Chapter two
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 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 Reaindeer 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 whose 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?