Christmas Day, lunchtime.
The holiday spirit hadn't hit its peak yet, so the lunch feast wasn't as grand as the evening dinner. George and Fred were nowhere to be seen—probably holed up in some abandoned classroom testing new pranks, or maybe running from Percy until the prefect cooled off.
Hagrid had dragged in the last giant fir tree at ten that morning. Flitwick mentioned the Three Broomsticks was doing all-you-can-drink firewhisky, and after that, Hagrid vanished.
Most of the elective professors had gone home for the holidays. Remus claimed he was sick and stayed out of sight. With so few people around, they skipped the usual head table and house tables and just ate at one long rectangular table.
The kitchen had outdone itself with creamy mushroom soup—rich, savory, perfectly seasoned. When the lids came off, the whole table filled with that mouthwatering smell. Ron was terrified he'd run out of room in his stomach; he slathered every kind of gravy and jam onto thick slices of toast and stuffed them in his mouth, cheeks bulging, making muffled noises because he couldn't talk properly.
The heads of house ate quietly, reminiscing. Another Christmas at Hogwarts—none of them could remember how many they'd spent here.
"Severus, pull a Christmas cracker with me," Dumbledore said cheerfully, holding out a silver one to the stony-faced professor.
Snape gave him a look, then reluctantly tugged the other end. It exploded with a bang, revealing a garish purple witch's hat topped with a stuffed eagle, all feathers and bright colors.
"…"
Snape stared at the obviously women's hat, lips thinning, and silently pushed it back across the table.
Dumbledore didn't mind at all. He happily plopped it on his head, gave it a little shake, and grinned like he'd won a prize.
Melvin quietly counted the people at the table: one headmaster, four heads of house, caretaker Filch, the troublemaking trio (Harry, Ron, and Hermione), and three other students who'd stayed over break.
Thirteen people exactly.
Huh. What are the odds?
A distant memory surfaced—an old Muggle superstition.
"What's on your mind, Melvin?" Flitwick asked from beside him. He'd been about to launch into a joke about a wizard who mispronounced a spell.
"I just remembered an old Muggle folktale," Melvin said, pausing for effect. "In the story, Jesus and his twelve apostles shared the Last Supper. The first one to leave that meal met a bad end soon after."
Flitwick blinked. "And the moral?"
"If thirteen people sit down to eat together, the first one to get up will be the first to die."
"Oh, Melvin," Flitwick said, waving it off and glancing around. "That's even less funny than one of Dumbledore's jokes. Even Sibyll wouldn't make a gloomy prediction like that on Christmas Day."
Melvin was about to reply when the Great Hall doors creaked open again.
Professor Trelawney swept in, moving with surprising energy for her. She wore a glittering green robe and carried the faint scent of sherry; her cheeks were flushed.
"Sibyll! So glad you could join us!" Dumbledore called warmly, Summoning an empty chair with a wave.
"Headmaster, I've been gazing into my crystal ball…" Trelawney said in her usual misty, dramatic voice. "The fates guided me here. I abandoned my solitary lunch, descended from the North Tower, and came to join you. Please forgive my tardiness."
"Of course, of course," Dumbledore said kindly. "Sit, sit—we haven't even carved the turkey yet!"
Trelawney nodded and started toward the chair—then froze. She scanned the table, eyes widening, and let out a theatrical gasp. "The Inner Eye was right! I was sent here to save you all—to banish this omen of doom!"
Every head turned. Professor McGonagall fixed her with a particularly icy stare.
"Let me explain, Headmaster! Had I not followed destiny's call, you would have been exactly thirteen at this table! And nothing is more unlucky than thirteen!"
She rambled on, completely ignoring McGonagall's darkening expression. "When thirteen dine together, the first to rise will be the first to die!"
Flitwick shot Melvin a weird look, clearly unsure what to say.
Melvin just smiled back.
Finally McGonagall snapped, "We're willing to take the risk, Sibyll. Sit down—the roast turkey's getting cold."
Trelawney muttered under her breath but took her seat. She stayed fidgety throughout the meal, asking why Hagrid was missing, how Lupin was feeling. McGonagall snapped at her a couple of times before she finally settled down.
Melvin watched the Divination professor over his plate of fried bacon and eggs, amused. He honestly couldn't tell if she'd actually seen something in that crystal ball or was just saving face with dramatic flair.
The second half of lunch was much more relaxed. Trelawney and Ron ate the most; both ended up stuffed, patting their rounded bellies and stifling burps as pudding nearly came back up. Dumbledore kept the purple hat on the whole time, beaming.
Flitwick told a few jokes—only slightly better than the headmaster's usual groaners.
When the meal ended, Snape was the first to leave.
…
"How about we take it to the Quidditch pitch for a test flight?" Ron shouted excitedly.
Harry clutched the Firebolt—taller than he was—and eased down the stairs, terrified of scratching it.
Trailing behind was a worried-looking little witch (Hermione), clutching the instruction manual and comparing it to the delivery note. She kept glancing between the broom and Harry, lips pressed together like she wanted to say something.
Ron finally had enough. "Spit it out already. And if you wanna fly it, tough luck—you're a girl, you gotta wait your turn behind me."
Hermione sighed. "Don't you guys think this is kind of weird? I mean, it's obviously a really good broom, right?"
"It's the best broom in the world, Hermione."
"Then it must've cost a fortune."
"Probably more than every broom on a pro team combined."
"So who sends Harry something that expensive and doesn't even say who they are?"
"Who cares?" Ron said, shrugging. He slung an arm around Harry's shoulders. "Listen, mate—as soon as we're out the front doors, we hop on and fly straight to the pitch. Sound good?"
Harry looked tempted, a shy grin creeping onto his face. "We probably shouldn't…"
Hermione wasn't letting it go. "I don't think anyone should ride it yet!"
"What do you think Harry's gonna do with it—sweep the floors?"
"…"
Hermione watched them disappear down the corridor, lips tight. After a moment's thought, she turned and hurried up toward McGonagall's office on the second floor.
…
Meanwhile, the two boys carrying the Firebolt reached the entrance hall, buzzing with excitement for the first flight.
Ron felt someone close behind them and assumed it was Hermione about to lecture again. He spun around irritably—and caught sight of a dark figure. His eyes went wide. "Pro—Professor Snape…"
Snape had appeared out of nowhere, blocking the doors, staring down at them without expression. Torchlight flickered behind him; his shadow swallowed the boys. That cold, weighing gaze made it hard to breathe.
Harry's knuckles went white around the broom.
"You were about to say 'old bat,' weren't you?" Snape said softly.
"Insulting a professor—detention."
"Now?" Ron spluttered, incredulous.
Harry jerked his head up, glaring into those dark, unreadable eyes.
Snape dipped his chin slightly, a faint sneer touching his lips. "Now."
…
Dungeon level, Potions office.
The door opened and a wave of cold, damp air hit them. Harry and Ron instinctively held their breath.
Shelves along the walls were lined with glass jars full of pickled creatures—snakes, scorpions, toads, lizards, even things that looked disturbingly like tiny bones. It gave you chills.
"It's the holidays—you can't give us detention!" Harry said, finding his voice.
Snape shoved them inside and glanced at the clock. "There are four hundred hibernating toads in those crates. You will remove the largest wart from each one's back. Work quickly and you might still make Christmas dinner."
"Detention is only for this afternoon. Keep arguing and I'll happily extend it through the entire break. I'll be stepping out for a while—don't bother trying to escape; I've charmed the door against Alohomora. And don't half-do it; I'll check your work tonight."
His voice stayed flat and icy the whole time.
Two wooden crates sat in the middle of the room; you could already smell the toads.
Harry dragged his feet over to one, head down, anger burning in his eyes. The back of his scalp still stung—Snape had yanked out a few hairs when he pushed him earlier.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Snape snatch the Firebolt, lock the inner storeroom, and leave, shutting the door behind him.
Click.
[Alohomora—nothing happened.]
Only then did they look up. Ron was practically vibrating with rage. "On what grounds? That greasy old bat—I'll call him bat all I want! Bat! Bat! I oughta smash this whole place!"
Harry glanced around and noticed the fireplace had been lit. Fresh flames licked at the bricks, casting an orange glow over half the room, throwing their shadows onto the walls and carpet.
After Ron's rant wound down, he slumped. "Sorry, Harry. I got you stuck here on Christmas too."
Something in Harry softened—maybe the anger had burned itself out, or maybe Ron's apology helped. He actually calmed down.
Lately Snape had been watching him like a hawk. This sudden Christmas detention felt less like lost patience and more like… keeping Harry somewhere he could be watched.
But why leave now?
"Snape… did this on purpose?" Harry muttered, unsure.
…
Snape hadn't been himself lately. Ever since Pettigrew let something slip, he'd been restless, turning over plans to capture Black in his mind. That meant watching Potter even more closely—no moment out of sight.
Snape knew Black was out there watching, maybe even inside the castle, but there wasn't a trace. Part of him almost wanted Black to attack—just to get it over with. But nothing.
This morning Melvin had guessed—without proof—that the Firebolt came from Black. And that guess sparked something. Black was definitely watching Potter from somewhere.
To draw out a hunting dog, you needed the right bait.
Snape left the office. He could hear Weasley cursing up a storm inside; oddly, Potter stayed quiet.
Instead of leaving the castle, Snape slipped into the empty Potions classroom next door.
On the workbench sat a vial of Polyjuice Potion. Even from the smell drifting out of the neck, a master could identify the ingredients: lacewing flies stewed twenty-one days, fluxweed picked under a full moon, powdered horn of a bicorn, shreds of Boomslang skin…
Expensive, time-consuming, and thoroughly illegal without a license.
Add a bit of someone else's DNA and you could become them for an hour.
Snape opened his palm—several fine, soft strands of black hair. He dropped them into the vial and swirled gently, watching the potion react.
He'd collected them when shoving Potter earlier.
A master potioneer couldn't brew fresh Polyjuice in a few hours, but he could acquire it. The Three Broomsticks was offering unlimited firewhisky today; all sorts of shady travelers passed through Hogsmeade on holidays. With enough gold, anything was available.
He knocked it back. It tasted awful—like autumn grass juice mixed with damp earth.
The tall, gaunt adult body began to shrink, broad shoulders narrowing.
…
A slight, small figure slipped out the front doors into the swirling snow, mounted the broom, took a deep breath, and looked out over the white grounds.
This was Hogwarts territory—people were always watching from the castle. An open figure moving across the snow had no cover. The Forbidden Forest had Hagrid and his hounds. After weighing options, the bushes by the Black Lake or the edges of the Quidditch pitch were best.
He wasn't athletic and had never been good at Quidditch. Sitting on a broom built for speed and agility felt like riding a rickety mountain cable car—dangerous, weightless, like a lone goose battling a blizzard.
He flew beyond the gates. Far off, Hogsmeade's colored banners and glowing signs were half-buried in snow.
Overhead, Dementors circled and wailed, their cloaks whipping in the wind, white mist blending with the storm clouds. Fear and orders kept them from crossing into school grounds; they hovered like vultures waiting for carrion.
Too close to the Dementors, memories flooded in despite himself. The prophecy he'd overheard. Lily Evans.
After he'd called her that awful name, he'd waited outside the Gryffindor common room, threatening to sleep there until she came out. She finally did, and he got to apologize.
But Lily said it was too late. For years she'd made excuses for him, but he'd chosen to become a Death Eater, to serve the Dark Lord. Her blood status was no different from any other Muggle-born. They couldn't pretend anymore.
"You chose your path. I chose mine."
She'd said it without regret—almost with contempt.
The memories crashed over him, regret drowning him like it had every night for over a decade. The Dementors sensed it, drawn closer like vultures smelling rot.
Snape let go of the broom and fell.
Down on the snow, a large black dog burst from cover and sprinted toward the falling figure.