A/N: Sorry this was a bit slow in the making. Incidentally, it's quite weird writing Christmas stuff in October! I may well have mentioned several things that you guys in the USA don't have - mince pies, anyone?! (If you've never tried them, you should make some this Christmas :) ) In the UK on Christmas Eve children leave out a mince pie for Father Christmas and a carrot for Rudolph, and maybe some sherry or brandy too. So the big guy's had about 20 million pies and shots of alcohol by the time he's done delivering presents to our little island. On another note, thanks to those of you that have continued to review.

~oOo~

The argument went something like this:

"Why didn't you do something?!"

"Like what?!"

"Like distract him! Or hide it!"

"How could I have done – I didn't even know he was looking at it!"

"Well – well – you could have told me!"

"There wasn't any time, for God's sake – I did tell you as soon as I could!"

"Couldn't you have–"

"No! For the last time! If you didn't want him to bloody find it, perhaps you shouldn't have put it there – or at least not under an enticing bloody pictogram! What did you think was going to happen?!"

He had been defeated then, shoulders slumped, and after several minutes of morose silence muttered something that might have been "I know," and "sorry." The whole situation was really quite funny.

"Look," she said, after some more time had snuck grumpily past. "It's going to be fine. He can't possibly suspect you – or me, for that matter – so it's just going to be one of those inexplicable things. He'll drop it sooner or later." Salazar looked rather doubtful but stopped short of actually contradicting her. "Besides… there's nothing you can do about it now, at least not without making it even worse."

"I suppose you're right," he said, eventually.

"Obviously. So I think you owe me an apology."

The apology lasted significantly and blissfully longer than the argument and the issue itself was put, for the time being, out of mind.

November and December marched along with a pleasant lack of apocalyptic events. During the day she spent time mostly with Tom, in lessons and in visiting the Chamber and in duelling club, and after curfew Salazar would come to bring her home with him. For the first time in years she felt a sense of equilibrium that, on occasion, came very close to happiness – especially when the Christmas holidays arrived, taking with them all of her most irritating fellow students.

It was busier in the castle this year. Many muggle families and even a handful of magical ones had elected to keep their children at Hogwarts, safely away from the bombs which were falling thicker than ever. There was plenty of food here, too, even if it were a far cry from the lavish feasts laid on just two years previously.

On Christmas Eve, Salazar brought her from her Hogwarts bedroom directly into the cherry tree garden despite the lateness of the hour. The tree itself, bare of leaves, had been covered with hundreds of tiny coloured lanterns and a blanket had been spread out on the ground underneath. Though the air should have been almost frozen she was not shivering despite having no coat. Nifty arrived, presently, bearing a tray with two cups of tea – a regular evening tradition, now. He was wearing an overlarge woolly hat adorned with miniature bells and the edge of his apron had been trimmed with a rather garish piece of pink tinsel. Twin silver baubles swung violently from his always-animated ears. She fought valiantly to keep a straight face and accepted the cup and saucer gratefully.

"You're looking very festive today, Nifty." The elf gave a small squeak which she had come over time to interpret as a sort of pleased agreement, and disapparated. Strange, she thought, since he usually chatted away almost indefinitely. She turned to Salazar, who was having less success containing his amusement.

"What's going on with –" she began, but trailed off because the recipient of her question was looking not at her but instead quite definitely at a point over her right shoulder. She turned around slowly, just as a chorus of popping sounds filled the air.

On a newly-constructed raised platform at one end of the garden appeared all seventeen of the household's elves, each clutching a small piece of paper. All seventeen aprons were beautifully smart and tinsel-trimmed in various colours – thirty-four baubles glinted madly from thirty-four ears, knocking frequently into their neighbours with a bright sound. Her mouth dropped open of its own accord and her eyes found Nifty towards the centre of the line. He was beaming proudly, and pointed at the letter N monogrammed on his apron. For a moment she was confused, but looking along the row it became clear that they had arranged themselves, not by age or rank, but alphabetically from Annie all the way to Wonky. A small scuffle ensued while Tabby ushered Sooty – the youngest elflet – onto her correct side, glanced at his piece of paper, and turned it the right way up somewhat sheepishly. Before Hermione could form any words there were seventeen intakes of breath.

"Hark! The many house-elves sing, a-bout all the festive things!

Mistletoe and warm mince pies, elves and wizards side-by-side!

Joy-ful-ly we all did bake, a very tasty Christmas cake –

then, we helped to write this song, that we'll sing all Yule-tide long!

Hark! The many house-elves sing, a-bout all the festive things!"

Salazar's hand at the small of her back guided her towards the blanket and she sat down dumbly without taking her eyes from the spectacle. The harmony might have been best described as informal and the lyrics ranged from the humorous to the downright nonsensical, but the enthusiasm of the little creatures was completely infectious. When they had reached the end of the last verse of Hark the Many House Elves Sing, she had barely begun to clap before they launched into We Three Elves, and on from there into God Rest Ye Miss Hermione and then – after seventeen sheets of paper were flipped noisily over to the other side – the particularly rousing Twelve Days of Elfmas. The performance was rounded off with easily the most joyful and least tuneful version of Jingle Bells she had ever heard.

"That was – that was – wonderful!" she said, finally, once all the clapping and squeaking and bowing had petered out. "I loved it!" Secretly, she was getting quite a headache, and was slightly worried that the 'Twelve Days of Elfmas' might be rattling around her mind forever, but it was hard to care.

"Right," said Salazar, getting to his feet. Though his tone was far from authoritative, all seventeen elves instantly stopped dead and turned to face him. "Is everybody ready for today's present?" There was a general commotion consisting of various hushed whispers and several feet hopping up and down. Suddenly, a large portion of the garden wall opened up to provide an exit into the meadow beyond. In the space directly behind the wall sat a huge sleigh, and hitched up to the sleigh were four pairs of thestrals. The whole ensemble was decorated with hundreds more of the little coloured lanterns.

The elves wasted absolutely no time before surging forwards. She was temporarily rooted to the spot, struck speechless. On the first day of Elfmas, my master gave to me: a sleigh ride over the trees.

"Did you, well, I mean, did you write those new words?" Salazar coughed awkwardly.

"Well… erm… yes, I suppose so… if you can call it that. They couldn't do it, you see – couldn't think of twelve presents. We've never – you know – never celebrated Christmas before. So I thought I'd try and make it… memorable." The elves were bouncing joyfully on the sleigh's upholstery and jiggling the reins, causing the thestrals to snort in irritation. They made their way over quickly before the situation could deteriorate. Salazar helped her climb in and the elves made just enough room: soon enough the thestrals were easing into a trot and then a canter.

It was bumpy, but not nearly as bumpy as it should have been; there was no snow on the ground, so large amounts of magic were evidently involved in their movement. After running the length of the meadow the thestrals jumped into the air, leathery wings beating strongly. She swallowed back a scream with difficulty and tried to focus on Salazar's arm which was wrapped securely around her shoulders. After what seemed like an age, the sleigh levelled out and the motion became much smoother.

The younger elves clamoured to get closer to the edge, peering over excitedly, while the older ones remained in a more dignified position on the seats. When she could face it, she looked down.

The trees in the thestrals' woodland were spread out perhaps thirty metres below and she saw that the top of each had been decorated with yet more lanterns. The bare branches allowed a view through to the ground beneath – she could spot the thestrals' shelter and the stream winding along lazily, reflecting the many coloured lights. They made a circle, and then the house and courtyards came into view all illuminated. Elsewhere was dark, the moon in the last quarter and behind a haze of cloud. The elves' chatter had died down as they all stared in wonder.

"For someone who's never done Christmas, you've made a pretty good job of it," she said quietly. There was no reply for a long time.

"Do you like it?"

"Of course. Of course I do – it's – it's lovely. You must have gone to so much trouble."

"Oh," he said, vaguely, "they did most of it. I couldn't take the credit." It was so clearly a lie that she almost protested, but instead simply leaned in closer and felt his hand tighten slightly on her shoulder. Soon enough the sleigh began to descend once more.

There were mince pies, after they arrived back on the ground, and mulled wine too – she wondered where the ingredients had come from, but supposed restrictions on international trade and movement did not quite apply to this particular household. It brought back strong memories of home, of Christmases before the war; way back, in fact, to before she had even heard the word 'Hogwarts'.

She had not seen her parents for three years; long enough for many details of their lives and habits to have faded from mind until the strangest things brought them back to the surface. It should have been sad – still frequently reduced her to tears – but tonight she was able to push those feelings down a little. Perhaps because of the sleigh ride, or perhaps because of the wine, the elves were in even better spirits than she had ever witnessed, and it was easy to be swept along in the good cheer.

It was probably for the best that the wine ran out after everybody's second glass. Salazar took that as the cue to suggest bedtime. Seventeen pairs of feet trotted – and in some cases, weaved and wobbled – their way back into the house and peace finally fell in the garden. She stepped into his embrace and appreciated the warmth as the temperature of the air had definitely started to drop.

"Is it our bedtime, too?" He smiled and kissed her softly.

"I haven't given you your present yet."

"There's more?"

"Well… yes, and no."

" 'Yes and no' ?" They sat back down on the blanket and he renewed the warming charms.

"I couldn't think of anything. Not a single thing. I'm… I'm not good at this. I know there's nothing I can do to give you what would truly make you happy. And I've been thinking a lot about something you said… that I can do just about anything. So I thought I would show you how wrong you are."

"So you got me nothing, to prove you're terrible at presents?" She chuckled, not following.

"What? No! No. Well. Sort of, I suppose." He paused for a minute, smiling into the distance. "I will give to you the knowledge that you are capable of something – something magical – that I never was."

"Whatever might that be?"

"I told you the story of Cliodna, I think."

"Yes… she was killed, by a muggle." A shadow crossed his face, briefly, and then was gone.

"Indeed. Although that's not what I'd want her to be remembered for. She was a natural Animagus. Quite extraordinary."

"She could change into a seabird. It's on her frog card, I think."

"Not just one. Gulls, petrels… the guillemot, the albatross." He was still looking into the distance, watching, she imagined, the dance of those birds on the tenth-century Irish breeze.

"I've had a dozen books out of the library, and everyone agrees that there can only be one form."

"It's been fashionable for several hundred years to try and put limits on magic, you know. To make sense of it. Ever since the rise of muggle science. But magic is... well, it's… magic, isn't it?" She fell to thinking for a while. It was the kind of conversation that they often arrived at, sparse and yet companionable.

"I suppose when you believe there is a limit on something, you don't try it. It's sort of self-fulfilling."

"Yes. Yes. That's exactly it. People don't try anymore. In the past, everyone experimented, everyone found their strengths. Even though there was no real education." He laughed briefly. "I suppose you could say that I did my part to be responsible for the problem." She smiled.

"So, anyway, why are you bringing this up?"

"Right. Yes. Shapeshifting. Something I could never do."

"Really?"

"No. Not… then, and not now. I don't know why."

"But you can speak with the thestrals. And snakes, of course."

"Curious, isn't it? I was born a Parseltongue – that was no achievement. Every other creature's language I only acquired as Death. It's necessary for the job, you see." She wasn't sure she did see, but it didn't seem like the key line of enquiry.

"I don't understand your logic. I can't do it either."

"Ah, correction: you have not yet done it. It's going to happen. Tonight."

"H-how?"

"How should I know?" he asked, genially. "You're the one with the ability. You just need the confidence. It's dangerous to attempt for the first time without company, and I think – I think – that I can help you with the focus. If you'll let me. It's a guess, really, based on the theory of it, which is quite shaky, actually, because –"

"You're rambling," she cut in, incredulously.

"Yes. Sorry. Sorry." He looked so oddly nervous that she leant over to kiss him. It was some minutes later – when they had fallen down onto the blanket and several buttons of his shirt had somehow come undone – when she remembered the conversation they had been in the middle of.

"How will you help me, then?"

"Um – I –" he blinked several times and looked across at her longingly. "Weren't you wanting to go to bed?"

"Nice try! No, you've convinced me we should give it a go." He groaned, and eventually struggled to sit up and re-button the shirt.

"You'll need to let me into your mind," he said, several deep breaths later. She tried hard to keep her expression blank: was this some elaborate pretence? Would it really help? Then again, if he had a mind to, he could probably see her thoughts any time he chose. She had already accepted that risk in being with him at all. Besides, he was really the only person from whom she had no significant secrets.

"Al-alright." He stroked her cheek, once, briefly – placed a single kiss there.

"I wouldn't do it. Without your permission. I promise. But in this instance I don't aim to view your memories – just hold your concentration." She grimaced, contrite. Of course he saw her doubts. She was terrible at hiding anything, even after so much practice. Their eyes met.

"Go ahead."

"I need you to begin the meditation, without my interference. Close your eyes. When you're ready, open them again."

It was easy to slip into the familiar channels of thought, now, though it had been hugely tiring upon her initial attempts. He was right, really – she had known for a while that she was ready. Couldn't explain exactly what had been holding her back except her own natural conservatism.

When she opened her eyes, he was in her mind immediately. It was… acutely intimate, and yet not at all unpleasant: calming, almost. Then, thoughts and images not her own began to surface – her natural reaction to shut them out was repelled, her focus being held firm until she stopped struggling.

Something changed as soon as her attention shifted onto the new images. It was so startling that, again, her focus would have slipped without his aid. Then he was gone from her mind, and she saw his smile beam out.

"I knew you could do it!"

~oOo~

Christmas Day saw a reasonable amount of snowfall, much to the delight of the children who were remaining in Scotland for the holidays. In the staffroom, too, the mood lightened from discussions of war and rationing: a Gryffindor – Hufflepuff snowball fight on the lawn below the window drew everybody's attention. His smile at Hufflepuff's eventual loss was only partly forced.

There was no all-evening drinking this year; stocks of everything were rapidly running out. Once the last of the gifts had been exchanged, and after a disappointingly weak cup of tea, he gave his final regards of the season and retired to his private rooms.

This year's haul habitually included various sweet treats, though the customary bottle of brandy from the Headmaster was sadly absent. Several books (two he had no desire to read and three he already possessed) completed the predictable lineup. It was his own fault, of course – if he had normal interests, or ever engaged in meaningful socialising with the others, maybe they would have a hope of purchasing him something he actually wanted or needed. He should probably suggest socks. Socks were always useful.

He sat down heavily in an armchair, feeling every one of his fifty-nine years, and reached for the chocolate frog: everyone had received one from the Headmaster in place of the usual alcohol, to varying amounts of distaste. Well, it certainly wasn't brandy, but he appreciated the whimsical sentiment all the same. Confectionary was terribly scarce these days.

Falco Aesalon (c. 1st century BC) was an Athenian wizard remembered for being the first known Animagus. He could transform into a small species of falcon, which was later named after him. Interestingly the bird was also the animal form of Merlin, from whom it obtained its common name.

The night outside the window was silent in a way that only snow can manage, a steady procession of flakes still falling. He felt the urge to be a part of it, suddenly, the picture of Falco (constantly changing from man to bird and back again, just to show off) making him long for the free air. He left his rooms again and passed silently through the darkened corridors and up the empty staircases, lost in thought. They'd probably put him on one of those cards after he confronted Gellert. He could picture it now:

Albus Dumbledore (1881 – 1941) was the Deputy Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry when he was killed in a duel with magical supremacist Grindelwald. Dumbledore, a notorious eccentric, apparently believed that he could dismantle Grindelwald's regime single-handed.

He barely dared to imagine the alternative:

Albus Dumbledore (1881 –), the Deputy Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, became widely famous for his defeat of magical supremacist Grindelwald in 1941, ending a decades-long oppressive regime that had enveloped much of continental Europe.

That level of praise would be far more than he deserved, of course, since he was half responsible for the whole thing in the first place. He had reached his destination now: the top of the Astronomy tower. The wind was strong and bitterly cold on the exposed top so he transformed quickly. How would his honest biography read, if it were reduced to so few words?

Albus Dumbledore (1881 –), despite showing plenty of early promise, has achieved very little in life except contributing to the murder of his innocent sister, aiding the takeover of Europe by a magical supremacist, and enacting a giant cover up so that nobody knows about either of the first two things.

He dropped over the parapet and considered briefly – during his descent past the seventh, sixth and fifth floors – whether it might be for the best if he were never to pull out of the dive.

~oOo~