A/N: So, I meant this for Christmas – but heck, it's December tomorrow! Happy start of Advent, everyone!

The Tinsel Incident

"Aren't you done yet?"

Aren't I done yet? What's a bloke meant to say? Can't she see I'm standing up a wobbly ladder with fifty-three out of the sixty odd miles of tinsel I'm meant to be putting up in this corridor still slung over my shoulder?

"No," I say as simply as I can.

A Hermione-special pointed sigh wafts pointedly though the tinsel on my shoulder. "We are meant to be working together."

And who kept having to get down off his ladder to give completely ignored opinions over whether each successive swag of tinsel on her side of the corridor was "swaggy" enough? Getting all tangled up in 'tangents' and 'segments' and 'radii' and other mysteries of muggle mathematics they apparently employ when hanging Christmas decorations?

The silence is reminiscent of Mum, and suggests somebody might be meant to be answering that statement. "Oh." More silence. "Er- right?"

I crane my neck over the tinsel to look down. She's standing at the foot of the ladder, hands on her hips. She sighs again. "Well, if you're still finishing here, I'll go and put the wreaths on the suits of armour down the stairs, and then we can both trim the bannisters." And she's off. Finishing? Bannisters? Unless somebody trims a few miles off this corridor, that doesn't seem likely to happen before next Christmas – but who am I to argue? This blood– um, um – tinsel's caught in my prefect's badge again. The last announcement from the foot of the ladder was that prefects shouldn't swear while putting up decorations. That list of things prefects shouldn't do is getting to be as long as the tinsel.

Fix tinsel, get down ladder, unwind tinsel, trip on tinsel, move ladder, wind up tinsel, climb ladder, fix tinsel, get down ladder, unwind tinsel, trip on tinsel... I'm going mad...

Firstly, who cares whether the corridor round the corner from the Transfiguration classroom is decorated with tinsel? And why does being a prefect mean you have to make a monkey of yourself putting it up? And why does it have to have so much tinsel? And why does it have to be me? Mum never lets us do the tinsel at home, not since the year Charlie took what he called 'the logical approach,' when the twins kept tweaking the ladder under him, and flew his broom round the living room in order to reach instead.

If I had my broom, I wouldn't be standing up this wobbly ladder worrying that Fred and George might be around, just waiting to...

If I had my broom instead of these ladders, I could give Hermione a ride on the back of it so she could reach to adjust her pie-squared swags while I held her steady...

The ladder's moving!

"Deck the halls with swags of prefects! Hang the firsties up as baubles!"

"Merlin's pants! Peeves!" I save the whole job from going by grabbing onto the torch bracket I was just about to fix tinsel to. He flips round to hover upside down above it, and wags his finger at me.

"Tut tut tut! Such language! From a prefect!"

"Get out!"

"Oh, woe! Out in the snow! Peevsie's only trying to help!"

He's swaying to and fro, thumbing his nose and waggling his fingers at me. If I could reach my wand, that 'Wadi wassi' charm Professor Lupin showed us would be a very good way of disposing of all this dratted tinsel – but there's no way I'm letting go of the torch bracket right now.

"Go away," I repeat through gritted teeth. What was it the world's biggest git used to tell him? "I'll tell the Baron!"

That only works for pompous prats like Percy. Peeves just pulls a long face and blows a raspberry at me. "Glitter glitter – pretty pretty! Lovely lovely strings of – TINSEL!"

He's got the end of it! He's whizzed twice round me! He's got it – got it – round my – arrgh – neck – arrgh! – arrgh! – arrgh...

"PEEVES! PUT HIM DOWN! GET OUT OF HERE! I'LL TELL THE BARON!"

How come that works with everybody except me?

Somehow, I'm at the foot of the ladder. The world's sort of stopped getting black and choke-y with little tinsel-coloured lights in it – unless I'm still seeing things, because there's Hermione about six inches from my face, unwinding miles of tinsel from my neck. She's absolutely puffing – hot air whistling past my ears – but for once it's not me she's mad at. That's rather nice.

She's so mad she's practically disjointed. " – heard him – 'Tinsel!' – you – ladder – ran back – tell McGonagall – shouldn't happen – not funny – you – " She pauses, one turn of tinsel still over my shoulder, and peers at me in a strangely intense way. She's very, very close – her bushy brown hair is all a-frizz with rage, and it's tickling my nose. Her teeth are much, much smaller than they used to be–

"Why Couldn't He Go Do It To Umbridge?!"

Huh?!

"Umbridge! Throttle her! Isn't worth the waste of tinsel, but-!" She blinks suddenly, and steps back like she's remembered something – or maybe I'm looking a bit shocked.

"Ron? Are you all right?"

"Er- yes," I lie.

No, I'm not. At such close proximity, I'm pretty certain now I've gone and got the wrong flavour for that perfume.

~:~