The Pact

Though a roaring fire crackled in the depths of the Slytherin common room beneath the lake, the damp stone walls still clung to cold like a curse.

"This is my first Christmas not going home. I suppose that makes it... special," Abraxas muttered, curled in a chair and studying the tag on his gift box as if it might hex him.

Only after some hesitation did he finally lift the long, fuzzy creature and drape it around his neck. It was Pandora's Christmas gift—a Puffcurl.

Its vivid, flame-colored fur was as soft as velvet. The creature clung obediently to Abraxas like an elongated Kneazle kitten.

"Ohh," he sighed in pleasure, his face relaxing. "It heats up too? Merlin's beard, this is brilliant. I should stock some at my shop—this'd sell faster than Fanged Frisbees."

The Puffcurl, sensing his delight, began to hum a strange little tune.

But then, suddenly, the creature lifted its head, extended a long pink tongue like a serpent, and shot it straight into Abraxas's nostril.

"Urf—" He gasped, nearly choking, instinctively yanking it off. Eyes wide with disbelief, he muttered, "Bloody hell, what is it doing…"

"Don't—!" he shrieked once he realized what the Puffcurl had extracted on the tip of its tongue. "Eugh—!"

Too late. The Puffcurl slurped the nasal treasure back into its mouth, swallowed with gusto, and snuggled contentedly into a tight coil on the armrest.

"It's only supposed to do that when I'm asleep," Abraxas groaned, staring at it with horror. "At least then I don't have to see it!"

"You've clearly done well in Care of Magical Creatures," Snape said lazily, conjuring himself a cup of steaming tea with a flick of his wand and sipping it with smug satisfaction. "Care to guess why I didn't receive such a gift?"

Abraxas blanched. "Wait—you don't mean—it hasn't—hasn't done that to you too?!"

"Ugh—don't be disgusting," Snape replied, scowling. "That one's a new breed."

"Right, right," Abraxas mumbled, resigned, as he picked the creature up again and draped it back around his neck. "My own creation after all… Just stay in the dorm, okay, little freak?"

Presents were piled high before both of them, waiting to be unwrapped.

Snape had even received a hand-knit, thick, bright green jumper from Mrs. Weasley, along with a large box of homemade fudge.

Of course, he'd taken the time to choose proper gifts for the Weasley children as well.

To the Burrow, he'd sent a Honeydukes Christmas hamper, two toy broomsticks, and for Percy—a personally selected copy of How to Gain Power as a Prefect.

On Boxing Day, Snape borrowed the Headmaster's fireplace.

Though he hadn't returned for Christmas, Eileen had written saying she was looking forward to seeing him for his birthday.

Stepping into the emerald flames, he called, "Ottery St. Catchpole!"

The fire consumed him instantly. He spun past blurred visions of other wizarding homes, none staying long enough to focus, until at last he slowed and landed neatly in the fireplace of the village post office.

Outside, snow blanketed the hills and rooftops, chimney smoke curling peacefully into the sky.

Snape spotted his house in the distance. The garden hedge had grown tall and thick—finally dense enough, he hoped, to keep out the gnomes.

Eileen was already bustling in the kitchen, apron on, preparing a proper feast. She knew he was coming.

On the morning of January ninth, a flurry of owls woke him before dawn, hooting and flapping as they delivered a heap of birthday gifts.

"Happy seventeenth, Severus," Eileen called gently over the sound of sizzling pans.

Her gift sat on the table—a beautiful silver watch. The face was painted with a soft cloud, and tiny birds darted in and out of its surface.

In the wizarding world, it was tradition for a parent or guardian to gift a watch when their child came of age.

Abraxas's present, wrapped in an oversized parcel, turned out to be a complete twelve-volume set of The Enchantress's Guide to Wooing Witches. In a world where even fireplaces could be lit with a spell, Snape had no idea what use anyone could find for such reading material.

Pandora had gifted him a custom-enchanted shaving razor. He had no intention of using it. Trusting that odd contraption near his neck seemed like a spectacularly poor decision.

Thus, Snape spent a few days indulging in lazy domestic bliss.

He gleefully hexed the gnomes from the garden, tossing them over the hillside. He even plowed the garden magically, though he was eventually forced—at wand-point from Eileen—to transfigure the hound-shaped chairs back into their original form.

Time passed swiftly. Soon, it was time to return.

Snape left the warmth of the cottage behind and made his way downhill through the biting cold, traveling via the village post office back to Hogwarts.

"Good evening, Professor," he said as he stepped from the flames into the Headmaster's office.

Dumbledore sat at his desk, surrounded by muggle magazines and balls of yarn. He looked up from his knitting needles, a warm smile on his face.

"Good evening, Severus. And happy birthday."

"Thank you, sir." Snape dusted off his robes and cleaned the carpet with a neat flick of his wand. "Before I left, I asked you something. Have you considered it?"

Dumbledore regarded him quietly for a moment before answering with solemn clarity:

"I believe I have. You've earned that right—or rather, that responsibility."

"Very well, Professor. It's a promise then," Snape replied, calm and composed. "I'm ready whenever you decide it's time to go in search of them."

After leaving the Headmaster's office, Snape found himself wandering toward a window.

Beyond the glass, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of crimson and gold. The snow on the grounds looked even deeper than it had back in Ottery St. Catchpole.

Far in the distance, Hagrid stood at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, tenderly feeding a group of Hippogriffs.