Title: Bring Back the Sun Author: Dame Niamh Rating: PG Disclaimer: Any of the characters you recognise are the property of JK Rowling and are hers entirely. The rest are from my imagination. Spoiler: None


ring Back the Sun


“A-here we come a wassailing among the leaves so green,” Hermione sang under her breath as she dragged the long, heavy box up onto her bed, hopped up next to it and tugged off the cover.

“A-here we come a wandering, so fair to be seen!” chimed in Ginny, quite in tune compared to Hermione’s rather flat tone.

“Love and joy come to you, and to you your Wassail too,” rang from the doorway in a very creditable soprano, if somewhat heavy on the vibrato, as Professor McGonagall entered the dormitory. “I see you’re finishing up some last-minute gift wrapping,” she remarked.

“I just couldn’t get it done earlier, what with examinations approaching and all,” stated Hermione. She lifted a long skirt from the box. “I think this is perfect for my Mum, her legs get chilly in the winter.”

McGonagall eyed the garment. “Yes, not bad at all. Can she wash it herself?”

Hermione frowned at her, then she remembered, “Oh, right, thanks, Professor. My mum can’t just wave a wand over it and charm it clean.” She thought a moment. “I can put a self-cleaning charm on it!” She jumped down from her bed and ran over to her cluttered desk. “I know I’ve got the spell here somewhere.”

Ginny piled a pair of red and gold striped socks on top of a neat stack. “Look, Professor,” she said. “I’m rather poor this term, but I thought about what my brothers and Harry really need.” She flourished a pair of the socks; they were long and would reach to the wearer’s knees, and they had thick cuffs that, when folded over, would keep them from sliding down.

“Quidditch socks!” exclaimed Professor McGonagall. “An excellent idea, to keep the players’ legs warm when the wind whistles under their robes!” She held an opened pair to her knee and turned this way and that. “I say, Madam Hooch herself would probably love a pair.”

“Thought of that!” cried Ginny. “See, this is her pair. The others are red and gold, but Madam Hooch’s are rainbow – all of the House colours, with some pink and purple, of course!”

Hermione returned from her desk, took her wand from her bedside table and murmured a charm over the long woollen skirt. “There!” She looked over at the socks Ginny was holding and whistled. “Wow!” They’ll go with everything, won’t they?” Ginny cocked a snook at her and returned to making neat piles of gifts to be wrapped.

“Girls, I’m off,” announced McGonagall. “Don’t be late to the feast tonight!”

“Bye, Professor,” the girls chorused.

“Ginny, I’ll be taking a quick trip into Hogwarts this afternoon, just for last-minute gifts,” said Hermione. “Make up a list of things you need, and I’ll get them for you.”

Ginny pouted. “I wish I could sneak in with you! You’re a seventh year Prefect; you can go in whenever you want to! I love shopping!”

Hermione put her arm around the younger girl’s shoulders. “I know you do, love, but it isn’t allowed; you know that. Your brothers and Harry will be forever in Honeydukes, and while they’re there, I’ll get the rest of their presents – and yours too, I might add.”

“What’re you going to get me?” Ginny bounced up and down on her bed. “Please, please, give me just a hint?”

Hermione giggled. “Not a word, my pet, not a word. You’ll just have to suffer it out until Yuletide morning, like everyone else.”

“Oh, poo!” Ginny flounced over to her wardrobe and returned with two rolls of wrapping paper. :”I’ll get even with you, you’ll see!”

“I know you will,” smiled Hermione. “What will it be? Oh, I know: knee-length knickers, scratchy old-fashioned ‘woollies” in a nasty shade of – what? “

“Dung-bomb brown, of course,” smirked Ginny. “With attached ugly garters. Oh, and a drop seat!”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. She picked up a cotton jersey and swatted at Ginny’s backside with it. “Terrible prat!”

“Can’t catch me!” Ginny taunted, dancing away. Hermione gave chase, and soon they were running around the common room, laughing. They jumped through the portrait hole. The Fat Lady, looking after them tearing along the corridor, shrieking, said to no-one in particular, “I see they’ve got the Holiday spirit!”

***

Professor Severus Snape marked the last of a stack of homework parchments, put down his quill and leaned back in his desk chair, his eyes burning. Another lot of dreadful essays; another mess of atrocious grammar, ill-thought-out conclusions and suppositions and, as usual; too many guesses. Why did he bother?

He rose and stretched, his hands at the small of his back. No doubt, he was stiff. Stiff and old, old and stiff at thirty-eight, he thought with disgust. He left his office for a change of pace, and walked along the corridor towards the kitchens. He had neglected to have lunch, and his stomach had been complaining for some time. The house-elves would give him tea and a sandwich, more than enough to hold him until dinner. Not that he was a hearty eater; far from it. My palate has been ruined by all these years of compounding potions, he thought. Everything tastes the same; like nothing.

As he walked, he noticed the tell-tale signs: Hogwarts was preparing for another overblown, commercialised, ridiculous holiday season. The suit of armour standing watch in the main gallery wore a ludicrous crown of holly; there were garlands of evergreen branches strung through the balustrades. Little wreaths adorned the bases of all the wall torches; some were not so little and probably presented a fire hazard, he thought sourly.

Even the staircases were festooned with holly, ivy and evergreens and loud, garish, satin bows. All of the Houses had had their hands in the decorating; there were as many blue and yellow bows and ribbons as red and green. An owl winging its way silently along the corridor, an envelope in its beak, wore a tinsel garland around its neck. Owl probably hates it, he said to himself, scowling.

At every staircase landing, an evergreen tree in a pot stood proudly, hung with bells, bows, miniature boxes in bright-coloured wrappings, candy canes and strings of popcorn. By the time Snape reached the kitchens, he was in a right fury. It’s wrong, he raged, forcing this- this celebration on everyone whether they wish it or not.

Christmas was not his holiday.

Little child Severus Snape, growing up in the quiet, chilly, subdued environment that was Snape Manor, only son to insular, narrow-minded and repressive older parents who frowned on any expression of emotion or display of spontaneity, knew about Christmas. On the rare occasions when his parents took him anywhere during the month of December, he could see the trees, the decorations, the lights, the festivity, hear the songs, smell the savour of the holiday baking.

“They are Muggles,” said his father. “Most of them are Christians, with an elaborate dogma and their own style of worship. They have re-made the old beliefs to suit themselves; they have forgotten from whence they came. We observe the faith of our fathers. That is all there is; it is enough.”

Was it enough, then, to observe the seasonal Sabbats solemnly, with prayers, small family gatherings appropriate to the holy day, remembrance of the dead? He had never been introduced to the theory of what today was called the Old Religion. His family merely observed the simpler traditions and scorned embellishments such as Yule trees, bonfires and presents. Magic, after all, was concrete, mundane, tangible and practical. The Old Religion was fairy-tales, old crones’ stories, and legends, esoteric and theoretical. Oh, there were those who practised it openly; Druids, of course, who his father regarded as cranks and posturers. Lately, some Muggles had taken to calling themselves Wiccans; having no real magic, they invented a hotchpotch of rituals and customs based very loosely on the Old Way.

But he was a child, and he saw the bright trappings of Christmas, and the presents, and he heard the songs. When he came to Hogwarts, he was overwhelmed by the pomp and gaiety with which the school celebrated the holiday. Not for him, the boxes of presents, the singing cards brought by carolling owls. His tormentors, the Gryffindor Marauders, put lumps of coal in his shoes and told him that that was how Father Christmas rewarded bad children. “But I haven’t been bad!”

“You’re bad, you’re disgusting, Snivellus. Father Christmas knows!” And they went sniggering off to eat their Christmas sweets and play with their new toys.

There were always some presents for him at the Yule feast before everyone went home for the holiday. Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall always gave him something; a book they knew he would like, a music box that played Vivaldi; a pair of warm gloves. He recognised these gifts as what they were; tokens, from those who pitied him.

He remembered, with an odd twist of pain, a winter when he was nine years old. He had accompanied his parents to visit some distant relatives who celebrated every holiday, regardless of origin, from Diwali to Kwanzaa to Hanukkah to Christmas and everything in between. “Father, why have they hung stockings from the mantelpiece? Won’t they burn up?” His father looked, and then turned back to him.

“It is their belief that their folklore figure, Father Christmas, will come down the chimney and put gifts into the stockings.” He said no more; his voice told of his scorn. They returned home directly after dinner, and Severus was sent to bed at his usual time.

When he was sure that his parents were asleep, Severus crept out of his room. He did not dare to go downstairs to the main hearth in the drawing room; it was warded against invaders as well as against drafts. There was, however, an old table standing against the wall in the upstairs hallway. The table was fairly narrow, with curved legs, and the apron under the top was curved, like the top of the hearth. Quickly, Severus put one of his stockings up on the table apron with a sticking charm. He smiled; he had hung up his Christmas stocking! He returned to bed, smiling, expectant.

“What is this?” His father’s voice, soft and chilly, stopped Severus in his tracks as he entered the dining room for breakfast the next morning. The boy looked up at the man. In his hand, the elder Snape held his son’s stocking.

“I – I--,” Severus stammered. He looked down.

His father held out the stocking. “Put this back into your wardrobe, Severus. Clothes are not toys.” Severus took the stocking and turned to go. His father’s voice stopped him.

“We do not do that. We do not observe Christmas; it is not our holiday. There are no stockings hung on mantels, or tables either, in expectation of presents.”

The boy kept his gaze down, and returned to his bedroom. He looked out of the window at the snow-covered moor. I did it anyway, he said to himself. I hung up my stocking.

If ever Severus had found that stocking filled with presents, on Christmas morning, he would not have known what to think. But then, if ever Severus had been part of merry celebrations, if ever he had sung carols or gone belly-whopping on a tray down the snow-covered low hills around his home; if ever he had gone ice-skating with friends and drunk hot cocoa at their parents’ kitchen tables; if ever he had had a friend, he would have become a different man.

There was no Christmas for him. It was nothing, a sham, and he wanted no part of it.

***

Hagrid dragged his second sledgeful of wood over to the bonfire site, gave a mighty heave and tumbled the logs onto the frozen earth. “Oi! Perfesser Flitwick!” he shouted, seeing the tiny wizard, bundled up in a long woollen cloak, crossing the lawn toward him.

Flitwick’s face was almost hidden underneath the wrappings of his scarf and the edges of his hat, which he had pulled down almost to his nose. He bustled up to the half-giant: “Want those logs arranged for a proper bonfire, Hagrid?” his muffled voice sounded.

“Sure!” replied Hagrid. Flitwick’s wand appeared in a heavily mittened hand. He muttered a charm, and the logs rose and floated over to a circle of stones, then arranged themselves into a neat pyramid. One huge log positioned itself on top. Hagrid grunted his approval and began to stuff handfuls of kindling in between the logs. “Thankee, Perfesser,” Hagrid smiled, and the little man waved his hand and continued on his way to the castle’s great double doors with their holly wreaths.

All was in readiness. Fang, who had been bounding in and out of snowdrifts, came panting up to Hagrid, shook himself thoroughly, and grinned up at the big man. “Aye, Fang, le’s go get yeh dried off. There’s some hours yet to the feast; yeh don’t want to take cold.” Man and beast set off for Hagrid’s snug cottage, where his own Yule log was already crackling merrily in the hearth.

***

The Yule feast had been eaten, the toasts to the season offered, and one and all bundled themselves into warm cloaks and coats and trooped outside to the bonfire. The enormous blaze lit up the front lawn brightly. Flames leapt up almost five metres, and the pine cones and pitch knots snapped and sizzled, throwing off the scents of evergreen. It was dangerous to go too close to the bonfire, but the warmth radiated outward to the crowd. The stars of Sagittarius coruscated in the heavens.

The house-elves had made a small fire of their own, and over it, suspended from a crane, bubbled a cauldron of hot spiced cider, which they ladled into small cups for anyone needing a hot drink. Stuffed as they were from the feast, hardly anyone could resist the smell of apples and cloves; Dobby, his ears protected from the cold by tea cloths tied around them was busy passing out the cider.

An impromptu trio of third-years with tin whistle, banjo and tambourine began to play carols, and a great group from all the Houses gathered to sing. Colin Creevey ran from one side of the crowd to the other, looking for good camera angles. This was worth preserving!

Severus Snape stood to one side, listening to the singing, watching the snowball-fights and snowman construction, the small groups sipping cider. Closer to the bonfire, the Headmaster stood together with the other teachers. The old wizard turned towards him, and the Potions Master heard the summons, as if Dumbledore had spoken: “Come over here, Severus, we are ready to begin.”

He wanted to turn around and head back into the warmth and quiet of the castle, to return to his dungeon, his sanctum sanctorum where no-one bothered him and he did not have to present a sociable face to anyone. They are mistaken, he thought. Darkness is with us always. The darkness is with me, in what is left of my spirit. I don’t think I have a soul; if I do, it’s a black hole. Darkness is my refuge, my solace. Still, he was a member of the faculty, and it was his duty to join the others. He drew his cloak closer around himself and stalked over to the group.

Minerva McGonagall tucked her gloved hand through his arm. “I know you’d rather not be here, Severus,” she said. “It’s all to the good that you’re with us.” He did not dignify her with an answer.

Hermione stood with Ron, Harry and Ginny, her cloak splotched with the remnants of a snowball fight. What a beautiful night it was, with crystalline stars gleaming. She thought she saw the Aurora Borealis over to the North, veils of violet, pink, blue, pale green. All around her were people who had become her second family, her generation and the one before that, people who had changed her and been changed by her in turn. I owe this place so much, she thought. Hanging back from the general crowd, she saw the sepulchral figure of Professor Severus Snape. Even him, he’s taught me so much, given me the opportunities of a lifetime, and challenged me more than anyone else. I owe him…

Albus Dumbledore touched his wand to his throat, and his voice belled out over the cold night air: “Students, teachers, friends, house-elves and all who gather with us this night, let us welcome the Yule King as we pass from the reign of the Dark into the reign of the Light.” He lifted his arms, and everyone, young and old, gathered in a great circle around the bonfire.

“He’s as daft as ever,” muttered Snape, “if he really believes that lighting fires and singing will bring back the Sun. It would serve everyone right if the darkness remained.”

“I promise you,” said McGonagall, holding tightly to his hand, “the sun will return. The long night will end, and the days will begin to get longer. It starts now;” she consulted her watch, “in ten seconds it will be 2:04 AM, the moment of Solstice.” She looked up at the younger man. “Severus, you can use a little faith, even if you have never had any before.”

Voices rose and people joined hands, singing a hymn to the Father, the ruler of Winter. Albus Dumbledore held out a hand to McGonagall, she took it, and Severus took her hand. A mittened hand took his on his other side; it was Miss Granger, muffled up to her nose in a Gryffindor red and gold scarf, her eyes twinkling.

“Professor Snape,” she said. “Happy Yuletide. May your presents be the future.” Slowly, everyone began to walk around the bonfire, singing. The circle turned and turned, deosil, and the witches and wizards of Hogwarts welcomed in the new season, celebrating Yule with light and song.

Severus felt a shadow lift from his heart; he felt the warmth of the fire on his face and the warmth of the hands in his. May your presents be the future… there were gifts for him: the fellowship of people he loved surrounded him. Yes, people he loved; something cold and brittle in his spirit melted, and he was free to love, free to be loved in return regardless of the risk.

All around the circle twine, brother, sister, hand in mine,

Three times round the Yule fire tread,

Pour the wine and break the bread.

Darkness fly away tonight, bring us back the morning light;

Sure in faith and sure in trust

Welcome Father’s love we must;

Young and old we every one

Sing to bring us back the Sun.


Finis