed for the outdoors. It was the last
quiet morning he was going to experience for several months and it was his
personal tradition to take advantage of it. Especially when the weather was
co-operating, as it was these days.

The pre-dawn air was rather crisp and he was happy to draw the hood of his
heavy cloak over his head. His steps took him just far enough away from
the outer door so that he had an unadulterated view of the eastern hills and
the valleys between them. He slipped his gloved hands into the deep
pockets of his cloak and waited, listening to the soft sounds of the trees
crackling under their coat of heavy frost.

The sun's rising slowly coloured the sky, lightening the snow-capped hills,
sending shadows deep into the valleys.

He felt as one with the world, alone with the purple-pink dawn.

Except he wasn't.

From under the shadows of the trees came the sound of steps breaking the
thin crust of frosted snow on the ground.

Snape didn't bother turning around, though a small smile alit on his lips.

"Beautiful," said the soft voice behind him.

"Yes."

The visitor waited and, when Snape didn't add anything, took a few more
steps so that he now stood next to Snape.

"You don't sound surprised."

Snape turned his head just enough to see that the man was cloaked and
hooded against the morning cold, as he was. "There were enough clues to
give me an idea."

"Only an idea?" The voice sounded wistful. "Not a bit of...hope?
Of...pleasure?"

"After all this time?" But Snape was careful to make his voice only curious,
not accusing or critical.

"I had things to see to after Voldemort's end. Responsibilities to deal with. I
had hoped you might understand."

Snape went back to looking at the sun making its way over the hills. "I do.
I have to say that your doing so, taking on and dealing with those
responsibilities, pleased me greatly."

He sensed a slight lessening of tension from the man at his side.

"I do have one question, however."

"Yes?"

"Why that particular cock ring?"

There was a moment's silence. Then, "Well, it might be something an older
man might want to use on his much younger lover as a way of evening up
things. So to speak."

Snape turned and stared into the other's hood, a rather wicked smile on his
face. "The difference in age will seem much less as you grow older. As
for the implication that I will not be able to keep up with you... Well, for that
alone, I should use the gates of hell on you, just to teach you a lesson."

He could hear the relief and smile in his lover's voice. "So there was more
than a bit of hope after all."

And Snape ungloved a hand, raised and slipped it into the other's hood,
pushing it away so that he could look into the unshadowed grey eyes of his
former student. He rested his warm palm on the cool skin, his thumb
rubbing lightly against the fine bone structure, amazed, as always, that
someone who looked so fragile had in fact been strong enough to stand up
to his fate.

"There has always been hope, Draco."