Digital Quill :: Fiction with Flair

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Harry Potter
Santa Severus Snape by Shiv5468 [Reviews - 2] [1004 hits]

It was all Severus’ fault.

It was always Severus’ fault, he thought sourly. From the fall of man to the rise of Voldemort, somewhere along the line he would be implicated. He was the archetypal can-carrier for Hogwarts staff and pupils, and, if it wasn’t for Fudge, he’d be filling the position for the entire magical world.

He failed to see how he could be blamed for the unfortunate concatenation of events that had led inexorably from him having a day off with a stinking cold – the first day off in ten years, mind you – to Albus taking over his classes, and failing to supervise them adequately, and thence to being caught in an all-too-forseeable accident, leading to the Headmaster’s immobilisation in a hospital bed at the mercy of Poppy Pomfrey.

The first he’d known of it was when he’d been summoned from his Bed of Pain to the Infirmary and had been expected to guess what the effects would be of the purple slime now covering half of the first year Gryffindors and all of Albus.

Albus had apparently decided to nobly sacrifice himself for the good of the school, and thrown himself over the cauldron as a human shield. The more sensible approach would have been to cast a shielding charm or, failing that, throw a Hufflepuff over the cauldron.

Severus knew from bitter experience how difficult it was to remove potions stains from clothes.

“What do you think it is?” asked Poppy.

“How the hell would I know?” he replied, wondering where his hanky was. His eyes were watering, and he didn’t want anyone to think that he was upset about Albus.

This perfectly reasonable response, at least to his mind, received a very frosty reception. “Well find out then,” Poppy snarled. “This is all your fault.”

“How is this my fault?” he replied magisterially, his attitude only mildly undermined by the occasional sniff.

Poppy didn’t have an answer for that so she gave him a filthy look, and ordered him out of the Infirmary so her patients could get some peace and quiet.

Severus clearly needed to speak to Malfoy if he wanted to get to the bottom of this occurrence. Lucius Malfoy, named after his grandfather in a sickening display of obsequiousness, may only be 12 but he was the most likely culprit. Not that he would have got his hands dirty himself, oh no, but he would have been the guiding force, the eminence grise, the mastermind behind it all. Failing that, if he hadn’t been involved, he would at least know who was responsible and could be persuaded to snitch with very little encouragement.

If Severus played his cards right, the little scrote might just cough to a couple of other pranks, in the hope that he would get a reduced sentence for the combined offences, and so boost Severus’ clear up rate. Severus had learned this technique from listening to Moody’s reminiscences and wasn’t too proud to use a technique that had been employed to such good effect by Aurors just because he hadn't thought of it himself.

There were days when Severus thought teaching at a boarding school was very much like being a governor of a maximum-security establishment such as Azkaban, only without the Dementors. That was on a good day. On a bad day he thought that the comparison was entirely accurate and that Trelawney was some sub-species of Dementor.

Before summoning Malfoy to his office, he had to find a hanky. He may not be able to turn off the Snot Tap his nose had turned into – and he thought Poppy’s comments about his obvious capacity for overproduction in that department both uncalled for and unkind – but he would at least maintain a semblance of dignity.

Hanky found, a hearty blow effected, he settled himself behind his desk and despatched a house elf to summon Young Mr Malfoy.

Young Lucius was barely recognisable as a Malfoy, all dark hair, and a less than patrician nose, taking after his mother’s side of the family. Draco had married the girl, whatever-her-name-was, over strenuous objections from his parents, and had apparently never regretted the decision, living in a kind of domestic contentment that Severus rather envied.

Unkind rumour suggested that there had been some sort of Snape input into his genes, hence the decision to name him after his grandfather and drive home the message that he was a Malfoy. No one looking into those grey eyes could doubt it; they were just as cold and distant as Old Lucius could have hoped for.

Snape had it on good authority that Lucius wasn’t happy being called Old Lucius. Not happy at all.

Judging from the lad’s behaviour, this delicate compliment had been duly rewarded, and the rift between father and son healed. Young Lucius had been duly taken under Old Lucius’s wing, and indoctrinated to the Malfoy Way, with the result that he was arrogant, obnoxious and underhanded, and believed that the World owed him a living. He seemed to think that these qualities made him the sine qua non of Slytherin and Professor Snape’s pet student.

It was a shame that didn’t extend to keeping him on a lead or the use of a muzzle.

This expectation of preferential treatment was so deeply engrained, that a mere year’s exposure to Severus’ teaching style had yet to knock some sense into him.

“Mr Malfoy, how good of you to join me.” Sarcasm was wasted on the lad; he took that comment at face value.

“Professor,” Lucius acknowledged with a composed air.

“I’m sure you know why you’re here.”

“Not at all, Professor,” Malfoy said, all limpid innocence and sincerity. You could almost see the metaphorical halo shining behind him.

“Potions. This morning. Purple slime? Is any of this ringing any bells?”

“Certainly I was in Potions this morning,” Malfoy said airily. “I do recall there being some sort of accident, but what can you expect when they allow someone inexperienced in the subtle art of potions to take a class. I don’t see why you’d want to see me about that, sir?”

Severus wouldn’t go so far as to say that flattery was wasted on him, he was no more immune to the charm of a compliment than the next person but rather less likely to experience it. It’s just that he would prefer it to be a little more subtle and not laid on with a trowel, or so patently false. Still, there was no need point in explaining this point of view to the boy, and dealing with the inevitable protestations of sincerity. He wanted a quick solution to the problem. He didn’t particularly care who had done what to whom, and as far as he was concerned, Albus was in charge of the class, and it was therefore his responsibility to sort it out. Once he was vertical again anyway.

Having to discipline his Slytherins might lead the Headmaster to a better appreciation of his methods for keeping order in lessons, and stop the constant references on his Annual Appraisal form for the need to work on his communication skills. His communication skills were fine, thank you: he talked; they listened. If they didn’t listen the first time, it might be necessary to shout.

Shouting worked. He hadn’t had a potions accident in twenty years. Not even with Neville Longbottom in his class. A point he intended to make to Albus at his next pay review.

“Mr Malfoy, I know you were responsible. I’m tired. I’m poorly. I want to go back to bed with a hot water bottle, a box of tissues and a half bottle of Firewhiskey. I do not want to spend my afternoon poncing around in my lab trying to work out what you’ve done to the Headmaster. So, I’m prepared to offer you a deal. You tell me what happened on a no-names basis – as a disinterested eye-witness, shall we say – and I don’t write to your grandfather about your various wrongdoings this year.”

“Grandfather won’t care about that,” he said scornfully.

“I grant you he won’t care what you’ve been up to, but I can guarantee that he’ll be less than impressed by the way you’ve gone about things. You’ve been caught bang to rights on many occasions. Lucius may be many things, but he was never sloppy.”

The point was not lost on the boy. His smug self-assurance faltered, and was replaced by a slight frown as he worked out the consequences of no longer being the blue-eyed boy of the Malfoy patriarch.

Shouting worked, but sometimes blackmail was more effective.

“I may be able to help, sir,” he replied, radiating sincerity. “After all, it is in the best interests of the school to have the Headmaster back on his feet as soon as possible.”

Severus just hoped that the little sod would get on with it. His nose was tickling, indicating the arrival of another tidal wave of snot, and he would be on full sniffle in a couple of minutes. He wanted his bed, with the cooling charm for his pillow, and the warming charms for his feet, and he wanted it now. It might have been nice to have someone with soothing hands to pander to his every need, and offer him some sympathy and encouragement, but he’d settle for an alcoholic stupor.

“We were making a simple Soothing Potion this morning, sir. I noticed that Someone had added Stokley root to the potion. I can’t say who, sir; I’m sure you’ll understand that I can’t break my fellow students’ confidence.”

“You really are a cretin, aren’t you Malfoy?” Severus said conversationally.

“Sir?”

“Do you really think Aurors would give a damn about you not wanting to be a snitch?”

“Aurors, sir?”

“Aurors, Malfoy. Stokley root and purple slime can mean only one thing. Poison. Your little prank this morning managed to create one of the nastier poisons available, and only the quick thinking of the Headmaster saved the class from death and permanent injury.”

The boy was trying very hard to look unconcerned, obviously having been instructed on the Necessity to remain Suave at all times. “I never said it was me, sir?”

“What do you think will happen if the Headmaster dies?”

“Dies?” Malfoy abandoned any attempt at Suave and settled instead for Bunny in the Headlights.

“I’d say it was entirely possible. Which will mean Professor McGonagall would have to call in the Aurors to investigate a suspicious death, and which will mean that Potter will almost certainly be involved. Who do you think would be his prime suspect?”

The legendary Malfoy intellect was brought to bear on the question. “Erm, me, sir?”

Actually, it was more likely to be him, Severus thought, time having done nothing to diminish Potter’s dislike of him, but at least he had an alibi, and hadn’t even been within fifty feet of the accident when it happened. Not that that would stop Potter from insisting on giving him hell, just for old time’s sake.

“Let me see. Grandfather is an Infamous Death Eater, who only managed to escape more the Dementor’s kiss because he was still in Azkaban when Lord Voldemort fell, and a father who everyone assumes was a Death Eater and who Potter hates with a passion. I’d say that was a pretty fair assumption. All it would take is a quick swig of veritaserum and you’d be spilling your guts.”

“You won’t tell anyone, will you sir?” Malfoy asked.

Severus would dearly like to see the blame for this morning’s fiasco pinned where it truly belonged, but McGonagall would be unbearable and you never knew when you’d need a favour – or two – from the Malfoys. “No,” he said, suppressing a sniff. “Just try to control your natural urges to bring a period to your fellow students’ existence in future.”

Lucius nodded. He didn’t need to be told that he Owed Severus a Favour now; he was Slytherin enough to know that you got nothing for nothing in this world.

Severus opened a drawer, and abstracted a pink bottle of sugared water. He had no idea what happened when you added Stokley Root to Soothing Potions, but it was unlikely to be anything serious. It would take too long to explain this to Poppy, who would no doubt argue that waiting and seeing what happened to the Headmaster was an unacceptable diagnostic tool, so it was simpler to give her a placebo. Not to mention the leverage that he now had over the youngest Malfoy. “Take this to the Infirmary and give it to Madame Pomfrey – with my compliments – and tell her to administer it to the Headmaster at the rate of three drops mixed in water, every three hours.”

“Yes, sir. And thank you sir,” Lucius said earnestly, heading towards the door at a brisk trot.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Severus erected the sort of Wards that would keep a Dark Lord at bay for several months, and went in search of his bed leaving a trail of clothes behind him.

He punched his pillow into a more pleasing shape, wrapped the counterpane around him until only his nose was visible and he resembled nothing more than a chrysalis, and settled down for a nap.

Sod Poppy. Sod Albus. Sod Malfoy Senior, Junior and Intermediate. And sod Potter for good measure.

He felt marginally less grumpy when he woke the next day. Which, as his colleagues were quick to discover, was not the same as saying that he wasn’t grumpy at all.

The Snot Tap having dried to a mere trickle, his sense of smell and taste had returned, and he was busily engaged in consuming an enormous, if seriously unhealthy, breakfast when Poppy interrupted him. “Severus, I need you to drop into the Infirmary and look at Albus. That potion seems to have done the trick, but there are one or two residual problems that I need your advice on.”

He swallowed his bacon before replying waspishly, “There’s no need to thank me, Poppy. It was what anyone would have done: bravely battling illness to produce a cure, regardless of the cost to myself.”

She gave him a long, level look that would have reduced a lesser man to blushing confusion. “Just wait and see,” she said. “Just wait and see Albus’ condition before you start patting yourself on the back.”

That sounded ominous, so he restricted himself to just one more helping of scrambled eggs.

When he arrived at the Infirmary, Poppy was waiting for him with arms crossed and a tapping foot. The children who had been making the place look untidy on his previous visit, had been released into the wild, and the ward was empty apart from the last bed which had screens pulled round it.

This was obviously Albus’ sickbed, and this was the best that Poppy could do to offer him some sort of privacy. Severus was beginning to worry. What on earth was so terrible that prevented the Headmaster from returning to his own rooms and being cared for by a House Elf or two?

“Right,” said Poppy. “Now, before you go in there, I want you to promise that you won’t display any reaction to what you see when you open the screens. Not a flicker.”

He hardly dared ask. He nodded his agreement, stepped bravely forward and peered cautiously round the screen.

He blinked.

No. That didn’t make the horrible vision go away. It couldn’t be denied; the evidence was all there before him.

Albus was Purple.

From the top of his delicately mauve hair to his presumably violet toenails, Albus was purple.

Severus was grateful for all the hours he had spent in the company of a scaly overlord; not by the slightest flicker did he reveal his hysterical desire to laugh.

“Albus, how are you?” he asked evenly.

Albus glared at him suspiciously, searching for any sign that Severus was deriving any amusement from his situation. “As you can see, I’m not doing very well.”

“You do look a trifle peaky,” Severus replied blandly.

Albus glared at him. “Poppy tells me that this is likely to last for a month or so. Which isn’t really a problem as regards the school. Minerva is always telling me that I need to take a holiday, so I shall, and she’s more than capable of running the school. There’s only a couple of weeks to the end of term, and then it’s the Christmas holidays.”

Severus made a noncommittal grunt.

“However, there are certain tasks that I I can’t delegate to Minerva, and I think you’re best placed to sort it out for me.” Albus looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to pick up the conversational snitch.

He was beginning to get a bad feeling about this. If he hadn’t been summoned to advise on how to remove the purple stains, and he couldn’t think of anything more helpful than bathe in bleach, then he was going to be asked some other favour. Yes, he was stuck at Hogwarts over Christmas, but that didn’t mean he was up for anything more energetic than eating, drinking and contemplating his expanding waistline.

Albus looked grave.

Here it comes, Severus thought. I’ll lay you a fiver it has something to do with Potter, or … he couldn’t think of anything he would like to do less than see Potter again.

“I have a confession to make. Something that I’ve been keeping from you all these years.”

Oh fuck. Please don’t decide to come out of the closet now. We all know you’re gayer than a house full of monkeys on acid. We just don’t want to know the sordid details.

“I am Santa Claus.”

Well, that was unexpected. Clearly Albus wasn’t merely Purple, but also deranged. “Of course you are Albus,” Severus said soothingly. “It’s the beard, isn’t it? It gives you away every time.”

“I don’t mean I’m actually Santa Claus,” snapped Albus. “I’m only 130 you know, not some semi-mythical and eternal figure. I mean, that several years ago I successfully bid for the rights to operate the Santa Claus franchise in the UK.”

“What Santa Claus franchise?” he asked, bewildered, allowing Albus’ inexactitude over his age to pass unchallenged.

“Well, obviously the idea of Father Christmas being able to go round the world in one night and deliver all those presents is clearly ridiculous. I mean, it worked at first, but as populations have grown, and more and more people believe in him, well, it’s just become too much. So, decade or so, wizards of a certain standing are allowed to tender for the position of Santa Claus for their country. This last time round, I was successful, so I’ve got to see to the deliveries on Christmas Eve. Obviously, I can’t do it, so I thought you could do the honours.”

“Me? Deliver presents? To the whole of the UK?” Severus sat down on the edge of the bed, desperately trying to think of a way out of this dreadful situation. It seemed there were worse things than talking to Potter. “Why can’t you do it?”

“I’m purple. Have you ever seen a purple Santa?”

“Well, can’t you cast a glamour or something?” He hadn’t seen a purple Santa and he had to admit it would clash dreadfully with the red suit. Green would have been much more tasteful. Positively Christmassy in fact.

Albus shook his head. “We’ve tried. Nothing lasts for longer than ten minutes or so, and then, bang, I’m purple again.”

Severus looked at Albus in horror. “There must be someone else who can do it?” he asked plaintively. “Minerva, for instance, she’s organised and she’s always struck me as someone who actually likes the little bleeders, I mean, children.”

Albus seemed to have recovered that horrible twinkle in his eye that usually meant trouble for some poor sod. “Severus, much as I admire Minerva’s many good qualities, she is manifestly unsuited to the role of Santa Claus. It is Father Christmas and not Mother Christmas, after all.”

“But she could wear a glamour, or a charm, or something. With a pillow down her trousers and a fake beard, no one will know.”

“I will know,” Albus said firmly. “I will know that we delivered an inferior service, and cheated all those children out of the true meaning of Christmas.”

“But Headmaster,” he whined.

“But nothing, Severus. I have spoken.”

When Albus took that tone of voice there was nothing to be done but go along with it. He was lumbered with the job now, and could kiss his peaceful Christmas goodbye.

Albus sometimes suggested that his middle name was Ebenezer. He denied it; Scrooge was an amateur.

Severus thought that ‘A Christmas Carol’ made a promising start but had rapidly descended into a morass of cheap moralising and gross sentimentality. All that was really required for a happy ending was the banishment of the ghosts, which any competent Wizard could have achieved easily, and the replacement of the skiving Bob Cratchett with a couple of House Elves, thereby removing the source of the complaints and doubtless improving the quality of the work. Scrooge would then have been able to devote his time to research and reading, without the constant complaints of people who seemed to have vinegar and not blood running in their veins.

Tiny Tim was obviously swinging the lead.

He therefore considered himself to be the least suitable candidate in history for the role of Father Christmas, including Genghiz Khan.

Before Albus had disappeared to parts unknown for his holiday, he had provided him with the list of Good Children, which seemed to him to be inordinately long. Father Christmas’ intelligence service was clearly lacking, and probably involved some sort of self-certification process, because the list included the names of several children that he knew for a fact to have been naughty during the course of the year because he had awarded them detention.

And surely Terence Goyle, though clearly as stupid as his elder brother, was far too old to be still believing in Father Christmas at 14?

He tried to think of all the things he knew about Father Christmas. Admittedly it wasn’t much. He’d been noticeably absent from his life, presumably on the basis of his bad behaviour. It’s what his father had always said, though he wasn’t always the most reliable person. Maybe the cheap sod had nicked the presents and flogged them off, so he could have a drink or five.

So, there was something about stockings hung up on the chimney…..

How did that work in Muggle houses? Arthur Weasley had told him all about this new thing called central heating that muggles were using instead of open fires, which sounded much more practical than open fires with their nasty smells, their tendency to go out at most inconvenient moments, and which only warmed a patch of room three feet in front of it. The only thing he’d found to combat the cold of Hogwarts in the depths of a Scottish winter was warming charms on his long johns, double thickness robes, and the occasionally nip of Firewhiskey.

Sod it, next year he was going away for the Christmas holidays; somewhere warm with golden sands, and a beach hut, and perhaps the odd scantily clad female he could admire from afar. Admiring close up would be nice too, but he didn’t want to be greedy.

Ok, so stockings on the chimney or radiator (as appropriate), what else?

Red suit – check.

Stupid hat – check.

Presents – due to be delivered tomorrow.

Method of transport – sleigh and reindeers, also due to be delivered tomorrow.

Elves?

He checked on the list. There was nothing about Elves here, nothing at all. Maybe they turned up with the presents? He bloody hoped so. Surely Albus didn’t expect him to do the entire run by himself. Even with the use of a time turner, it would take weeks to get that little lot sorted out. If they didn’t he’d just have to use the Hogwarts Elves and be damned to this new Working Time Directive the Ministry had just issued. Bloody nonsense. It wasn’t as if anyone had limited his hours to 48 working hours per week, and the last time he’d checked he was human!

Typical of Hermione Granger to spend so much time working for the benefit of House Elves who neither needed nor desired her interference, and so little time protecting the rights of poor hardworking teachers who could actually do with some time off.

By rights she should be down here protesting the cruel treatment of potions masters forced to perform duties wholly outside their teaching contract, and without the benefit of overtime. And there should definitely be a law against being forced to wear stupid bloody costumes and humiliating yourself in public.

The outfit was charmed to be impervious to fire – he’d tested that himself with a little Incendio – so that he could climb down chimneys without risk of self-immolation. The suit was appalling; it was so Gryffindor. It was clear it wouldn’t fit him. It had been made to fit Albus’ more generous figure. Albus’ Sherbert Lemon problem had escalated over the course of Potter’s Seventh Year. He’d said he could stop anytime he wanted, but had never managed to do so, and now was on a very strict maintenance regime that kept the sugar highs to a bare minimum but nothing seemed to shift the weight. It wouldn’t be surprising to find that he had illicit stashes of the sweeties hidden all over the castle, and was still sucking them on the sly, though he’d never been caught doing it.

Severus looked at himself in the mirror and thought he looked a complete pillock. It was hard to imagine circumstances in which the Head of Slytherin would not look a complete pillock dressed in red, with white fur trim, but the whole air of pillockry was exacerbated by the fact that the trousers were far too large for him – even with a pillow tucked down the front – whilst managing not to reach his ankles.

He had nice ankles. He had nice legs actually, but they didn’t show to advantage stuck out of the end of two red … red … things. He couldn’t think of a word awful enough to convey the depths of his revulsion for these bifurcated monstrosities. He hoped that his tailor never found out about this, or he could be stricken from the list of customers.

He was supposed to look avuncular and jolly in the damned thing, not like some demented … No, his appearance defied description. He looked like nothing else on earth.

He twisted and turned, trying to see if there was any angle from which he didn’t look stupid, to no avail. So, getting the damned thing altered was a priority, which meant letting Minerva in on the Big Secret.

Which made him think a bit.

Albus had obviously appointed him Father Christmas in an executive capacity, which clearly meant his duties would tend towards the supervisory. Severus had heard of peace on earth and goodwill to men, but never seen it in practice. As far as he was concerned, if his Christmas was going to be ruined, so was everybody else’s. What he needed to do was find Santa’s Little Helpers. And if he couldn’t find volunteers, he was going to settle for conscripts.

It wasn’t just the House Elves who should be making themselves useful over the festive period. There were any number of teachers lying around, slacking off, and who would be only too delighted to offer their services, especially if he told them that Dumbledore had insisted. What a shame he wasn’t around any more to have his orders questioned.

Severus smirked at his reflection in the mirror. Wasn’t there some sort of catchphrase for Santa? Oh yes, now he had it.

Ho. Ho. Sniff. Ho.

Sniff.

Either Severus was getting old, or infirmity was slowing him down. He devoutly hoped that it was the latter, or soon people would be calling him Old Severus. Or worse, Good Old Severus.

His plans to spread the joy of Christmas amongst his colleagues had been baulked at every opportunity. Flitwick was the obvious first choice. He was the right size for an elf, frankly had the right ears for being an elf, and his ability at charms would have made him invaluable.

It wasn’t to be. Flitwick would have loved to help but had unfortunately booked his holidays that very afternoon, and was waiting on the Owl to deliver his tickets even as they spoke. Severus suspected Flitwick of dissembling, but he couldn’t prove it. If Flitwick wasn’t telling the truth, then he soon would be: five minutes after their little chat he’d be on the Floo to the Wizarding travel agents booking a fortnight in Anywhere that wasn’t Hogwarts.

He hoped he got a dicky tummy / sunburn / chilblains / the dreaded lurgi (delete and / combine as appropriate).

Minerva did at least agree to modify the Santa suit, so that his legs were decently covered, though he could have done without the backchat about only doing it for the sake of the poor little kiddies who she didn’t want to see traumatised by the sight of his ankles. He still looked a pillock in the suit, but at least it wasn’t a bare-ankled pillock.

However, she proved obdurate on the subject of helping him any further, saying that she had enough to keep her busy at Hogwarts.

Skiver.

“Minerva,” he said. “It isn’t as if being Headmaster is hard work, even in term time, so I don’t think your duties as Acting Headmaster are going to be taxing.”

“You’re not the only one that Albus is taking advantage of,” she replied waspishly. “He’s left me all of this term’s and most of next term’s administration to get through before he gets back, including compiling the exam statistics. It’s a good month’s work, you know.”

“It’s nothing compared to having to dress up in that, and parade round the countryside in the freezing cold to give children presents.”

“It’s not that bad, Severus. It’s not as if you’ll actually see any of the children. They’ll all be tucked up in bed, pretending that they’re asleep.”

Severus brightened at that. He hadn't really thought that aspect through. The whole point of being Santa is that you were supposed to slip in and out unobserved, so the chances of anyone seeing him were small, and if anyone did see him, he’d be perfectly within his rights to Obliviate them and no one could argue that he was being horrible and cruel and nasty. It was in the job description.

And there were still members of Staff who he had yet to approach. News had spread though, and his fellow teachers were mysteriously unavailable, apart from Binns who was cheerfully aware that he would be of no use at all, and Trelawney.

By now he was desperate enough to consider asking for Trelawney’s help.

He didn’t understand a word of Trelawney’s diatribe in reply, though the gist of it appeared to be that she wouldn’t give him the steam off her piss. Something about refusing to have anything to do with an institution that replicated the patriarchal hierarchies of societal norms rather than challenging them, which made him blink a bit before he’d arranged the words into a comprehensible sentence.

Trelawney had not only swallowed a dictionary, but also had her consciousness raised.

“You mean you want to be Father Christmas?” he said, entirely happy to hand over the entire night’s proceedings to her.

Unfortunately, Trelawney chose to interpret his natural surprise that someone would actually want to volunteer for hard work, as horror that a mere woman should attempt such a demanding role.

“I want to be Mother Christmas,” she said, poking a bony finger into his arm with unnecessary vigour. “I want to reclaim the archetype and refigure it into a feminine-friendly exemplar. Women, after all, bear the primary child care role. Have you any idea how insulting it is that it’s a male figure who brings these gifts, when the reality is that it’s the women of the family who will be doing all the work over Christmas?”

“Well, when you put it like that, I can see your point,” he said. “Obviously the time has come to allow a female to take over the role. I expect it was originally a female figure,” he continued, suddenly struck by inspiration. He’d listened to – well, listened would be going too far, had been forced to endure being lectured would be closer to the mark – Trelawney in the past, and knew exactly which buttons to press. “After all, if you look at the Santa Claus’ figure that stomach is clearly related to some fertility goddess, wouldn’t you say? And then later, misogynistic forces, have simply added a beard to obscure the original meanings of the figure.”

He wondered whether that was laying it on too thick, but apparently not. Trelawney beamed at him. “You have been listening to what I’ve been saying all this time. Oh, Severus, I’m touched.”

No arguments there, he thought.

“Now we’ve had this little chat, Sybill, I do worry whether I ought to take on the role at all. I mean, Albus did delegate the task to me, but it would also be wrong of me to perpetuate this injustice. I don’t know what to do for the best.” He tried to look as if his conscience were troubling him, but settled for looking dyspeptic. It was close enough for the casual observer.

“Hmmm, that is a dilemma, but I do think you should listen to your conscience.”

Severus looked thoughtfully into the middle distance. “I don’t suppose you’d consider doing me a very great favour, and do the honours would you Sybill?” As if this wasn’t what she’d been angling for, for the last ten minutes.

“Severus, I’d be delighted,” she replied, reaching out to pat his hand in appreciation.

“Splendid,” he said in the jolly tone adopted by Albus when he’d managed to con someone into doing something for him. “The sleigh and presents are being dropped off later today, and I’ll hand over the arrangements to you then. It might be a good idea if you had a bit of a trial run with the sledge. I imagine it’s a bit tricky to manoeuvre.”

“I suppose you think I couldn’t drive it?” she said defensively. “That a mere woman couldn’t manage a complicated piece of machinery like that.”

“I have every confidence in you, Sybill,” he said soothingly. “Every confidence. It’s Albus, I don’t trust. You know how absentminded he gets sometimes. He’s bound to have forgotten something, and I don’t think you want to find out what it is when you’re ten thousand feet up in the air without a parachute charm.”

“Oh,” she said, her ire subsiding. “You’re right. Yes, a dry run is probably a good idea.”

“Shall we say three o’clock then?”

Sybill nodded. “That’ll give me time to find something to wear as well. We may as well do it properly.”

“Absolutely.”

Severus and Sybill parted on the best of terms. Trelawney’s mind filled with the excitement of robes and sleighs and finally getting a chance to do something more interesting than sniffing incense, something important, something memorable, that would show that she amounted something in the world.

Severus was wondering whether it was too early to celebrate.

Severus needed to find Hagrid to pass on the news about the change of plans.

It hadn’t been necessary to persuade Hagrid to get involved; he’d been champing at the bit. He’d been intrigued by the idea of looking after Santa’s reindeer, even though they weren’t up to his usual requirements in a pet of belligerence bordering on homicidal mania. “That Rudolf’s supposed to be a bit special, talking and all. I’ve never ‘ad a chance to ‘ave a little chat with a hanimal afore now. It’d give me a chance to find out what they’re really like.”

Severus had been quite happy for someone else to take on responsibility for shovelling shit, whether that was the metaphorical or literal shovelling of shit.

Severus knocked on the door to Hagrid’s hut, and waited impatiently for it to be answered. It was nippy outside the castle - nippier, anyway, as the Hogwarts itself was always nippy at this time of year - and he jiggled from foot to foot in an attempt to keep warm.

“Oh, there you are, Professor,” Hagrid said, opening the door. “Come on in; I’ve been expecting you.”

Severus stepped cautiously through the door. He’d never been invited into the cottage before and, his nostrils assailed by the most ghastly stench, he was determined to make this his last visit. “What on earth is that smell?”

“Ah.” Hagrid looked uneasy. “Well, you see it’s like this. A couple of right funny looking elves turned up this morning with the sleigh and all. They were a bit unfriendly-like, and wanted someone to sign for the delivery, an’ I said they should wait for you but they was in a ‘urry, and, well, I did.”

“What’s wrong with them Hagrid?” he said wearily. “There has to be something wrong with them, or you wouldn’t be looking like someone who’d lost a dragon and found a lizard.”

“It’s Rudolf, Professor. I think you should ‘ave a look at ‘im. ‘E seems a bit poorly.”

“I’m not a sodding veterinary Wizard, Hagrid. I couldn’t tell the difference between Reindeer distemper and the mange. If there’s something wrong with the brute, I’m sure you’d have a better chance at sorting it out than I would.” He sniffed the air again. There were familiar elements to the aroma, once you’d recovered from the initial assault on your nasal passages. Sulphur? Mint? And was that gunpowder?

Oh god, it was Hagrid’s patent remedy for hangovers, and Hagrid was looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed which could only mean one thing.

“Show me the sodding reindeer, Hagrid.”

The animals had been neatly corralled into a hastily erected addition to the cottage. A stone wall, at waist height, surrounded a beaten earth floor, with wattle and daub walls and a rudimentary thatch roof.

On one corner stood seven reindeer, muzzle to muzzle, and engaged in conversation. Periodically they would glance over at the other reindeer standing in splendid isolation in the far corner, leaning against the wall, and looking very poorly indeed.

“Well, now we know why he’s always got a red nose,” Severus said in disgust. “He’s drunk.”

“Who are you calling a drunk?” slurred the Reindeer. “I’m perfectly shober, I’ll have you know. I may have had a libation or two before commensh… commensh… shtarting out, but that wash jusht againsht the cold. I am not pished, I’ll have you know.”

“Yeah, and I bet you can stop any time you want,” Severus sneered. “We’ve heard that one somewhere before.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” said Rudolf, suddenly turning aggressive. “I’ll do you if you are, I’ll bloody do you.”

“You’ll have to stop leaning on the wall first. I don’t like your chances.”

Rudolf took a couple of tottering steps in the direction of Severus, and then realised that some of his legs were not co-operating fully. He looked down. “Would you look at that,” he said. “I’ve got eight legsh. Shurely thatsh not right. There’sh shomething wrong there. Help.” He made one last desperate attempt to organise his feet, failed utterly, took a step forward with his nonexistent legs, lurched forwards, collapsed to the floor in an untidy heap, and then began to snore stentoriously.

The other reindeer tutted, and turned their backs on their fallen comrade. From the disapproving looks, Severus deduced that they were female reindeer. He’d seen the same look on Minerva’s face after last year’s Staff Party. It wasn’t enough to create any sympathy for Rudolf. Severus may have been disgustingly drunk at the Party, but he’d known he had nothing to do the next day; no one had been relying on him to distribute presents to thousands of children.

He resisted the urge to kick the wretched animal with difficulty. “Pour a bucket of water over him, and see if you can get at least some of that vile mixture down his neck. Let’s see if we can get him at least vaguely sober before this afternoon. Sybill needs to take the sleigh out for a test drive, and I want him conscious and able to count his legs.”

He left Hagrid to it, and disappeared to the dungeons on search of a Headache potion and five minutes peace.

At least it couldn’t get any worse.

He really should have known better than to tempt fate with that kind of thought. Of course it could get worse, and did.

Sybill had been working on her costume. Sybill had very definite ideas on what Mother Christmas should be wearing, very definite ideas indeed. Not for her the red suit, not for her the tasteful long robes, no, she had elected to wear a Muggle outfit with a skirt so abbreviated it barely passed muster. A mini-skirt, he believed it was called, and it lived up to its name.

Quite how that fitted with her ideas about the sexual objectification of the male gaze he didn’t know, but he had to admit that her legs were surprisingly good.

“Well?” she said, nervously smoothing down her skirt. “What do you think?”

“Very nice, very nice indeed.” He dragged his eyes back to her face, slightly disturbed by his concupiscence.

“You don’t think it’s a bit too much?”

It was a bit too little, all in all. “Not at all. It’s a modern dress for a modern Mother Christmas. It’s a breath of fresh air.” Right up the flue. “Though we’ll have to apply extra warming charms to the sleigh to make sure you don’t get cold.”

Sybill allowed herself to be soothed and graciously accepted Severus’ arm and escort to the Quidditch Pitch, where the sleigh was ready and waiting for them with all eight reindeer hitched up. Rudolf was tending to the vertical, though he was listing slightly to the right and leaning against his companion in the traces.

Severus could only feel sympathy for the reindeer that had been placed behind Rudolf and the mephitic odours issuing from his rear.

Severus handed Sybill into the sleigh and, whilst she settled herself in and played with the reins, wandered round to the front to inspect the ailing leader. He was damp and shivering, and issuing a stream of foul-mouthed complaints to Hagrid.

“You can’t treat me like this, I’ll have you know. I’m the star. It’s me who gets the starring role, not this lot. They just get a throwaway mention; I’m in the title.”

Severus grasped him firmly by the ear, and hissed, “And if you don’t shut up and pull your finger out, you’re the one who’s going to be in the venison burger.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“He would,” said Hagrid. “Very short-tempered is the Professor ‘ere. Well known for it, and when ‘e loses ‘is temper, well you never know what ‘e’ll do. ‘E’s a bit of a bugger really.”

“Thank you for that glowing encomium, Hagrid. It’s always nice to be appreciated.”

“Eh?”

“Never mind.” Severus was pleased to see that Rudolf was looking chastened, in as much as it is possible for a reindeer to look anything more complicated than furry. He subsided to a barely audible litany of profanity, though his grumbling was receiving little in the way of support from his companions.

“Right, now we’ve got that settled, I assume none of the rest of you have anything to say?” he glared at each of the reindeer in turn, as if they were first year pupils being given their homework. No response was forthcoming. “Good.” It was nice to see that the old communication skills were working as well as usual.

He raised his hand, Sybill nodded she was ready, and then his hand came down in a sweeping arc. “Go! Go! Go!” he shouted.

The reaction was disappointing. Sybill flicked the reins in the time approved manner, but nothing happened. The reindeer shuffled their feet a bit and looked embarrassed.

“That’s not what you say,” Rudolf said smugly.

Hagrid gulped and backed away from the sleigh.

“Listen, you furry dipsomaniac. If I say go, you go, because if you don’t go, venison burger will be the least of your worries. I might well start with venison sausage, if you catch my drift.”

Rudolph’s eyes crossed; he did indeed catch Severus’ drift. “Alright, you lot,” he said. “On the count of three. One. Two. Three.”

The reindeer gathered themselves, and then leaped. The sleigh shot forward, catching Sybill unawares and she pitched backwards, dropping the reins, and cracking her head on the back of the sleigh with an audible thunk.

Hagrid grabbed the reins, preventing the sleigh from going any further.

“Shit,” snarled Severus. “If that daft cow is damaged in anyway, I’m having your hide on my wall and grinding your horns up to make third rate aphrodisiacs.”

Sybill was unconscious, with blood streaming from a nasty cut on the back of her head. He gingerly felt her skull, and was relieved to find that there was nothing unpleasantly squidgy. No bones broken then. He removed his robes, and tucked them underneath her head for support. “I’m off to find Pomfrey,” he said to Hagrid. “This looks serious. You keep an eye on that lot. And if she comes round, don’t let her move.”

Severus achieved an impressive turn of speed for a middle-aged man whose only exercise was creeping up on students and running away from Albus. He made it to the Infirmary in ten minutes flat, but could only gasp out, “Sybill, Quidditch Pitch, accident. Hurry.”

Pomfrey didn’t hang around for the unexpurgated version, just grabbed her emergency kit, and sprinted out of the ward muttering under her breath about Albus and his bloody stupid refusal to drop the anti-apparation wards.

Severus concentrated on getting his breath back and admiring the pretty purple and yellow splodges that were dancing before his eyes. He’d barely recovered, and was rummaging around in Poppy’s desk drawers for the medicinal brandy, when Sybill was brought in on a stretcher protesting feebly that she was fine and she could walk.

“I’ll be the judge of whether you’re fine or not,” Poppy said with some asperity. “I’m the mediwitch here.”

Sybill was manhandled onto a bed and screens erected, from behind which issued an assortment of moans, groans, and a high-pitched and rather indignant squeal whenever Poppy found a particularly sore spot.

Poppy emerged half an hour later, to inform Severus that Sybill was not fine, and had a concussion and should be kept under observation for the next couple of days.

“So she’s not fit to play Mother Christmas then?”

“No, she isn’t. And I’m sure no one is more upset about that than her. So don’t you go making her feel guilty about it,” Poppy said firmly.

Severus had no intention of doing so, and said so. She may be an annoying woman in many ways, but he wouldn’t have wanted to see her seriously hurt. For one thing, he was bound to get the blame. For another, one of the happiest memories of Potter’s time at Hogwarts is the look on his face the day Sybill had prophesied his death.

“You can see her now,” said Poppy, pushing him in the direction of the bed.

Sybill was sitting up in bed, with a large and unnecessary bandage wrapped round her head. She looked pale, and her hands were shaking. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what happened. Poppy says that I can’t get out of bed, and now everyone will think that a woman can’t drive a sleigh or be Father Christmas and it’s all my fault.”

She didn’t burst into tears, but sniffed horribly.

Severus knew the bitter sting of disappointment. He knew all about wanting to be the DADA Professor and watching the post go to madmen, impostors, and werewolves. He sat down on the bed, and patted her hand. “Don’t be silly. It’s not your fault. That brainless Reindeer was determined to cause trouble. There’s always next year, you know.”

She sniffed again. “Next year?”

“I’d say that once Albus has had a taste of the high life at Christmas, we can guarantee he’ll want to have another holiday next year. Which means he’ll be looking for someone to take over as Santa again.” He also knew how Albus’ mind worked, and was making damned sure that he had Plan B in place well in advance of next Christmas.

Sybill looked a little happier. “And you’ll let me have another chance?”

“Of course I will Sybill. In fact, I insist on it.”

“That’s very good of you, Severus.”

“I know. Just don’t tell anyone will you.”

Sybill gave a little choking laugh, which attracted Poppy’s attention, and saw him being ushered out of the Infirmary.

Back to square one then.

He may be back to square one, but he had a couple of ideas in place for square two. The first order of business was to sort out who were going to be his little helpers. He couldn’t see anyway round it: it would have to be the House Elves.

Looking on the bright side, they were perfectly suited for the role of Santa’s Elves as they were, well, Elves. So, no costumes would be required. And if they weren’t the brightest knife in the box, they weren’t the bluntest either, and tended to do what they were told without being shouted at.

There was the small problem of the Working Time Directive, but he was sure he could get round that somehow. Preferably by concealment rather than actually having to go to the Ministry and make his case in person to Hermione Granger. He didn’t think she’d be so heartless as to refuse him permission to use the elves, not when it was Santa, but he really didn’t want more people than was strictly necessary knowing what he was doing.

Especially persons who might be expected to blab to Potter, who would no doubt be incontinent with laughter at the thought of Snape in a red suit.

There were some prices that were too high to pay.

Tact, and hunger, suggested that the discussion with the Chief House Elf should take place in the enormous kitchens in the bowels of Hogwarts. There was always something sinister about the kitchens, with their large cauldrons bubbling away with unidentifiable contents, which generated huge clouds of steam to obscure his view.

He could never get rid of the feeling that they were watching him. Frankly, it gave him the creeps, and this was a man who’d hung around in graveyards with scaly-faced Dark Lords, and had lunch at Malfoy Manor.

“Is there anything Sprotty can do for His Professorship, sir?”

Severus suppressed his squeal of surprise, and his instinctive reach for his wand, and turned to find an Elf standing behind him. “I’d like to see the Chief Elf please Sprotty?”

People would be surprised to find that he was unfailingly polite to house elves, where he was generally rude to people. His view was that people didn’t make his dinner, clean his quarters or launder his clothes; elves did. All it took was one elf like Dobby and the best you could hope for was him gobbing in your food; the worst could involve poison. And no one would suspect a House Elf, would they? A House Elf would make a perfect assassin.

So, prudence if not paranoia, made him polite.

“Yes, Your Professorshipness. Right away. Sprotty is so pleased to be able to help the Professor. If he’d be so kind as to follow Sprotty, Sprotty will take him to the Chief Elf.”

And he could never rid himself of the nagging feeling that they were taking the piss when they spoke like that. He recognised sarcasm when he heard it.

The Chief Elf was indistinguishable from any other Elf to Severus’ eyes. Goodness only knew how they told who was who, and which sex was which; scent, probably. He squashed that thought before it could go any further.

“Good afternoon, erm … Spigot, isn’t it?”

“Spigot is so happy that the Professor has remembered his name.”

“Yes, well, the Professor is pleased that Spigot is happy.” Two can play that game, Sunny Jim. He could have sworn the Elf smirked. “Now, Spigot, the Professor has a little problem that he thought Spigot and all the other House Elves could help him with. The Professor has been asked to do something really important on Christmas Eve and he can’t do it on his own.”

“Spigot wonders why the other Professors don’t want to help His Professorship.”

“Because they’re a set of selfish bastards, actually,” Severus said with some bitterness. “Which leaves me up the proverbial creek without a paddle, and wondering whether you would consider helping me out.”

“You isn’t ordering Spigot to help?”

“I isn’t,” he agreed, with more regard for accuracy than grammar. “I should think only Albus can actually order you to do anything. Am I right?”

Spigot looked smug. He took that as agreement.

“So, I was wondering whether we could come to some sort of arrangement?”

“We’se House Elves. We’se likes to helps where we can,” Spigot replied.

“What I need is a couple of Elves to help me out on Christmas Eve. The presents need wrapping, they need loading onto the sleigh, and ideally, I need an Elf to come on the sleigh to help deliver the presents.”

Severus had once damaged his some of his potions equipment, and had to take it in for repair. The wizard had taken one look at the heap of melted metal and sucked his breath in between his teeth; he’d known it was going to be an expensive job. Spigot had the same expression on his face.

“What do you want?” he asked, knowing that Spigot had him over a barrel.

So Spigot told him. He wanted Hermione Granger to take less of an interest in House Elf Welfare, as she was ruining a good thing for them. If she kept on about how intelligent the House Elves were, they’d be in real trouble and their reasonably cushy lifestyle would be over. They may even be forced out into the cold to fend for themselves, and they wouldn’t like that at all.

So nothing difficult then.

Severus agreed to do his best, and felt a strong sense of unease at what might happen if they decided his best wasn’t good enough. Pink shirts? Grey underwear? Too much starch? They could make his life hell if they decided to, and they probably would.

What on earth would stop Miss Granger, once she had her mind made up?

Severus had no clout at the Ministry, but he knew a man who did. A man who, depending on the tale his grandson had told him, owed him a favour.

Old Lucius.

So Severus sent a polite owl to Malfoy Manor inviting himself for dinner, which was graciously assented to by Narcissa, with a charming note to the effect that such old friends need not stand on ceremony, dinner would be 7.30 for 8, and that Young Lucius and his sister were presently staying with them, and wasn’t that nice?

He interpreted that to mean that formal robes weren’t necessary, and that if he still wanted to come to dinner when he knew that children would be involved, then he was clearly a desperate man.

He was a desperate man.

He arrived promptly at 7.45, to be offered an aperitif. Not sherry, thank goodness, but a nice glass of white port. Lucius certainly knew his way round a wine cellar.

Severus allowed the worries of the last couple of weeks to fade away as he rolled the wine round the glass, inhaled deeply to sample its bouquet, and then tasted it. “Very nice,” he said. “I do wish Albus would hand over the selection of wines at Hogwarts to someone more competent. I swear he chooses them on the basis of their pretty labels or exotic names.”

“Oh dear,” Lucius said sympathetically. “Does he use phrases like ‘a cheeky little wine that will amuse you with its presumption’? Personally, I’ve never found presumption very amusing.”

“Depressing presumption has its charms though,” offered Severus.

Lucius smiled like a predator. Sharks, lions and tigers would back away from a smile like that whistling innocently. Even large dinosaurs of an aggressive persuasion would, if not extinct, do the same. In fact, if Old Lucius was that Old, he was very likely responsible for the extinction of the dinosaurs. All it would have taken is one of them looking at him a bit funny, and bang, there goes the species.

Severus liked to think of Lucius as his friend; he’d hate to think of him as an enemy.

Dinner was a civilised affair, despite the presence of the children. The room was warm with no draughts whistling round his feet or down the back of his neck, there were no ghosts or poltergheists popping into existence before him and making him add too much salt to his soup, and there was no Albus trying to bully him into doing things he didn’t want to do.

The food was excellent, the wines were certainly fine, and the company was interesting. He wouldn’t go so far as to say pleasant, as dining with the Malfoys was very much like being the toad beneath the harrow: you knew where the points went.

Even the children had been cowed into some semblance of good behaviour. He couldn’t tell how old the young girl was, but she would no doubt be darkening Hogwart’s doors in the next few years. Chloe had been under the impression that she was cute and endearing, but had abandoned the lisp and curl-toying when faced with the implacable mien of the Potions Master.

Dinner having been successfully negotiated, Severus and Lucius adjourned to the study with a decanter of port, leaving Narcissa to oversee the children’s bedtime.

Settled comfortably in front of the fire with a glass of exceptional port, Severus stretched his legs in front of him and contemplated the polish on his boots. This was how he should be spending his Christmas, full to the point of bursting and immobile.

“I hear that Dumbledore has gone away for Christmas this year,” said Lucius, breaking into Severus’ comfortable torpor.

“Hmmm.”

“Care to tell me why, or is it a secret you’ve been sworn never to divulge save on pain of death?”

“He’s purple.”

“Ah that would account for it.” Lucius was determined to be imperturbable; he was also dying to know what happened.

Severus left him dangling long enough to indicate that he knew that Lucius was a scurrilous gossip-monger, and that his pose of indifference was well and truly transparent. “I’m surprised that Young Lucius hasn’t told you all about it, since he was the prime mover. A little addition to the cauldron in potions when Albus was covering for me, and now Albus is bright purple. For some odd reason, he doesn’t seem to want people to see him in that condition, and has disappeared abroad until the colour wears off. If it wears off.”

“Young Lucius did mention something about an incident in potions but conveniently forgot to mention that he was responsible.”

“Bless,” Severus said sardonically.

“How is he getting on at school?”

“Well enough. He has most of his year well and truly under the thumb, he’s the source of most trouble, though that tends to be tricky to prove, but his flattery needs working on. He’s both obvious and insincere.”

“He is only twelve,” Lucius said defensively. “We can’t expect miracles at such an early age.”

“Indeed. Still it’s weakness that’s worth eliminating at an early stage before it becomes a bad habit. There’s no need to be sloppy just because he won’t have to deal with psychotic Dark Lords. After all there are still Ministers for magic to deal with.”

Lucius acknowledged the point with a nod. “True. True.”

A comfortable silence descended on the room, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire and the faint sounds of complaining children in the background demanding another story.

“It’s nice to have the children for Christmas. It wouldn’t be the same without their happy, smiling faces,” said Lucius, one ear cocked to the riot in the distance. “Have you any plans this year or are you trapped at Hogwarts as usual?”

“Worse than trapped,” Severus said gloomily. “Albus has dropped me right in it.”

“Do tell.”

“Albus is apparently Father Christmas this year. You can’t have a purple Father Christmas, so he’s seen fit to delegate the task. To me.”

Lucius choked on his port, then abandoned any sense of propriety and collapsed into whoops of laughter. “I’ve never pictured you as the Santa type,” he said, once he’d stopped laughing long enough to speak.

“I’d rather give the Dark Lord a pedicure.”

“Santa Snape. Just wait till I tell …”

“Chloe is on the list of good children,” interrupted Snape. “That can change.”

“…absolutely no one,” Lucius finished without missing a beat. “You’re a heartless bastard, Severus.”

“You say that as if it were a bad thing,” Severus said, smirking now he had the upper hand. Young Chloe’s Christmas was now a hostage to fortune. “However, there have been a number of little local difficulties, as you might say.”

“And you need some help.” It wasn’t a question.

“And I need some help. The House Elves have indicated that, if I want their help, I’ll have to scratch their back.”

“Metaphorically, I hope.”

Severus grimaced. “That really isn’t a pretty image. What they want is the removal – in a non-lethal sense – of Miss Hermione Granger. I gather they aren’t entirely happy with the Working Time Directive.”

“No one is. I’m sure Narcissa can give you chapter and verse on how inconvenient these measures are; she’s certainly eager enough to tell me.” Lucius stroked his chin thoughtfully. “And I suppose you look to me to effect the non-lethal removal of Miss Granger?”

“For the sake of poor little Chloe.”

“Yes, alright, there’s no need to belabour the point,” Lucius said irritably. “And don’t forget that I could procure presents and place them in a stocking myself, and entirely avoid the need to have Santa call. It’s probably better than having an old curmudgeon such as yourself turning up to the house.”

“But it wouldn’t be the same,” Severus said. “I’m sure, deep down, she’d know. And the magic of Christmas would be spoiled for her forever. She’ll stop believing in fairies next, and we all know where that leads.”

“You’ve been spending far too much time reading Muggle literature. Still, it occurs to me that I need all the help I can get persuading Chloe to be good. If I were to mention to her that I knew Santa personally, and he were to make a personal appearance on Christmas Eve….,” Lucius paused meaningfully. “Then the Minister could make Miss Granger an offer she couldn’t refuse.”

“Nothing too drastic, I hope.” Miss Granger had been quite useful to him in the past in smoothing over Ministry administration issues by having a word in the appropriate ear. There had even been lunch, where he’d been amazed to find that her vilification of the character of her immediate superior was comprehensive and inventive. He’d left the meal with a sneaking admiration for her sharp tongue, and he’d been rather disappointed that their paths hadn’t crossed since.

“Tsk,” Lucius said. “It’s no good pining for the old days; we have to be much more restrained now. I gather she isn’t entirely happy in her present position, so I’m sure a promotion to another department would be entirely welcome. Wiggins has been somewhat disobliging recently, which I am sure is down to the pressure of work, and has absolutely nothing to do with my refusal to pay him another 10% on top of his present fringe benefits; what he needs is a new assistant. Miss Granger, with her hardworking, no-nonsense approach to matters, will be just what he needs.”

“I can’t see Wiggins coping with actually having to raise a finger,” snorted Severus. “So I’d give him six months.”

“As long as that?” Lucius murmured. “You may be right. And of course, once Wiggins retires, there will be the need for someone capable to take over his department. I’m sure that if matters were put to Miss Granger in those terms, that she would see sense.”

She’d certainly disliked her boss, and would jump at the chance to leave him behind, but she wasn’t likely to take too kindly to being double-crossed, if that was what Lucius had in mind. “Miss Granger is refreshingly direct,” he said.

“Hmmm,” Lucius said noncommittally.

“She tends to believe things that people tell her, or rather, if someone breaks a promise to her, she gets very upset. And when she gets upset, she doesn’t sit in a corner and sulk about things. She does things about it.”

“I am well aware of Miss Granger’s tendency to do things. In fact, I’m relying on them,” Lucius replied. “I’ve had her in mind for that position for some time, but there was never any convenient way to approach her. She certainly wouldn’t trust me. You, on the other hand, she respects and trusts.”

Severus couldn’t always tell when Lucius was lying, but that had the ring of truth, or at least 90% of the truth, which was close enough. He could see that there could be an advantage in having an entirely honest head of department at the Ministry, a bit like having the Queen take up a central position on the chess board and blocking the other players’ moves. What did surprise him was the suggestion that she respected and trusted him.

“If I were you,” continued Lucius blandly. “I’d take Miss Granger out for lunch tomorrow and put the proposition to her. I’m sure you have lots to catch up on.”

Lunch? Well he supposed he could, though he couldn’t see why he shouldn’t simply make an appointment to see her.

Proposition?

Surely Lucius wasn’t suggesting that he should…?

Gosh.

Lucius probably was. His voice had lingered lovingly over the word ‘proposition’.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Severus replied, deciding to postpone thinking about that topic until he was one his own and could give it the attention it deserved. “Now what time were you thinking that Santa should come to call?”

Severus had applied his brain to the topic of Miss Granger and reached some tentative conclusions.

Lucius was a two-faced backstabbing and underhanded Macchiavellan second to none. He was also bright enough to know that stabbing people in the back is something that could usually be only done once, and you had to make sure you got it right. That meant that he was a man of his word, mostly. It was the mostly that tended to trip people up, but mostly was still statistically better than your chances with a lot of people, Albus included.

Lucius would only stab you in the back if he had a reason to do so, and try as he might, Severus couldn’t think why Lucius would try and set him up with Miss Granger if all he was going to get for his pains was a slapped face.

So, the chances were that asking Miss Granger out to lunch was a good idea.

And anyway it wasn’t as if it amounted to a declaration of love, or an offer of marriage, it was the conveying of a business proposition in congenial circumstances. This meant he could assess the situation without revealing his hand too obviously.

Which begged the question of whether he had a hand. He had hoped to bump into her again, that was true, but he had only considered her as someone who was mildly less irritating to talk to than the rest, and not as some love interest. Which meant he would have to assess her potential quae love interest when they met.

Lunch promised to be interesting.

He arrived promptly at 12.30, to find a harassed Hermione snapping at some underling who had, according to her, failed to appreciate the difference between his arse and his elbow, and couldn’t find either of them with a map.

As diatribes go, it was quite impressive, and after another ten years to practice her art she might even be able to approach his level of eloquence.

As soon as Hermione noticed Severus, the underlying was sent off to amend the reports. He scuttled through the door, barely sparing a glance at the Terror of Hogwarts, and made off down the corridor as if a dementor were after him. Hermione smoothed her hair down, and stepped from behind the desk to shake his hand. “I’m sorry about that, but what with Christmas coming up, they’ve got their minds on the holiday and not on their job.”

“You simply can’t get the staff these days,” he said, venturing a mild joke.

“You can’t. I just wish you could use Imperio on them and have done.”

“There’s many a time I’ve thought that in a Staff Meeting. Allow me,” he said, taking Hermione’s cloak from her hand and holding it for her.

“I didn’t think you’d fancy eating in the Ministry canteen,” she said over her shoulder, and blushing faintly. “So I’ve booked a table at the café round the corner. It’s nothing special, but the food’s not bad.”

“Which is more than you can say of the Ministry canteen.”

The café wasn’t far, tucked away down a little side street, and looked rather shabby from the outside. He was relieved to find that appearances were deceptive, and he wasn’t being expected to eat in a greasy spoon. . Inside, the place was clean and tidy, if a little Spartan, with clean-scrubbed pine tables, and white tablecloths. There was a vase on each table, holding a fresh flower, and the Menu was written up on a large blackboard on one wall.

The handwriting was appalling and he had difficulty making out what was available. Handwriting standards were clearly declining, and not just handwriting: newsprint seemed to be smaller, and people were allowing signs and notices to become dirty and blurred. It was a damned nuisance, that’s what it was.

Squinting, he could just about make out that one of the dishes was salmon en croute. That would do, though he would have preferred venison.

Their food arrived soon after they ordered it, and it was good. The pastry was light and flaky, the salmon moist and tender, and the sauce was delicately flavoured. It wasn’t up to last night’s standard, but then neither was he going to get food poisoning, which was a distinct possibility in the Ministry Canteen. The only people who ate there were those too poor to afford anything better, or those who had cast iron digestions.

“How are things at Hogwarts?” Hermione asked. “How’s Minerva?”

“Spitting tacks,” he replied. “Albus has shuffled off on holiday leaving her a mountain of things to do, and very little time in which to accomplish it.”

“Albus doesn’t normally go on holiday,” she said. “Not at Christmas.”

“He isn’t normally purple either.”

Hermione listened with gratifying attentiveness as he outlined the steps that led to the empurplement of the Headmaster. “His hair was a lovely shade of Lavender. That was quite tasteful really, but the rest of him – bright purple!”

Hermione giggled. “I wish I’d seen it. I don’t suppose anyone thought to get a picture of it?”

“I suppose we should have done, for medical research purposes at least. It’s not everyday that someone turns themselves purple.”

“I’m surprised he went on holiday though. I shouldn’t think a purple Albus would stand out more than usual, bearing in mind some of the robes he wears. Did you see the last one he wore to the last monthly Ministry meeting? Orange and pink. I swear the man’s colour blind.”

“I don’t think so,” Severus disagreed. “I think it’s a deliberate attempt to revolt the other members of the Committee so much that they rush through the meeting. They used to take hours, but now they’re under 45 minutes even with coffee half way through.”

“I wonder if the same tactics would work for me at my next Departmental Meeting,” Hermione mused. “God, they’re interminable.”

Severus took the opportunity to cast an eye over Hermione. The hair was the same and simply refused to be tied down. Her figure was trim, and there was an overall impression of enthusiasm and vitality that was rather attractive.

Enthusiasm that could be put to better uses than sitting in an office and supervising morons.

“And how are things at your end?” he asked, knowing what the answer would be. Reminding her of just how annoying her boss could be would put her in the right frame of mind to listen to Lucius’ offer.

“Oh, the same. Too few staff to do too much work, and a boss who thinks that leading by example means sodding off for long lunches and leaving the office early. Mind you, we do get more work done when he’s out of the way. He’s got a dreadful case of meeting-itis. We have to have a meeting to discuss everything, and sometimes a select group has to have a pre-meeting meeting to set the agenda, and then we have to have a post-meeting meeting for the debrief. I think on one occasion we had the pre-meeting before the post-meeting and forgot to have the meeting at all.”

“It sounds almost as bad as Hogwarts,” he said,

“Only almost,” she teased. “Why isn’t it worse?”

“There aren’t any children or dangerous chemicals involved, which adds a whole layer of terror to the whole experience that no amount of meetings can match.”

“I suppose you have a point,” she replied.

The conversation lapsed for a while, as they both concentrated on their meals. Now he’d planted the seed, all he needed was the perfect opening to bring up the subject of an Offer She Couldn’t Refuse.

“Are you staying long in London?” she asked.

“I’m going back after lunch, well via a couple of bookshops actually.”

“Flourish’s have a sale on, so you should be able to pick up some bargains.”

He had to get her off the topic of books quickly, fascinating though it was, or they’d be there for the afternoon before he could casually mention his real errand. Oh well, subtlety would be wasted on the oh-so-direct Miss Granger anyway; he may was well be blunt.

“My trip into town was specifically to see you because I’ve got something a proposition for you. Actually, Lucius has. Well, both of us really.”

She goggled at him, which wasn’t very encouraging.

“A transfer to Wiggins’ department, in return for a favour.”

“Oh, thank goodness. For a moment there I thought you were winding up to suggesting a threesome.”

Severus choked on his salmon. “What?”

“You didn’t seem very certain which one of you was making the proposition,” she pointed out calmly. “It was a perfectly logical inference to draw.”

“Erp.”

“So what do I have to do to get out of this hell hole?”

Severus was having some difficulty lifting his derailed train of thought back on to the rails. “Erp.” Threesome? Threesome?

“What do I have to do?” she asked again, watching him with some amusement.

There were all sorts of things she could do for him, and he was trying very hard to stop thinking about most of them.

“I assume it’s something to do with House Elves?”

Somehow the thoughts of threesomes and House Elves and what Hermione could do for him got all mixed up, with very unpleasant results. This did mean that his brain could start ordinary thought processes again, and he regained the use of his mouth. “Yes, indeed. House Elves. I need their help for a very important project on Christmas Eve, which means that they may well exceed the Working Time Directive for that week, and I need you to authorise it.” It wasn’t a good idea to explain that the House Elves wanted her gone. She might get upset, and that would ruin any chances. Any chances of getting her to approve the overtime, that’s what he meant. Yes, indeed. Overtime.

“How much over?” she asked. “We can make allowances for the odd hour here and there. We’re not unreasonable.”

“About six months.”

“What the hell do you need that much overtime for?”

He realised with horrid certainty that he was going to have to come clean. There may be a few women who thought Potions Masters in swirling robes were sexy, but he doubted if any of them could be persuaded that Potions Masters in pillocky red suits with a pillow stuffed up their front were sexy in any way, shape or form. “I’m playing Santa this year,” he mumbled.

“You’re WHAT?”

“Keep your voice down,” he hissed. “It’s supposed to be a secret.”

“Sorry, I could have just sworn you said you were being Santa this year. I assume you mean at the Hogwarts staff party or something.”

Severus shook his head.

“You mean the real Santa? Bloody hell.”

“So you can see,” he said earnestly, “that it’s vital that I have the overtime, because otherwise British children will be doomed to disappointment and misery on Christmas day. You couldn’t live with that on your conscience could you?”

“I suppose not.” She prodded her lunch around her plate for a moment. “Well, let me see the time cost estimates and I’ll get them approved this afternoon.”

“Erm, time cost estimates?”

“Yes, you know, the estimates of how many Elfhours you’ll need, broken down into skilled and unskilled labour, with timings for breaks and rest periods.” He looked blank. He hadn’t thought about any of that. “You have got a plan, haven’t you?”

He shook his head. “Up until yesterday, I hadn’t even got a suit that fitted.”

“Well, how are you going to get the presents to the children?”

“Sleigh,” he said uncertainly.

“Well, that’s just silly. It’ll take forever to do it that way.”

“It’s traditional though.”

“It may be traditional, but I don’t see why you should do it the hard way and knacker yourself and the Elves, when you could do it another, easier way. It’s not as if the children are supposed to see you; who’d know if you cheated?”

When she put it like that, he could see her point. He’d been too busy running himself ragged trying to get things sorted out, that he’d never stopped to think if there were an easier way. Organisation, that's what this little enterprise needed and as much as he hated to admit it there was one sure fire way of getting this whole muddle organised: Hermione 'I have a timetable for sleeping' Granger.

“It’s all been very badly organised,” she said, shaking her head.

“I suppose you think you could do better?” he asked, hoping to provoke the requisite response.

“I’m sure I could,” Hermione said, rising to the challenge.

“Prove it.”

Hermione’s face was a picture as she realised she’d been conned. She was a Gryffindor, and a woman of her word and never backed down in the face of insuperable odds, and was now irretrievably committed to sorting out this chaos.

“You could have just asked me for my help,” she said.

“I could have, but this way was more fun.” For the first time since Albus had broken the news to him, Severus Snape smiled the happy smile of a man who was off the hook.

And, once the presents were delivered, it was entirely possible that a Hermione flushed with the success of showing him how it should be done might be amenable to being flushed in other ways.

She made him pay for lunch; it was worth it.

The Severus Snape who woke the next morning was a happy Severus Snape. He was back on top, his rightful position, and in charge of the situation.

He lay warm and contented in his bed and contemplated the ceiling. There were a number of things he needed to sort out before Miss Granger arrived at lunchtime to take charge of Operation Santa. A large breakfast, and a long soak in the bath were first on the list. There would be a careful scrub of all the places that might be exposed during the course of the night to make sure they were clean and would pass inspection. Miss Granger’s attention to detail was renowned, so skimping wasn’t an option.

Not that he was assuming, but he was hoping, and it was always best to be prepared.

He also had to sort out some sort of costume for her to wear in their peregrinations that evening. She was Santa’s Little Helper and should be dressed accordingly: witches’ robes simply wouldn’t do.

Sybill’s outfit had been something of an eye-opener as to the possibilities of female apparel above and beyond floor-length dresses. He had a vague memory of Albus forcing him out into the Muggle world to do some Christmas shopping one year, and something about Santa’s grotto…He remembered sneering at the peculiar ideas that Muggles had about Elves, and thinking that no sensible Elf would be caught dressed like that.

However, he could now see that the costume had its merits, and in a multi-cultural world it was important that people should respect each other’s traditions. Since most of the children he was delivering to tonight would be Muggles, it was only right and proper that Hermione should wear something skimpy, erm, similar. She wouldn’t like it, not one little bit, so there was also the added attraction of manoeuvring her into wearing it.

You can take the boy out of Slytherin, but you couldn’t take the Slytherin out of the boy.

Why would you even want to try?

He levered himself out of bed, and ambled into the bathroom to run a bath. He looked in the mirror and winced. The strain of the last few days had taken its toll, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. He needed a shave, and his hair could definitely do with a wash.

A bottle of sandalwood bath oil caught his eye. Minerva had given it to him last Christmas and it was so far untouched. According to the label, it was guaranteed to make his skin soft and supple and lovely to touch, which could only be good. He removed the cap and sniffed at it gingerly – not too bad – and poured it into the running water.

He hadn’t realised that it would produce so many bubbles, which he had always considered to be effeminate and made a bloke look like a pillock. But then, that was before he’d tried on a Santa suit and realised what it was like to look like a real pillock; nothing compared to that.

He eased himself carefully into the water, and was surprised to find that sitting in a pleasantly scented bubble bath was rather agreeable. His imagination promptly suggested that bubble baths in company would be even more agreeable, and painted the figure of Hermione at the opposite end of the bath playfully blowing foam at him.

Oh yesssss Miss Granger, he thought, and added that to an already impressive To Do list.

He looked and felt immeasurably better once he’d finished his ablutions. He was clean and pink and well-scrubbed and his skin was indeed soft and lovely to the touch, his hair was clean, his teeth were gleaming, and, though there were still dark circles under his eyes, he was hoping that Hermione would be moved to sympathy at the sight of him and allow his head to rest on her comforting bosom.

It didn’t take him long to decide what to wear; it was a choice of black robes, black robes, or ooo, black robes. There was his Best Dressing Gown for entertaining Company, which was artlessly draped over a chair, and perhaps his best Pyjamas as well, though he hoped not to need them. He’d give the Elves order to strip and change the bed, and put clean sheets and a better coverlet on, and then the stage was set. It all spoke of sophisticated man of the world, of refinement, and being ever-so-slightly decadent.

Which would be entirely destroyed the moment she saw him in That Suit.

No, it wouldn’t be destroyed; it would be enhanced. Because, of course, the reason he looked a pillock in the suit was because he wasn’t jolly or Santa-ish at all, and his inherent Snapeyness was showing through. So, if you thought it through properly, it was the suit that was the pillock and not him, and the contrast made him look even more Snapey.

It wasn’t very convincing but it was the best he could do.

Now for breakfast and after that, dealing with the only other remaining wrinkle in his otherwise smooth existence: Rudolf. He wasn’t going to risk life and limb in a sleigh dragged by a drunken reindeer, not when there was there was a possibility of Romance in the air.

Oooh, something else to add to the To Do list.

Rudolf looked awful. Rudolf was manifestly in a great deal of pain and was suffering the agonies of the damned: he was shaking, his eyes were bloodshot, and he could barely stand upright. Intermittently he would utter a long, low moan that, after the third or fourth hearing, could be recognised as, “Drink.”

Suspicious persons, or even a person who had known Snape for more than ten minutes which could amount to the same thing, would have known better to trust the expression of solicitude that Severus was wearing. Rudolf was just hoping that a sympathetic expression would lead to an end to his suffering.

Severus was perfectly willing to put an end to his suffering.

The only thing that stopped Rudolf from having an unfortunate but permanent accident was the clause in the contract that prevented him from harming the reindeer. Fortunately, ‘harm’ didn’t include pinching Rudolf firmly by the nose, and tipping a foul tasting potion down his muzzle, until he had to swallow or choke. It was for his own good after all.

Rudolf finally managed to twist free, and spat the remains of the potion on the floor. “What was that?” he wailed. “It tasted disgusting.”

Severus smiled the kind of smile that would have made even Lucius nervous. “Sobrietas potion. I’ve just cured you of your little drink problem. Permanently. You’ll never want to have another drink again. If you try, it’ll make you feel very, very sick. Worse than you feel now.”

Rudolf stared at him with mute horror.

“There’s no need to thank me,” said Severus, still smiling.

“You bastard. You bastard. You absolute sodding bastard. Drink was my only friend, my crutch, my support in my darkest hours, and now you’ve taken it away. You bastard.”

“I can assure you that my parents were married when they conceived me.” Severus stepped closer to Rudolf, the better to bully him. “Now, let’s get things clear. You’re going to pull the sleigh tonight, and you’re going to be sober, and you’re going to get it right, because if you don’t there will be more trouble than you know what to do with.”

Severus found that vague threats were generally more effective than the specifics. The threatenee, as it were, was always so much better at thinking of nasty things that could happen to them than the threatener, which saved him a lot of time and energy. Whatever Rudolf was thinking of, the expression on his face said it was truly horrible.

“You’re a bastard,” repeated Ruldolf. “You don’t know what it’s like being famous. Think of all the pressure there is to perform, to get it right, to know that Old Beardy is relying on you and you alone to get the presents through.”

“I know exactly what that’s like,” hissed Severus, “only I didn’t get the bonus of fame, oh no. I just got the hard work and the responsibility of making sure that the boy Potter made it through to his Seventh Year, despite his suicidal streak. Look at you; you’re a disgrace to reindeer kind. Stop whining about the price of fame and get out there and start enjoying its advantages.”

“What advantages?” scoffed Rudolf. “Stuck at the North Pole for 364 days out of 365 isn’t my idea of an advantage.”

“You only have to work one day a year; there are people who would kill for that kind of cushy number. That leaves you loads of time to do what you want and not what anyone else wants you to do.”

“Such as?” Rudolf asked wistfully.

“You’ve got seven female reindeer at your beck and call for starters. Surely you can remember what you’re supposed to do with them. What about writing your memoirs? You could call it ‘Rednose: My Drink hell’, that sort of thing always sells well, and then there’s the celebrity endorsements. What antler polish you use, what curry comb, what feed, what books you read, the sky’s the limit.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Rudolf said. “It has definite possibilities.”

Severus left a very thoughtful reindeer to ponder his future, and went in search of a hot cup of tea. It was already bloody cold out there, so warming charms would be imperative if he were to retain the use of any extremities.

Miss Granger was appeared to have got over the worst of her sulks by the time she arrived at Hogwarts, though she was by no means pleased. Severus had gone done to the apparition point to meet her, as was only polite, and had offered to levitate her bag for her like any well brought-up wizard would.

“I brought a few things for an overnight stay,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll be up to travelling after tonight. That isn’t a problem is it? There will be somewhere I can have a bit of a rest?”

“I’m sure we can find room for you somewhere,” he replied. His bed, for one. His sofa, the hearthrug, and the desk for another. “I did assume you’d be staying on for Christmas dinner. It’s the least I can do in return for your help, unless you’ve got somewhere else to be?”

“Not really. My parents have gone off on a world cruise for their second honeymoon, so it’s Hogwarts or the Burrow. The Weasley’s are nice, but there’s so many of them, that it gets a bit much after a while. I can always drop in later, and say hello.”

“That’s settled then, though I should warn you that Hogwarts Staff Parties can get a little wild. There may even be charades.”

Hermione smiled. “I’m sure I can cope.”

“You’ve never played Wizard charades against Minerva. She’s vicious.”

“I heard that,” Minerva said, waiting for them at the door. “And he’s right of course, though it’s very much a case of the pot calling the kettle black. I wouldn’t worry too much, dear; I’m sure he’ll be on his best behaviour with you, won’t you Severus?”

Legilimency was nothing compared to the average witch’s ability to read a man like a book. Severus didn’t like the feeling that his mind was being read, and fervently wished that Occlumency would work against Minerva and her knowing eyes.

And that she’d shut up before she ruined his chances.

“I do hope note,” Hermione replied. “I wouldn’t recognise a well-behaved Professor Snape at all. I’d be worried that it was an impostor, or that he was sickening for something.”

“Severus, be a dear and sort out Hermione’s luggage for her, so we can have an opportunity to talk about you behind your back,” Minerva said, putting an arm on Hermine’s elbow to guide her towards lunch. “We don’t eat in the Great Hall out of term time, no need really, and it’s bloody cold. So we’ll be eating in the Staffroom today. The Elves have put up some tables, and even made an attempt at decorations. Albus would be very disappointed: they’re all very tasteful.”

One of the good things about having a romantic interest in one of your ex-pupils was that she already knew what you were like, and so whatever Minerva said would be unlikely to do any harm. There was no point in artless revelations that he was a bit irritable, but meant well, to someone who had seen him frothing at the mouth with rage.

The worst she could do would be to bring out the photos of him as a student. They conveyed a general impression of black robes, a mass of black hair, and a long nose peeping from behind it. They weren’t flattering, but neither were they too far away from his present appearance. It wasn’t as if he’d been wearing pink robes. (Those pictures had been destroyed, he’d seen to that, and he’d always checked his drinks for added extras after that).

Severus summoned a House Elf. “Miss Granger will be spending the night. She’ll be wanting a guest room as close to my quarters as possible.”

“Yes, your Professorship. Sprotty is wondering what Miss Granger is doing here.”

“Is Sprotty?” Severus said grimly.

“Sprotty is, sir, and so is Spigot. We’se both wondering what she’s doing here.”

“Well, it’s none of your damned business,” he snapped.

“Spigot is making it his business. Spigot is reminding the professor of his promise.”

“All Spigot needs to know is that Miss Granger will be leaving the Department for Elvish Affairs in the New Year, and won’t be troubling the House Elves again. So he’d better live up to his side of the bargain.”

Sprotty wrinkled his nose, and, seemingly appeased, disappeared with the luggage.

He didn’t know what Hermione and Minerva had been talking about before he entered the Staff Room, and he knew better than to ask. Whatever it was, they’d certainly found it entertaining – Minerva elbowed Hermione in the ribs and shushed her, before greeting him in an overloud voice.

“Everything sorted then,” she said in a deliberately cheerful voice. “Good.”

Severus sat down and helped himself to some soup. “Sprotty is sorting something out for you, though I doubt we’ll be getting much sleep tonight. There’s far too much to get done.”

Hermione made an irritated noise. “I expect to get most of it finished by midnight actually. If we portkey the Elves to key locations round the country, and then use a combination of time-delayed translocation spells, coupled with invisibility spells the presents can be delivered early. Otherwise we’d have had to stop time for a couple of hours, and the charms for that are a bit tricky and I couldn’t be sure that they’d work. Shame really, as I’ve always wanted to give them a try.”

“So you don’t need to take the sleigh out at all?” Minerva asked. “Very wise if you ask me, that head reindeer looks unreliable to me.”

“No, you see if you couple the translocation spells with the…” Hermione began.

“Erm, actually we do have to take the sleigh out,” Severus interposed. “Because I sort of promised a personal visit from Santa for one little girl. Well, not so much promised, as had the commitment forced out of me at wandpoint.”

“Lucius?” Hermione asked, living up to her reputation as a very bright witch indeed. She shrugged. “You can be seeing to that whilst I crack on with the rest of it. If we divide the labour like that, it’ll be more efficient.

Bugger that, thought Severus. He wasn’t going to all this effort to lure an innocent maiden into his evil clutches to have her snatched away again in the name of efficiency. “I can see that,” he said. “But Lucius was very clear in his instructions to me. He wants both Santa and a Little Helper in Chloe’s bedroom at midnight. And it’s no good sending a House Elf to be a Little Helper. It’s not as if she hasn’t seen those before. No, what is needed is someone human, someone dressed up to look like an Elf.”

Hermione sighed. “And I supposed you’d like me to volunteer to do that as well?”

Severus nodded. He decided to postpone the issue of the costume until later when Hermione might be more amenable due to exhaustion; timing was everything in these matters.

“I didn’t know you’d volunteered to help Severus,” Minerva said.

“I didn’t,” Hermione said darkly. “I was conned into it. I just hope that this is the last of his little surprises.”

Severus just smirked, and kept eating his soup.

Once lunch was over, Hermione asked to be shown the List and Presents. “There’s no margin for error now, if I’ve got to show up at Malfoy Manor at midnight, so I may as well crack on.”

“I’ve got the stuff set up in one of the spare dungeons,” he replied. “It’s a bit chilly in there I’m afraid, but then it’s a bit chilly everywhere.”

It didn’t take them long to reach the dungeon, and it was just as cold as Severus had predicted, and his swiftly cast warming charms seemed to make very little impression against the chill.

Hermione was impressed with Santa’s sack. “That’s a clever bit of magic, to hold all those presents in that space. A variant on the Schrodinger charm I suspect. You keep the presents in a state of uncertainty as to whether they exist or not, and they only pop into being when you look in the bag. Very nifty.”

“Here’s the List of Good Children. That seems to be less than reliable, but there’s no provision for striking names off even if you know a child is a little sod to his teachers.” Severus was determined to Have a Word with Santa’s representatives on the matter, and suggest that teachers should have a much greater input into the preparation of the list. It could revolutionise the education of children once that particular piece of information got out; the threat of no presents if they were naughty would work wonders with the behaviour of the junior classes.

“Oh good, it’s a simple referral charm,” she said, once she’d looked the paper over. “That makes it easier. All I need now is a couple of hours of peace and quiet to get all the charms sorted out. Some of the cross-linking is going to be finicky, but I still think it’s doable. And then I’ll need the House Elves at about 5pm. If I send them out in relays, we should be done by ten.”

“That should give us time for a quick bite to eat, before take off. I’d thought that if we left at about 11pm, we should get there in plenty of time.”

Hermione just nodded, her mind on the job at hand, so Severus slipped away and left her to it.

When he returned, just before ten, there was an orderly queue of House Elves formed up outside the room. They looked exhausted, to an Elf. Hermione wasn’t looking much better: her voice was hoarse from issuing orders, and her hands were shaking from the effort of casting so many spells in quick succession.

Severus felt a twinge of guilt at the amount of work he’d dumped on her, and an immense sense of relief that he hadn’t had to do it.

“Nearly finished,” she croaked. “Just another ten loads to go, and then I could really do with a cup of tea.”

“More like brandy and Pepper-Up, if I’m any judge,” he replied.

“God yes. That sounds wonderful.” A House Elf shuffled its way reluctantly into the room, and waited for orders. “Right, Freemy. You’re for Manchester. You know the drill by now. You portkey to your destination, open the bag, recite the incantation, and then come back here to confirm you’ve done it. That’s your last load for the evening, so thank you and well done.”

Severus selected an Elf at random and sent it off to fetch the tea, brandy and Pepper Up potion. It was pathetically grateful to be spared another trip and returned in double quick time with the items requested, and then made itself scarce even more quickly.

It needn’t have worried, the last Elf had been despatched; Operation Santa was over.

All that remained was Operation Lucius and then, after a suitable rest, Operation Hermione and Severus which would hopefully take an awfully long time to complete.

Hermione perked up noticeably once she’d had a cup of tea. The cure was completed by the brandy and Pepper-Up, which she gulped down in three swallows. “Uergh,” she said, steam coming out of her ears. “That’s disgusting. Why do Potions have to taste so vile?”

“The simple answer is that sugar reacts adversely with most ingredients,” he replied. “But the truth is that I enjoy the look of suffering on peoples’ faces when they take them.”

“I can believe it.”

“I’ve also brought you a plate of stew and some bread. I thought you’d need a bit of ballast for the flight.”

“You are a life saver. I take back everything bad I ever said about you this afternoon. That’s just what I need.” Hermione cleared a space on the desk, and settled down to eat with the enthusiasm of someone who had been starving for days. It took barely five minutes for the stew to disappear, and another two minutes to use the crusty bread to mop up the last traces of gravy. She burped discreetly, and muttered ‘pardon’.

Severus liked to see a woman enjoy her food. It was a sign of a determination to enjoy the finer things in life that boded well for other pleasures. No woman who picked at her food would ever have wild sex first thing in the morning, because they were too busy worrying about putting their make up on, or whether they were being seen at an unflattering angle, to ever be able to let go and enjoy themselves. Someone who attacked their meals with gusto would be just as likely to pounce on their boyfriend and ravish them to within an inch of their life.

His opportunity to put that theory to the test would have to wait until later though. He glanced at his pocket watch. “I’m sorry to have to hurry you, but it’s nearly half past ten and I think it’s time we got changed into our costumes. Your costume is on your bed, and Sprotty here will show you the way. Let’s meet at the front entrance in say twenty minutes? That should give us enough time.”

“OK, fine,” Hermione said, rising to her feet and staggering slightly. Severus put out a hand to steady her, and she flushed a little. “Thanks.”

Hermione followed where Sprotty led; Severus wished he could be a fly on the wall when she saw her outfit. He’d probably be able to hear her howls of outrage from here. Any tendency to smile at the thought of Hermione’s indignation was squelched at the thought of the costume he would have to wear.

Ah well, on with the motley.

Severus was grateful that there were no students staying in Hogwarts over the Christmas vacation, because there was no one to see him standing around (like a pillock) at the front gates waiting for Hermione.

Not that he wouldn’t have Obliviated them in a trice, but Albus tended to get stroppy about that sort of thing, and the paperwork involved was horrendous.

Hermione was running late. Severus knew that women had a tendency to run late, and had factored that in when suggesting (he also knew about the unwisdom in telling a woman anything) that she be here for 10pm, but it was now 10.15pm, and things were getting a little tight.

Not as tight as her costume though.

“I suppose you think this is funny,” Hermione said snippily from behind him.

Severus swung round to see a mutinous and scantily clad Hermione glaring at him. The costume was nothing more than a pair of green tights and a long shirt. The tights were living up to their description nicely, and the shirt, rather more of a shortish shirt really, barely covered her posterior. She was clutching a green hat, with a bell on the point, in her hand, in a grip that was turning her knuckles white.

So he did the only sensible thing you could do under the circumstances and prepared to lie his way out of trouble. “It’s got nothing to do with me,” he said. “Blame Lucius if you must. He’s the one who insisted on Santa having a Little Helper, and he was the one who came up with the costume.” It was a barefaced lie, but he doubted that Lucius and Hermione would ever be in a room long enough to compare notes.

It seemed to work. She was muttering something under her breath about posh perfumed pureblooded ponces, and how they should be strangled by their own hair, so her ire was now directed at the right, if entirely innocent, party. Not that Lucius was entirely innocent, and, when you thought about it, there were so many things that he had got away with, it was only right that he should be blamed for something that he hadn’t done. It was poetic justice.

“You think you’ve got problems?” he replied, indicating his own outfit with a wave of the hand. He was going for the sympathy vote to get back into her good books. “At least you look erm well at least you’re displayed to advantage.”

“Displayed is right. Just look at it. I look a complete tart.”

Well it would be rude not to, and she had asked, and he wouldn’t say she looked like a complete tart, just incredibly sexy, and her legs were better than Trelawney’s and he retained just enough sense not to mention any of that, particularly the bit about him looking at Trelawney’s legs. “You look very nice,” he said simply.

“Really?” Hermione peered over her shoulder, and tried to assess what she’d look like from the back. “You don’t think it’s too revealing?”

“I think it’s just revealing enough,” he said. “It’s suggestive without crossing the line into bad taste at all. And, best of all, there’s no white fur trim. It’s very hard to look dignified with white fur trim.”

She smiled weakly. “At least the fur will keep you warm.”

“There’s a thick carriage rug in the back of the sleigh.” Slightly too small for two people unless they huddled together, at least he hoped so. “That should keep the worst of the cold out.”

“Oh, all right. I’ll do it,” she said. “But I want you to know I’m not happy about it. And I’m not wearing the ruddy hat. It jingles when I walk.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine tucked into your belt,” he replied, knowing when to concede a point. “After you.”

There were advantages to being polite and letting ladies go first; the view from the back was very nice as well.

Hagrid was waiting for them down by the sleigh, holding Rudolf’s halter and offering last minute encouragement. “Now, I’d take it steady to start with if I was you. You don’t want to go mad and go off at full tilt, not when your muscles are still cold. An’ there’s a colony o’ ‘ippogryphs round about Northumberland way, so I’d keep an eye out for them if you don’t want to get et.”

The Reindeer were getting restless, shifting their feet and dipping their heads as if to say ‘let’s get going’.

“Ah, there you are Professor, and ‘Ermione. We all set then?”

“I think so.” He handed Hermione into the passenger seat, and then went round to clamber in the driver’s side. “On the count of three,” he bellowed. “One. Two. Threeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”

The acceleration was phenomenal. The reindeer went from stationary to flight velocity in under 6 seconds, and the sleigh shot into the air like a bolt. Severus, having seen what had happened to Trelawney, was prepared for it, and had braced himself against the dashboard but he very nearly went backwards.

He glanced at Hermione to see if she was all right. She was flushed and giggling, and her eyes were full of excitement. She peered over the side, down at the ground. “Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” shouted Hermione, her words whipped away by the wind. “This is fuuuuuuun. How fast do you think we’re going?”

“About sixty miles an hour, give or take.”

“Brilliant.”

Driving the sleigh was easier than he’d expected, once they were off the ground. Rudolf seemed to know where he was going, and needed only the very lightest of guidance from the reins. It was cold though, very cold, as the wind whistled past their ears. He expected that his nose would also be red by the end of the night.

Hermione had her arms crossed, trying to keep warm. “There’s that blanket in the back. Just in front of the presents,” he said.

Hermione nodded to show that she’d heard him, and then leaned over the seat to rummage around in search of the blanket. She found it after a couple of seconds, and began unfolding it. “It’s a bit small,” she said, looking at it doubtfully. “I’m not sure there’s room for both of us.”

“Oh dear,” he said. He was sure that she wouldn’t allow him to be a gentleman and give her the blanket, and she was too cold to let him have the blanket, which only left one option.

“I could transfigure it larger,” she said.

“You could.” Damn. Damn. Damn.

But she didn’t, she just shifted a bit nearer and wrapped the rugs over their legs, so he took a chance and put an arm round her. She snuggled even closer, put her head on his shoulder, and made a contented noise.

By the time Malfoy Manor appeared, a pale gleam in the middle distance, his arm was killing him. It was a bloody uncomfortable position to maintain for so long, there was a horrible draught down the back of his neck, but every time he thought of moving she’d burrow that bit closer and he hadn’t got the heart to do it.

“We’re here,” he said.

She sat up and yawned, covering her mouth with her hand. “What time is it?”

“Quarter to midnight. So we’ve made good time.”

“Good. I’d hate to think that we’d disappointed Lucius,” she said ironically. “Have you any idea where you’re going to land.”

“He’s got two acres of front lawn. I think that I can manage to put the sleigh down somewhere on it without crashing into his roses.”

“I think you should crash into his roses,” she said mischievously. “Just think how much more convincing the whole charade would be. He can take the sprog outside on Christmas Day and point out where Santa landed, perhaps even find some reindeer droppings.”

“I’ll be sure to mention that to Rudolf, once we’ve landed,” he replied, shortening the reins. Rudolf looked over his shoulder to confirm that this was the landing, and then they swooped down at breakneck speed.”

“Ooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh sssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitttttttttttttttttttttttt,” Severus said. The ground was coming up to meet them at high speed, and there didn’t seem to be any brakes. Rudolf was still sulking about the Sobrietas potion then. At the last minute, they flattened out and shed some speed, though they were still travelling uncomfortably fast when the runners touched down. They clipped the lawn, bounced a couple of times, and then finally ground to a shuddering halt.

Severus just sat there for a moment whilst the thundering in his ears receded and his heart rate settled back to normal. He really was getting too old for this kind of excitement.

Even Hermione was quiet for a moment, though the shock didn’t last long.

“What’s the plan then?” she asked, folding the blanket up and putting it away.

“Lucius should come outside and greet Santa and His Little Helper, then invite us into the Manor for a drink or two, we deliver the presents and we’re off. All the while little Chloe will be peering out of the window or through the banisters, watching what’s going on.”

“I hope he’s got the kettle on. I could do with a nice cup of tea.”

“Mince pies and a bottle of beer are traditional,” Severus replied. “And Lucius is nothing if not a traditionalist. There’s a carrot for Rudolf as well, though I’m not aware that Santa’s Little Helper gets anything at all.”

“She’d better get a cup of tea at least, or there’ll be a mutiny.”

A light came on over the front door, which would conveniently illuminate the scene for any watchers, and a tall figure made its way along the terrace and down the steps to greet them. Lucius had obviously prepared for bed, and was wearing a very fine dressing gown of dark blue embroidered with entirely apposite peacocks. “Santa, old chap, how nice of you to drop in,” Lucius drawled. “And you’ve brought a guest; how delightful. The pair of you must come in for some refreshments. I insist.”

“How kind,” Severus replied.

He lifted the bag down from the sleigh and slung it over his shoulder, wincing at the twinges in his arm. He’d need to get some rheumatism treatment on that soon. Perhaps Hermione could help him reach all those difficult places, though he didn’t think it was particularly romantic asking someone to rub embrocation on his back, even if it was nicely scented. Mind you, judging from the way she was rubbing her own back, she may well be up for it provided the application were mutual.

Sometimes romance had to take a back seat; romance was difficult to achieve when the wrong portions of your anatomy were stiff.

They followed Lucius into Malfoy Manor. Hermione was tugging down her shirt to cover as much of her legs as possible, and not really succeeding very well.

The hallway was dominated by an enormous Christmas tree tastefully decorated in red and gold, which made Hermione smile; Gryffindor colours! A closer inspection revealed that there were a few handmade ornaments that didn’t fit into the colour way, obviously the handiwork of children. Lucius and Narcissa were clearly doting grandparents.

A House Elf was standing at attention with a silver tray, holding one carrot, two pewter mugs of what looked like hot posset and a mince pie apiece.

“I would ask you to stay a little longer,” Lucius said, every inch the gracious host. “But I know that you’re very busy tonight.”

“Indeed,” Severus replied, not wanting to say too much in case his voice was recognised.

“How are things in the old Santa trade?” Lucius continued, clearly enjoying every minute of Severus’ humiliation.

Severus picked up a mince pie and took a large bite out of it. Now he couldn’t be expected to talk, as his mouth was full; Santa was never rude.

Lucius accepted his – temporary – defeat with a faint smile, and turned his attention to other prey. “What a very fetching outfit,” he said, his eyes wandering all over Hermione’s body in a way that made her – and Severus – want to slap him.

“I don’t suppose you were ever a good boy,” Hermione said irritably.

Lucius surprised both of them by laughing. “Not often. Not if I could help it,” he admitted. “Though I always ate my greens and went to bed on time.”

Hermione glanced up at the top of the stairs, where a little face could be seen peering out. “I’m glad to hear it. People who eat their greens and go to bed on time always end up on the List. There’s many a child without a present tonight who simply wouldn’t eat their broccoli. Their Mummy and Daddy warned them, but they wouldn’t listen.”

“There are only Good Children here,” Lucius said gravely.

Hermione knew what Lucius Malfoy was, but he was clearly fond of his grandchildren. It made him seem almost human.

Only almost though - she hadn’t lost her senses completely.

Whether it was Christmas, or whether she was thinking of her future promotion prospects, she decided that Chloe should get the full Santa experience. “It’s very tiring delivering these presents,” she said. “Do you think there’s someone who could help us feed Rudolf his carrot?”

There was a gasp, and then a little girl came hurtling down the stairs to wrap herself round Lucius’ leg. “Can I Grandpa Lucy? Can I?”

Severus didn’t dare look at Hermione, because if he did, he would disgrace himself. Grandpa Lucy? No, he wouldn’t laugh, he couldn’t laugh, and he didn’t laugh, but it was a close run thing.

“We’ll have to ask Santa,” Lucius said, looking down at the little girl fondly. “What do you say, Santa, can she feed the reindeer?”

Severus nodded, and the little girl detached herself from Lucius to grab hold of Santa’s leg. “Oh thank you, thank you, thank you. I wuv you, Santa,” she said passionately.

Severus looked at her in horror. There was a child. Erp. It was on his leg. Erp. It wouldn’t let go. Erp. It liked him. Erp.

Lucius and Hermione’s eyes met in an unlikely moment of shared amusement. Severus’ expression couldn’t be clearly seen, hidden as it was by his beard, but they could imagine what it was.

Hermione took pity on him and prised Chloe free. “I’m sure Santa loves you too,” she said. “Now why don’t you take that carrot and go and see Rudolf.”

Chloe seemed to have difficult standing unaided, and reattached herself to Grandpa Lucy. “Will you come wiv me?” she said. “We can feed them together.”

Lucius patted her on the head, and said, “Of course I will.”

Hermione watched, immensely entertained, as Grandpa Lucy and Chloe and the House Elf butler passed in solemn procession across the lawn.

“Right, drink up, Severus and we can get out of here.” Severus didn’t move. “Severus? Severus? The nasty child has gone away now, and it’s safe,” she said, waving a hand in front of his face. “Grandpa Lucy has saved you.”

He smirked. “Remind me to thank Grandpa Lucy for that.” He finished his drink, stuffed the last of the mince pie in his mouth and mumbled, “Let’s go.”

Rudolf was behaving himself for once. He was telling little Chloe all about life at the North Pole, and how nice Santa was, though he had no regard for table manners at all and was quite happy chatting with his mouth full. Chloe seemed to think that being splattered with carrot pieces was all part of the fun, and was squealing with excitement.

Severus winced. “Remind me never to have children,” he said, politely helping Hermione into the sleigh. “I’m not sure that shouldn’t be classed as an Unforgivable.”

“Now. Now. Don’t let nice Grandpa Lucy here you say that or he’ll hex your nose off.”

Lucius glared at them. He couldn’t hear what they were saying but he assumed it was something about him. He was the most interesting person there, after all. “Come along, Chloe. We have to let the nice Santa leave. He’s got other presents to deliver, and he has to go.”

Chloe nodded, all bouncing ringlets.

“Now what do we say?” Lucius said.

“Fanku Rudolf and fanky Mr Santa,” she chanted. “And Merry Christmas.”

Hermione nudged Severus in the ribs. “Go on. Say it. You know she wants to hear it.”

“I’m not going to say it.”

“Go on,” she urged.

“O, bloo… erm. Ho. Ho. Ho.”

It wasn’t the most convincing Ho Ho Ho she had ever heard. It wasn’t remotely jolly, but it was the best that they were going to get. Chloe didn’t seem to mind.

Lucius bent down to put an arm round the little girl, so they could wave bye bye properly. His knees gave an audible crack, which made Severus smile; at least he wasn’t the only one getting old.

He gave one last wave to the girl, and clambered into the sleigh himself. “I’d stand back if I were you,” he told Lucius. “They’re a bit wild, if you know what I mean. Ho ho ho.”

“That sounded almost cheerful,” Hermione said, leaning across him to wave at Chloe.

“That’s because we’re getting out of here. Give it half an hour and I intend to be tucked up in bed, and not to get out again until tomorrow lunchtime at the earliest.”

“That sounds like a bloody good idea. I think I’ll join you.”

Encouraged by that sentiment, he slipped an arm round Hermione’s shoulders, only to have it shrugged off. “Not in front of Chloe,” she hissed, before he had a chance to start sulking. “She doesn’t want to see Santa canoodling with His Little Helper.”

He was a mite annoyed that his canoodling had to be postponed until they were out the little girl’s sight, but rather pleased that his entirely-innocent-arm-round-the-shoulders had been viewed as canoodling and not rejected. The only inference to be drawn from that was that additional canoodling of a more advanced nature would also be perfectly acceptable.

He clicked his tongue, he flipped the reins, and they were off. Not as quickly as before, the reindeer were obviously tired, but they still managed an impressive rate of knots.

Hermione was peering behind them, watching the figures recede until they were little dots, then turned to face the front. “They’re out of sight now,” she said with some satisfaction, and was rewarded with an arm snaking round her waist and pulling her closer.

“You know,” she said confidingly as she rested her head on his shoulder. “This would be almost romantic if it weren’t for that fact that all you can see is reindeer’s bottoms.”

“You’re a dreadful woman,” he said, squeezing her tighter. “Next year, I’ll leave you at home.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Either. Both. Now hush and let me concentrate on getting us home in one piece.”

“I love it when you get masterful.”

The journey home seemed to take twice as long as the outwards trip. Maybe the reindeer were slower because they were tired, or maybe he had other things on his mind now that Operation Santa had been successfully concluded.

It had all gone rather well in the end, due to his superior management skills. Obviously, this wasn’t something to be mentioned to Albus, as he would only find more work for him to do.

Eventually the towers of Hogwarts hoved into view. He swerved to avoid the Whomping Willow, which shook its branches at him irritably, and he neatly brought the sleigh to rest on the Quidditch Pitch. A large shape loomed up out of the dark, and Hagrid narrowly escaped being hexed.

“All done then,” he asked cheerfully. “I’ll put they animules to bed then, and you two go and find yours.”

It was a tired couple that stumbled up the steps to the front door. Hermione was yawning, and Severus was surreptitiously rubbing his aching shoulder.

“Well,” he said awkwardly.

“Well,” she replied.

“Erm, well, erm,” he continued.

“Severus,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Look up.”

There, stuck over the door, was a large sprig of mistletoe. He could take a hint, and promptly did. Repeatedly.

Since he was doing such a good job – Hermione seemed to be enjoying it – he decided to keep on going, and they made their lip-locked way across the great hall until he gave into temptation utterly.

Why bother with his quarters, when there was a nice floor here.

Baggy red trousers lay twined with green tights on the Great Hall floor, forgotten. Two bodies moved passionately together, until Hermione threw her head back and gasped one final, triumphant ‘Yes’ that could be heard through out the school and Santa-Snape at last lost all control, and with a fulmination of 'Ho - HO - HOOOOOOOOOO!' his lumbricoid member released a primal alluvion into his myrmidon's lissom omphalos of Love.

Minerva McGonagall later twitted him -- in public, no less -- that her vision would never be the same again. It was, she said, a Very Good Thing that she was extremely myopic; else she might have gone blind on the spot

It didn’t wipe the smile off his face though.

Author's Note: Advanced vocabulary was deployed in the making of this story. This is what happens when people whinge that I'm using too many hard words for them.

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