Seven Preposterous Things

Nitimur in Vetitum Semper, Cupimusqe Negata

Or

We are Always Striving for Things Forbidden, and Coveting Those Denied Us

---Ovid



Nil Cupientium Nudus Castra Peti

Or

Naked I seek the Camp of Those Who Desire Nothing

---Horace







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Hermione had hoped they could sail breezily through her parents\' visit, and when Millie emerged from the kitchen that night, her face shining, Hermione thought there might be some chance that Severus and her parents could make it through the week without decidedly alienating one another. She held her breath, drank a bit more wine, and clung with all her might to the idea that her dad and mum could conceivably come to appreciate Severus, and Severus, in turn, could refrain from dismissing her parents as hopelessly middle class and snarling whenever they were mentioned. Maybe it was more than a bit more wine.



In any event she probably should have known better.



The reasons she loved her parents were all good sound reasons. They were loving, intelligent parents who had done their best to provide her with a solid foundation despite the fact that, as her father would say, life had thrown them googlie when she turned out to be a witch.



She loved Severus, and she found when she considered it she did love Severus, she couldn\'t imagine what else the feeling could be, for good solid reasons as well. The rub being that the reasons she loved Severus were in almost exact opposition to the reasons she loved her parents.



Severus was difficult, demanding even in his solicitousness. As far she could tell, it never occurred to him to coddle her, not really, not beyond a glass of water for a screaming, sweating, shaking nightmare at any rate. Furthermore, he was the most puzzling, fascinating, infuriating person she had ever known. He was the first person she\'d had in her life who didn\'t give her the feeling she was metaphorically pulling them through every day by the scruff of their neck. Severus might be temperamental and he might be awkward enough to make her feel socially adept, but she\'d never felt so well matched with anyone. Unlike Harry or Ron, she never had to look over her shoulder to see how far behind he lagged, like as not he was a half a step ahead.



It gave her a dim sort of a glow, despite the brain-flattening hangover, to look about the kitchen and see the people she cared for most in the world assembled around the gold flecked Formica table.



Even Draco.



She was even fond of bratty Draco. He was rendered almost endearing when he squatted in the kitchen milking the goat for Baby Phil\'s breakfast, as aristocratic as ever despite his occupation, even if she didn\'t care much for the hair-eating monster in question. Yes, Draco Malfoy, despite a wealth of flaws, loved his wife and child even more than he loved himself, and that was something notable.



Millie, meanwhile, had bound her own hair up in a single plait so tight it made her squinty eyes even squintier, if such a thing were possible. Phil sat silently taking in the room as was his usual wont, as if he would later make a report on them all for his alien commanders. Whack wound back and forth round the legs of Millie\'s chair.



Severus and her Dad wore similar wincing expressions as they drank their tea.



Her Mum seemed more puffy and red than pained as she sat, Whack, of all people,leaping onto her lap.



Not that Whack was a person, strictly speaking, though if push came to shove, Hermione couldn\'t say for certain that she wasn\'t one either.



It was this false sense of security, stemming from the bruised but comfortable atmosphere, that likely led to the fateful moment.



"So when are you going to let us have a look at those teeth, Stephen?" Helen Granger D.D.S. said with the earnestness of a professional who is so embroiled in her line of work she has never stopped to consider that there might be people who could take exception to allowing someone they\'ve just met to poke about in any of their orifices.



At least not without buying them a drink first.



Severus went red. Literally. Red as some potion of sketchy legality.



The look on his face would not have been unfamiliar to any of his former students. It was an expression of stricken rage that during the collective childhood of wizarding England presaged bellowing and spittle and, on a few notable occasions, flying glass.



"Mum!" Hermione leapt into the breach before either her mother or her husband could damage mutual relations further.



Helen snorted. "From what I\'ve been able to see, at least superficially..."



"Mum, stop it."



"Don\'t be silly, Hermione, I think a good bleaching and a bit of orthodontia would do Stephen a world of good. What do you think, Dennis?"



Severus pursed his lips together to a hard thin line; Hermione was not sure whether it was to keep in the vitriol or to prevent her mother prying his mouth open to have a good look round.



Dennis gave Severus a stare of bleary appraisal.



Hermione was relieved when Severus rose from the table and stalked out of the room, knocking his chair over in his haste.



Under most circumstances, she might think it was very rude but not even a fraction of what Severus was capable of. It was most certainly better than any alternatives Hermione could imagine.



"Didn\'t it occur to you he might be sensitive about his teeth?" She turned to her mother.



"If it bothered him that much, you think he\'d have done something about them. Besides, I was only trying to be helpful. I see worse on a daily basis," Mum said defensively.



Dennis aka Daddy hmmphed into his tea.



"Weekly, then."



Unable to properly explain the breadth of her mother\'s faux pas, Hermione chose to chase after Severus instead.





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Severus had been mocked and embarrassed throughout his life; she understood that and were it feasible she\'d hex every last party responsible. Nonetheless, it seemed to Hermione that despite his habit of imagining slights where none were meant, enough of them had been pointed and purposeful that he ought to have developed a tougher hide at some point. Honestly, he was as sensitive as a schoolgirl.



After a bit of searching, she was able to locate him, predictably, sitting in the car, looking terribly sorry for himself and smoking.



His first words when he saw her were, "The woman is a bleeding cow." His lips twitched as if he was prepared to say far worse. "If I\'d had my wits about me, I should have offered to give her a pelvic examination in exchange."



"That woman, as you call her, is my mother, and she didn\'t mean any harm. It\'s what she does for a living. She wasn\'t trying to hurt your feelings, and I would be very careful choosing the next words out of my mouth if I were you."



"I would have absolutely no objections were you to call my mother a cow," he said, sullen as he took another drag from his cigarette, "or worse. I know I have."



"I like my parents."



"More than you like me, apparently."



"Don\'t be such a..." Arousal was just one of the many emotions Severus was able to elicit from her with ease; exasperation was a close second on the list.



"Such a what?" he asked, squinting.



"A childish, hyper-sensitive, manipulative..."



"Perhaps you should bring the Pater Familias outside to have a go as well, seeing as he is the only member of your little clan who has yet to insult me this morning," he said, that waspish twist coming to his lips. "Or perhaps it would be more efficient should you simply commence packing up your belongings immediately. That was your intention all along, was it not? To return to England with your parents now that you\'ve tired of me? Or did you imagine I couldn\'t see? Poor old Severus, he\'s such a fool where females are concerned."



Hermione stared at him a moment, utterly perplexed. Sometimes the things that went on in that wizard\'s head could only be described as a wonderment of fuckery.



"Severus?" she said, moving toward him and resting her hand on his arm.



"I wouldn\'t be too concerned, my dear, I\'m sure if you keep a low profile the Death Eaters will never catch wind of your continued existence."



"Severus," she said, catching hold of his wrist. "What are you talking about?"



Severus in his turn recoiled then surged toward her like a striking snake. She was stunned to find she was still holding his arm. His black eyes shone, and his lips were wet.



"Do you sincerely believe I\'ve no idea how unlovable I am? How ugly?" he snarled. He flashed an angry mockery of a simpering smile at her, baring his viciously crooked lower incisors and oversized canines with a perverse sort of delight. "You think I don\'t know I am repulsive? Do you believe I have no idea you would never consider me a romantic possibility under normal circumstances?"



Their faces were mere inches apart.



It occurred to her that were she still his pupil he would be throwing things by now. All that restrained Severus was likely his notion that she had the upper hand. She would do well to behave as if she had it.



Hermione Granger took Severus Snape\'s other bony wrist in addition to the one she\'d grasped in haste earlier, effectively pinning where he sat in the car. His nails were ragged from being bitten. It seemed perverse, but the same sort of glistening rage that had terrified her as a girl made her heart beat hard in a completely different sort of way now that she was older.



"My mother asked to look at your teeth, not especially unusual considering she is a dentist, although I admit it might be a bit awkward coming from one\'s Mother-in-Law," she said. "The part I don\'t understand is where this turns into my leaving you because you didn\'t get metal braces put on your teeth when you were a teenager."



"Simple," he said, exhaling smoke through his clenched teeth and directly into her face. "You chose me, though it strains credulity to call it a choice, since as far as you were concerned I was the last man on Earth."



"Last man on Earth? Good god… They should have named you Hyperbolus."



"Last wizard, then. In any case, you no doubt would have preferred someone more appealing."



This was ridiculous. She had already treated Severus\' antics far too seriously.



She let go his wrists and rolled her eyes in disgust, slumping in her side of the car.



"Stop playing silly buggers, she didn\'t mean to be rude. You\'re not an eight year old girl, Severus. Suck. It. Up."



She appeared to have successfully disarmed her husband; his eyes went wide, and his lips parted and re-parted silently for an instant. Sorting himself out, not unlike a wet cat, Severus looked away and tossed his cigarette butt out the window, moving quickly to light a fresh cancer-causing agent.



"You\'re not going then?" he murmured, still inspecting the interior of his cigarette packet, his unwashed hair hanging over his face.



"The thought of returning to London never entered my mind," she chided him.



She caught it when his eyes flicked furtively toward her for an instant, but he said nothing.



"Smoke that cigarette, and then I expect you to come finish your tea so my mother may apologize properly," she said before darting forward and slipping a quick kiss on his stubbled cheek. "And stop sulking, you should realize by now I find you quite fascinating, crooked teeth, big nose, and all."



She didn\'t give him time to reply but rather bounded back into the house with a spring in her stride.



She felt oddly elated. Her mother had behaved true to form and so had Severus, and yet the sky had not fallen. All she had to do to contain them was maintain a sense of perspective.



She found herself humming tunelessly as she returned to her still warm tea.





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Severus thought it was just his luck that he had to work through a show when all he wanted to do was stand and stare, consumed by the music. One bloody show he actively wanted to see and he had to spend most of it mixing candy drinks for arrested adolescents whose palates were on par with the average infant\'s. He\'d be serving vodka and pabulum before the night was out if this kept up.



He did manage to push his breaks as far as he dared, making his way to the stage with Granger in front of him. That way he was able to snatch a few minutes, his head nearly inside the speakers, the crowd so tightly packed that he had no choice but to press his cock against Granger\'s backside.



Brief as it was, he found the experience sublime. The music washing through him in waves, he was lost to himself in a way that was usually impossible except for a few moments during sex. While it could not be reckoned that his mind shut itself down, precisely, instead his thoughts seemed to expand until his brain lost track of who it belonged to and what it was supposed to be worrying over at that particular moment, not returning to it\'s regularly scheduled grumble until Shakeleg beckoned to him between songs that he needed to get back to pouring liquor down idiots.



It was then, as he made his way back to his place behind the bar, that it occurred to him how singularly pleasant it was to be attached romantically to a female. It seemed to him as he glared a path for himself to the bar, still holding Granger\'s hand, his fingertips gripping her soft palm, that even at times like this when they were neither fucking nor talking, her mere presence soothed him and gave him an unfamiliar yet not unpleasant feeling best described as a general lessening of anxiety.



He ought to have had something like this earlier, when he was younger.



Unlacing his fingers from Granger\'s, he re-imagined his life as it might have been with her at his side from say, fifteen or so. Discounting the fact that she had not been born yet, he felt with absolute certainty that she never would have allowed him to be mocked or bullied, and he knew without much consideration she would have put her foot down right away about his going into the Dark Lord\'s service. No, no such foolishness on Granger\'s watch.



He should have had her when he was younger. It would have changed the course of his entire life. If he could work out who to blame for the lack in his early years on, he\'d have started plotting revenge right away.





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Dennis Granger couldn\'t say he was surprised, exactly, by how loud the music was, any more than he was surprised by the concrete floor, or the eye-watering smoke. That didn\'t make it any less overwhelming. He spent most of the evening with the skin on his face pressed back, like a test pilot in a wind tunnel.



The startling moment. The moment he later realized was one of those life altering moments, like his daughter\'s birth, or when he\'d well and truly realized her Hogwarts letter was not an elaborate practical joke.



After the band was done, with his ears ringing and Helen in the ladies\' lavatory, he, Dennis, saw his daughter, his daughter who had always been anything but physically demonstrative, reach out and squeeze a man\'s behind. Man was the word his brain supplied, but at that moment he knew in his heart the operative word was husband.



That\'s it then, some small voice in Dennis\' psyche admitted.



He watched them for a time amidst the milling crowd of waitresses, musicians, and various and sundry technicians after the last of the straggling customers had gone. Stephen said something presumably cheeky over his shoulder that made Hermione smile. Hermione loosed the tie of Stephen\'s bar apron. In retaliation, Stephen turned round and caught her easily by the hand as he laid his apron on the counter. She threw her head back in sparkling pleasure and laughed. Hermione, who since she was a child found it so hard to be easy with anyone. Dennis watched as Hermione looked at Stephen, and Stephen looked back at her as though the rest of the world had slipped away like soap bubbles. Stephen planted a kiss squarely on her glinting gold wedding ring.



That was it then.



Dennis keenly felt the loss of something he knew he never really possessed.





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Helen was a bit light-headed on the ride back to Hermione\'s house. Not drunk, mind you, just a bit light headed. She normally didn\'t burst into song, but it was Christmas time, and she was on holiday, and she hadn\'t been out to a concert in forever, even if this one wasn\'t her usual sort.



She had a collection of paper umbrellas and even two tiny red devils from the night\'s drinks in her coat pocket and felt full to the brim with holiday cheer. Also she felt better about Stephen\'s driving under present circumstances.



"Good King Wenceslas look out on the feast of Stephen," she burst out half-mocking, almost flirting, but also overflowing with the sort of happiness one had when the perfect amount of drink had been imbibed.



Dennis looked at her out of the corner of his eye. If he thought he was going to spoil her mood, he was going to have a fight on his hands. She, Helen Granger, would declare war on any attempt at fun ruining.



She tugged on his coat sleeve and started again. "Good King Wenceslas looked down..."



Dennis, knowing what was good for him, joined in. "On the feast of Steeeeephen."



Buoyed by her success with Dennis, she prodded Hermione\'s back until she did her duty and joined the song. "Snow was falling all around..."



She was surprised when Stephen came in quite on his own. In the first place, she had already noticed, although she\'d known him only briefly, he was very reticent and a damn sight short of jolly. Secondly, his voice was stunning.



He speaking voice was very engaging, certainly, but his singing was the sort of thing she\'d never heard just tumble out of a person without warning. It shocked her into silence.



She hardly noticed as Dennis and Hermione dropped away as well, and Stephen went on into a rendition of "Silent Night" that seemed at once solemn and menacing. Inappropriately so. Chills raced up her spine.



Sorrow. Devastating sorrow followed inexplicably on the heels of terror. Perhaps she\'d had more to drink than she realized.



Without rhyme or reason that Helen could puzzle out in her currently not-pissed but pissed-ish state, "Silent Night" was followed by an energetic rendition of "Twist and Shout" which was both a relief and a bafflement.



The rest of the ride home was spent caught up in the voice of Hermione\'s husband. It was strange, but Helen felt ever so slightly bereft when the car pulled into the drive, and Stephen stopped singing and turned off the engine.





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Hermione was enjoyed herself at the show, and Severus\' behaviour had been stellar, particularly in comparison to what it could have been. His only lapse had been tossing the accumulated rubbish from the car at the Salvation Army as they drove past. It went without saying that he had deadly accuracy. Fortunately he was singing at the time, so her mother didn\'t notice.





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Draco loved the night before Yule, there was no disputing that. He loved the preparation and anticipation of a grand time nearly as much as the grand time itself. In fact, he wanted to time his placement of presents in the lounge to coincide with the arrival of Santa Claus.



Draco frankly adored Santa Claus and would be delighted to see him again, Gryffindor though he was. Who couldn\'t love a man with a sack full of presents? The fact that he wanted the old man\'s job didn\'t lessen his fondness for him in the least.



Not tomorrow but some day, in the future, after he was older and his looks were going soft, he would do what he could to secure the position for himself. Millie\'s family would certainly help there. Not just the individual members of her family, powerful as they were, but those who owed something to Old Alice Eye and her kin.



Draco, of course, would wear more fitting Slytherin green when he was Santa. He was too young to have known the old Ravenclaw Santa in his sparkling blue robes from his grandfather Abraxas\' day, but he always felt extremely fortunate to have been born after the time when Santa brought new babies as well as gifts. He enjoyed being an only child all too much. Still, he was perfect, or rather in another hundred years when this Santa was winding down, he would be perfect for the job. But as he carefully laid Little Phil in his relocated cot in the lounge, Draco Malfoy\'s mind was far from easy.



Tonight\'s problem was the gifts. Yesterday he had been stymied by how he was expected to wrap gifts without a spell, and he still wasn\'t certain he had exactly conquered that one. Now they were wrapped, how he was going to get them out to the tree without Millie seeing?



He didn\'t want to ruin it by letting her catch sight of them before hand.



It didn\'t seem strange to him that Millie all of a sudden over the past few days had begun to look noticeably pregnant. It was as though the first of his gifts had arrived, in a way. There was something so powerful about her, or perhaps he should say even more powerful, now that she was so full of life and magic everyone could see it. When she held Baby Phil in her arms, it was almost more than he could stand. She was like a beacon of strength and sex. He\'d take one look and want to swoon. The mother of his children, protector of his home and hearth, it made him feel precious and cosseted in a bone deep way to belong to such a powerful witch.





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Millie sat on the edge of the bed trying to work a way round Draco.



She\'d done what she could to acquire presents without anyone being the wiser. Which was one thing where Snape, Granger, and Phil were concerned, all of them could be counted on to respect a person\'s right to secrets. Draco, on the other hand, respected no such thing. The only thing he held sacred was his own right to stick his nose into everything going on around him. Someone should have let him suffer the consequences of his actions once or twice when he was younger. It might have saved them all a load of trouble.



She wanted to give him more than one lash on the bottom herself and not in the usual friendly way.



Her husband was such an awful brat. She looked at him purposefully unblinking, trying to puzzle out the best way to keep him from ruining his Christmas surprise.



Draco looked back at her shiftily.



If it wouldn\'t offend one of the few sensibilities she\'d admit to having, she\'d let him ruin his own surprise. Her worry over making Christmas just right for the arse was more than he deserved.



Next year, she wasn\'t going to get him anything. He\'d drive himself mad trying to work that one out. It jollied her a bit to consider the twists and turns and machinations he\'d work himself into trying to figure all the angles on gifts that didn\'t exist.



Still he stood there, fidgeting.



She pinched her lips and remained unmoved, never looking away, her blood turned icy in her veins. If all else failed, her Slytherin training would never desert her, bless Snape\'s crippled black heart for that, a cool head and a watchful eye would prevail. She would get Draco\'s gifts to the lounge without him seeing even if she had to hex him to accomplish it.



Still hexing was a last resort, only after lies and trickery failed. She might be a brute at heart, but what sort of wife was she if she couldn\'t get past her own husband?



Draco was showing signs of breaking, a certain barely noticeable twitch in the third finger of his left hand coupled with an undue glassiness of eye. All she had to do was hold out.



"Well, " Draco said, and suddenly Millie knew things were going to be resolved one way or another, but immediately thereafter came a jingling clatter accompanied by the overwhelming scent of evergreen that could only mean one thing.



Millie couldn\'t help herself; she shouted "Santa," only to find that Draco had shouted the exact same thing at the exact moment. Some things were ingrained, she supposed. It was a by-product of a Pureblood upbringing to love the fat man. To prove her self-possession, she made a point not to race out of the room on Draco\'s heels; instead she pulled her paper sacks full of gifts from their hiding place behind a loose piece of plaster in the closet and heaved them into the lounge.



While she was expecting Santa in his red leather trimmed in fur, she was not expecting Snape, his hair wet, to be sitting on the divan toying with an unlit cigarette wearing only one sock. The other foot jutted naked out from the bottom of his trouser leg as long and white as a brick in a marble tomb.



Draco stood there looking gleefully from Snape to Santa\'s wide arse and back again to Snape, his lips pressed into the sort of thin line that threatened to erupt into giggles at any moment.



Snape, meanwhile, closed his eyes and held his cigarette, still not lit, to his nose, inhaling.



Granger, meanwhile, with sleep in her eyes and reeking to the sky of fucking, came wearily into the room.



"That can\'t possibly..." she said, drawing her dressing gown up tight around her.



"It is," Snape said.



"You\'ve got to be joking," she said.



"You have my solemn promise you are in the presence of a legend, and I am not referring to Bulstrode\'s chest measurements."



"Where\'d your other sock go?" she asked.



Snape frowned more deeply and cut his eyes in Santa Claus\'s direction.



Millie smirked. Snape had been the only hold out when Draco hung stockings after dinner. Even the Muggles went along, even if they seemed to think it was a hysterical giggle. Served Snape right.



Not that she\'d seen it coming. No, as far as she knew, Snape always managed to avoid Santa completely. Well the time of reckoning had come. Whatever Santa was putting in that sock, there was an awful lot of it. She wondered how difficult it was to get reindeer shit out of white cotton. Good thing Snape did his own laundry.



"Tea, milk, or brandy?" Draco asked Granger, waving his hand in the general direction of the decanter, pitcher, and kettle he\'d had arranged like a bleeding still life on the side table.



"All three in my cup, if it\'s not any trouble," said Santa turning around. "I am delighted to finally meet you, Hermione; you\'ve done Severus a great deal of good. He usually avoids me like consumption, though now that I think of it, he does look a bit consumptive himself."



"He always looks consumptive," Millie said automatically.



"Have you got the consumption, Severus? I\'ve something in my bag for that," said Santa.



"I don\'t believe we\'ve been introduced," Granger said warily. Millie wondered what she was so shirty for. Santa hadn\'t been dangerous since before her mother\'s time.



Santa seemed to understand though; he just chuckled. "Everyone knows me; I\'m Santa Claus, and I know every witch and wizard as soon as they come into the world, Hermione."



"Then why haven\'t we ever met?" she asked.



Santa gave her a hard look. "It\'s a long story."



"I don\'t suppose you\'ve the time to tell it on Christmas Eve," Granger said.



"You\'ve had too much experience with time to believe foolishness such as that," Santa said with a conspiratorial air. "Santa has all the time in the world, on this night of all nights."



"Mind if we listen in as well," said Mr. Granger rubbing his eyes in the doorway.



"Blast, the Muggles are awake. Promise you won\'t tell anyone you spotted me, or I\'ll be filling out forms \'til doomsday," Santa said clearly embarrassed at being caught.



"Certainly," said Granger\'s mother cagily; she seemed to Millie to be someone worth giving a wide swath to even if she was a Muggle. "Provided you explain."



Millie wondered exactly what Santa was supposed to say to that.



"Explain what?" asked Draco.



"Why the fat man doesn\'t visit mu..." said Snape, "Muggle-born."



"He doesn\'t visit Muggle-born?" Millie asked, quite astonished, or she would have waited and asked Snape about it later, in private.



"No, he doesn\'t," Granger said, her brow knitted as a jumper.



"I\'ll be off then," Santa said uncomfortably.



"I thought you had all the time in the world?" Granger asked, her eyes now slitted. It went well with the brow thing. She was dead off-putting like that.



"Figure of speech," Santa said.



Snape sniggered.



"Generally meant to suggest the speaker doesn\'t intend to rush off," Granger went on.



Snape smiled a smile of pure pleasure at Santa\'s distress; it was almost heartwarming, that.



Santa\'s face took on a level of seriousness Millie had never quite seen before in all her dealings with Santa. "I misspoke."



Then, instead of his usual, long slow leave taking and I-couldn\'t-possibly-have-another-bite-Prunie-well-perhaps-a-smidge-more-pudding, Santa reached down to the chain round his neck and the golden whistle strung there and gave a sharp blast.



The next thing she, or any of them as far as Millie could tell, knew, Santa was gone and the gifts, not just Santa\'s gifts but those she had snuck round and bought, and those she presumed came from Draco, were dangling from ribbons on the tree. She could tell Draco\'s because he was apparently unaware of standard Muggle gift wrapping tape and appeared to have secured the coloured paper to the packages by means of straight pins, glue and a stapling machine he\'d lifted from the animation office.



"Stockings first!" Draco announced, making Phil grunt in his sleep like a little pig.



"No, wait," Millie said, lifting Phil from his cot, feeling the delicious heat that emanated from his little body like a stone at the edge of the hearth. "We can\'t let him sleep through Christmas."



She blew as softly as she was able on the side of his face. "Wake up, sleepy arse. There\'s presents on the tree."



The baby stirred slightly but didn\'t bother to open his eyes.



Millie planted a string of kisses along his neck ending on his soft little earlobe. "Wake up, you," she sang, or croaked rather, she knew her singing was the sort the frogs did in the spring.



Phil looked at her out of one eye, his fist rubbing furiously at the other.



He\'d come round to Christmas soon enough.





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Hermione wasn\'t sure when she\'d seen a sight to compare with Severus\' dingy cotton sock. It was stretched out longer than could be managed without magic and now ended somewhere near the front door, five meters or so away.



After watching for a bit as Severus pulled objects ranging from toy spaceships to arcane magical objects to velvet neck cloths not to mention numerous books from the depths of his white cotton sock, she asked, "What did he give you, Severus? It doesn\'t seem to have any rhyme or reason."



Severus, his cigarette now safely tucked behind his ear for later, frowned and stuck his hand into the sock, tentatively pulling out another object, a magazine featuring a blonde woman in shiny rubber gear on its cover, which he stowed quickly and discreetly under the mammoth pile. "It has the appearance of being everything I\'ve ever wanted."



"Can anyone here explain the Santa Claus business?" asked Hermione\'s mother.



Hermione settled her eyes on Millie, because, honestly, she\'d like an answer as well, and Millie seemed as good a candidate to supply it as any.



"He used to collect Muggle-borns in a sack," Draco said, and Millie nodded vigorously, or as vigorously as could be managed by someone with a mouth full of chocolate.



"I beg your pardon?" Hermione\'s dad said, choking on his tea a bit.



"Once upon a time, before the international accord in, what year was it?" Draco turned to Severus.



"1802, signed by both Magical and Muggle world leaders at the time," Severus supplied absently as he pulled what appeared to be a powerful microscope from his stocking.



"Before 1802, it used to be The Fat Man\'s job to look for magical children in Muggle households. He\'d round up all the ones he could find on Christmas Eve in a sack and drop them off with Pureblood witches and wizards, along with a few prezzies for the other sprogs to soften the blow," Draco said, trying to gauge how the Muggles were taking it. "Now he just brings presents."



"But..." said Severus, extricating a rather bulky green velvet coverlet from the sock, an act which appeared to be nearly as physically impossible as it sounded.



"Only to Pureblood families," said Draco, his tongue making a quick detour to the corner of his mouth.



"Why?" asked Hermione\'s parents in concert.



"That was the agreement," said Severus. "It was a matter of serious contention, and one of many times the Purebloods believed their interests to be in conflict with those of the general magical rabble, who felt that the Hogwarts\' book and its fellows at the various magical schools were sufficient."



"Why? I thought they were all some sort of racists," asked Hermione\'s dad.



Hermione watched as Millie\'s nostrils flared ever so slightly, and Draco looked pointedly at the ceiling.



"A common misconception," Severus said, brushing his hair out of his face to stare into the apparently infinite depths of his stocking. "The superiority the true Pureblood is so smugly convinced of is more cultural than chromosomal. Their fear is less that of being polluted by inferior genes than it is of new Muggle-inspired ideas. The earlier children are incorporated into magical society, the less the impact of their time among Muggles on society as a whole, which was why they weren\'t keen on signing an agreement to stop snatching Muggle children, whether Napoleon was breathing down the necks of the mixed bloods or not."



"So we got Santa Claus in concession," said Draco brightly.



"Who is responsible financially?" Hermione\'s mother asked, true to form. Admittedly it was a good question.



"There was an international fund set up by the nations who took part in the Amiens Accord," Severus said, startling a bit as a singularly soft-looking brown puppy, Labrador as far as Hermione could guess, wiggled out of the sock, a strange sight under any circumstance. "1965. I asked for a dog for Christmas 1965."



He lifted said dog, his long white fingers grasping its round belly and peered, both brows arched, into its face. Instantaneously a long red tongue took a generous swipe across Severus\' cheek. Hermione cringed, fully expecting him to either strike the puppy or hurl it across the room or at least say something nasty, none of which were very nice options, but all seemed within the realm of possibility. Instead, the strangest thing happened; a grin curled like ball lightning in the corners of Severus\' mouth before he covered it with a stern expression.



He turned the dog upside down casually and lifted its tail. "It\'s a bitch," he said before turning it right side round again. "Look, Miss, we have a crowded household already, and a small dog such as yourself is easily disposed of, so we will have no shitting or pissing indoors and much less digging the garden all to hell. The neighbor two doors down takes the paper; I would be kindly disposed by a dog with initiative, a dog who was able to retrieve said paper before it finds its way into the neighbor\'s hands."



Hermione would certainly have had a list of probing questions if she hadn\'t at that exact moment peered into her stocking and found, poking out amidst a sea of perfectly ripe strawberries, a new wand.



She failed to note the fact that after the puppy, Severus tied his sock closed with a rather solid looking knot.





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Before New Year\'s, Hermione noticed her father giving Severus strange sideways looks from across the room. Later the consensus held that Dr. and Dr. Granger hadn\'t left the great state of Texas a moment too soon.





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Miss, as the Labrador retriever continued to be called, proved herself to be singularly devoted to her master, not only stealing a variety of newspapers for his perusal, but insisting on accompanying him to the bar each evening and waiting faithfully at the back door until he emerged.



She slept at the foot of his bed, warming Hermione\'s cold feet, was friendly to the rest of the household, and even saw fit to have a cuddle with Whack the Cat when she was cruelly exiled from the bedroom by her otherwise occupied object of adoration.



By New Year\'s, she had learned to fetch cigarettes on command without crushing the packet.





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Severus Snape counted his life changed from that Christmas; it wasn\'t as if he had much of a choice, getting everything one ever wanted was like that. To be shittily honest, the entire business left him at something of a loss.



Severus Snape was, by definition, a chap who did not get everything he ever wanted. As a rule, Severus Snape did not get anything he wanted, ever.



Severus Snape did not fall into the arms of a charming young witch at the end of a long day. Severus Snape absolutely did not fall into the arms of a charming young witch who loved him. In a bed. With clean sheets. Severus Snape had an uncomfortable half-naked fumble with drunk Muggles who refused to meet his eyes afterwards.



Severus Snape hid from Santa Claus because Christmas was for sentimental cunts, and besides, his cousin Edburga assured him the Fat Man had nothing but a sock full of reindeer dung for dirty Half-Bloods.



Dogs bit Severus Snape when they could get at him. Severus Snape did not have a faithful hound who brought him newspapers and cigarettes on command.



So it was that on that particular night, around 3 a.m. as he left work and was greeted by a single happy bark and joyfully wagging tail, the wizard once known as Severus Snape wondered whose life he was now living.



It wasn\'t as if he wanted his old life back. No, he didn\'t relish having his dick ground into the dirt repeatedly, either literally or metaphorically. He didn\'t care if he never heard the name of Severus Snape again, but he wondered how the hell one went about being Stephen Liston, with a loving wife and a faithful dog. Stephen Liston who didn\'t have the Dark Mark or two masters bent on tearing him in half. Stephen Liston: who was not wanted for murder. He felt like a pretender, waiting for Old Bill to come with the cuffs and return his good fortune to its rightful owner.



Somehow the fact that it was his birthday made the nebulous anxiety worse. No doubt Hermione would do something genuinely nice, something he would like.



It was difficult to parse. He wanted it, sweet balls of Merlin, how he wanted every single drop of happiness he could wring out of this life or any other. At the same time, it didn\'t sit easy. A feeling of horror he could not explain gripped him.



He needed a drink.



Or not.



A hangover would not improve whatever it was Hermione had planned. What he really wanted was a look at the Daily Prophet, his one comfort besides drink, tobacco, and masturbation during his years at Hogwarts. He had no idea why, but it seemed like a comfortingly unreachable object to covet.



He had managed to stuff the still-knotted sock into his jacket pocket Christmas morning, though it had taken some effort.



It would be an interesting experiment to see if more than containing all his past desires, the lump of Muggle-made cotton could also anticipate desires yet to come.



Miss laid her muzzle on his thigh as if beseeching him to think better of it.



Thumbing his nose at Severus Snape and his hard-learned caution, Stephen Liston wrenched the sock from his pocket; it appeared to have shrunk somewhat. Perhaps the magic was gone, meant for the holiday only. Now that was Severus Snape\'s sort of luck. Still, Stephen Liston would poke it with a stick and see if it blew up in his face. Could it be that it was merely his desires that had receded?



"Happy Birthday to Me," he sang softly.



Taking a deep breath, he untied the knotted fabric and plunged his hand inside. A cold shiver that had nothing to do with the wind howling outside the car spread through his body as his fingers grasped paper.



He pulled the newspaper from the stocking in a crumpled wad, wondering what sort of news the Dark Lord would allow to be printed.



His eyes jumped about the pages as he did his best to smooth the pages into some semblance of readable order.



"I WILL BRING THE HEADMASTER\'S KILLER TO JUSTICE,\'\' VOWS MINISTER LONGBOTTOM.



Severus couldn\'t help himself; he threw up, just a bit, in his mouth when he read the words.



He tried to read the rest of the article but "Minister for Magic, Neville Longbottom, the very same strapping young hero who vanquished the late Lord Voldemort in the recent wars, has promised to bring Albus Dumbledore\'s killer to justice. Severus Snape and his accomplice, Draco Malfoy, are among the last Death Eaters remaining at large," was as far as he got. He was stopped by a particularly unflattering picture of himself scowling, in chains, from the first war. Beside it was a much larger image of Longbottom, his chest puffed up and a grim smile on his face pushing his hair out of his eyes.



The desire to philosophize left him without adieu. He tossed both the paper and his hopelessly misshapen sock out the window. All he could do was drive. He had no idea where.







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Author\'s Note: Many Thanks to Lora for giving my work a home on the internet, and To Shiv, for intelligent and insightful help with this story far beyond the name of Beta