Author's note: I hope I haven't been too heavy-handed with the symbolism. I tried to keep a Christmassy link, but without getting too mired in it.

And thank you for all the reviews.

By the way, when I refer to 'chips', I mean chips as in 'French Fries' not as in 'crisps'. 'Cawl' is a Welsh vegetable broth (I think, but my Welsh is virtually non-existent, despite having a grandfather called Cadwallader!)

DECK THE HALLS

By Bellegeste

CHAPTER 13: AWAY IN A MANGER

Tuesday 24th December

"Is this some kind of a sick joke?"

Harry looked around him in disgust. He had been consoling himself with cosy visions of a nice, warm kitchen - even a hot, steamy one would do - but warm, it had to be somewhere really warm… the picture was taking shape: an idyllic, rustic, Welsh farmhouse kitchen, all local slate and whitewash, with a huge inglenook fireplace burning logs the size of tree trunks… In Harry's mind this kitchen was furnished with a traditional, oak, Welsh dresser, its tall shelves laden, not with plates and platters on display, but with a wholesome selection of home-baked cakes and biscuits, rich, sweet, fruity and delicious, all ready for Christmas… Hmm, he could be tempted… Tempted? Huh, after the night he'd had, the least he deserved was somewhere comfortable to thaw out and some decent food.

And after that, he could probably handle a soft mattress, and squashy feather pillows and an eiderdown as fat and fluffy as a newly shorn merino fleece…

Well, he'd got the fleece part right!

"You want us to hide in a barn?" Outrage, disappointment and disbelief vied for supremacy. "You Apparate us into the middle of nowhere, traipse us across a foetid bog in the pitch dark without so much as a 'lumos', and then you expect us to stay in a sodding barn? What is this? Are all of you in the Order completely nuts? And I thought Snape was paranoid!"

Hestia busied herself with a number of rust-encrusted Hurricane lamps, which she lit with her wand and then hung up, expertly lifting them onto their hooks on the bend of a long, wooden crook.

"Come in, and sit you down," she said.

"Sit down? Where? What on?" Harry wasn't about to make it easy for her.

A couple of straw bales slid out from an uneven stack at the far end of the shed. Bow-legged, Hermione wobbled onto one, thankful to be sitting on anything that wasn't a broomstick. She felt as though she had just cycled the entire Tour de France, and might never sit comfortably again.

She was as dispirited as Harry - she'd had secret plans for a fragrant, hot bath and a steaming mug of creamy cocoa - but she was too cold to argue; too cold even to shiver any more. The lamplight reflected off her pale face, her skin chilled to the blue, skimmed-milk translucency of a bloodless moon.

Hestia was coming towards them carrying two dirty, brown squares of burlap sacking, picked up off the floor. Shrinking from thoughts of fleas, tics, lice and possible Bundimuns, and trying to appear grateful for the witch's paltry efforts, Hermione suffered the coarse, filthy thing to be put round her shoulders. At once she was enveloped by a blissful sensation of penetrating heat. Huddling into the sack-cloth, she felt her colour flowing back.

Harry, in the grip of a minor ague as the feeling returned to his limbs, gave a lop-sided, partially defrosted grin.

"Better, boy-o?" Hestia returned the smile. "All my own invention, don't you know? I call it a 'Hot Sack' - one day I'll think of a better name, but that'll do to be gettin' on with… …fantastic for the early lambs up on the Beacons… sometimes the ewes'll drop 'em on the hills before I can get them down to the shed… keeps 'em luvly 'n' warm, little poppets…"

"Lambs?"

"I'm not expectin' more'n a couple tonight - Myffanwy's due, and maybe Meagan… it was busier last night - five little beauties we 'ad."

"Wait a minute - are you trying to tell us this is some kind of a lambing shed?" This could well be the last straw for Harry.

"I can't leave 'em to manage alone. Too risky, what with the foxes and the dragons - nothing they like better'n a juicy newborn lamb… Much safer by 'ere. It is a sheep farm, Harry, after all!"

Hermione tried to pick out a logical path through this insanity.

"But you do have a farmhouse, right?" she asked. "Couldn't we go there and wait for you? We wouldn't do anything stupid. You surely don't need to keep an eye on us all the time…"

Hestia's natural ebullience jostled briefly with the truth and then blatantly side-stepped.

"I'll bet you'll be starvin'. What shall it be, boy-o? A bowl of cawl and a slice of Caws Aberteifi? Best cheese in the whole of Wales - barring Caerphilly, that goes without sayin' - they make it by 'ere, down Cardigan way."

She beamed to see the dismay on their hungry faces.

"Noh! Only jokin'! I like my little joke, see? Chips? Lads your age like chips, don't they now? And burgers? Oh, the look on your faces! You're a picture! Just because we're Welsh, you think we eat nothin' but Laverbread and leeks and cockles?"

Harry, not wanting to betray his ignorance, thankfully dismissed all dreary thoughts of baked seaweed…

Hestia padded off, a short, woolly figure. She reminded Hermione of a garrulous, good-natured, Celtic version of Professor Sprout. Some serious cooking magic must have gone on, because she was back only minutes later with two plates piled high with rough-cut chunky chips, piping hot…

Hermione eyed the food doubtfully.

"Do you suppose this is a lamb burger?" she whispered to Harry. "I don't know if I can…"

"Don't go there. Don't even think about it. Just eat it," he advised.

Hestia watched them with evident enjoyment, then stood up, slapping her knees with a sigh.

"Well, now, must check on Myffanwy. You'll be OK? Harry?"

Having satisfied his immediate needs, Harry had lapsed into a sullen reverie, and was staring morosely at the floor.

"Harry?"

His gaze still fixed on the compacted earth, Harry spoke bitterly:

"He's gone back, hasn't he? Back to the Cottage, to fight…"

"Oh, Harry bach, don't be gettin' yourself upset now!" The Welsh endearment sounded warm and motherly on her lips. "He'll do what has to be done. He's very…" It was unclear whether she didn't know Snape too well, or she did know him and was struggling to find something complimentary to say. Eventually she came up with, "…resourceful."

"But I should have stayed with him! I can fight! Everybody treats me like a child!"

Which motive was dominant: loyalty to Snape or the desire to prove himself in combat? Looking at Harry, Hermione couldn't separate the two.

"Hestia," she asked, "What's going on? Why are we here? Where is here? What happened back there?"

The Welsh witch planted her behind on a straw bale and sucked in her cheeks, looking about as perturbed as her cheerful nature and natural bonhomie would allow.

"Well, I don't know the whole story, mind - " she began.

"Anything," Hermione urged.

"It's been tricky, what with the Floo being down. No communication, see? Not for distance, anyways. Owls are fine for local… Even Apparating…" she checked herself. "Now then, what I do know is that I get a message from the Floo - terrible garbled - to go to my Emergency Point. That's where I met you, on the edge of the moor at Spinster's Rock."

"Emergency point?"

"Oh, we all have one in the Order. It's a place, prearranged, see? So that in a crisis we're not havin' to bother with makin' rendezvous and swappin' addresses. Saves time.

"So, I Apparated in an 'urry to the Rock - did you think it was suitable? The name, I mean? Chose that place deliberate. I like my little joke, see? And, it is well situated - for the West Country and Wales; just a hop over Severnmouth… And then I waited - I wasn't even certain what I was waitin' for. And then you arrived."

"So you don't know what happened back at the cottage?"

"Noh! Sorry. We're like the Lifeboats - the boom goes up and it's 'action stations'. No questions asked. I'm sorry; I'm not very helpful."

Harry finally looked up.

"So who were those people shooting at us back there? On the moor? You seemed to think it was funny!"

"Not funny. Not as in humorous, Harry. What I meant was, they don't intend any real harm by it. Not usually. They'd not've let 'im crash all the way. It was prob'ly a warnin' shot, across the bows, as it were - "

"Blasted his bloody broomstick out of the sky!"

"Ah well, they can get a bit carried away at their festivals…" She uttered an apologetic laugh. " 'Rock Festivals', I call them - it's a joke, see?"

Harry was beginning to see only too well.

"You mean they were a gang of these 'Raggner' guys?"

"More'n likely. There are groups - small ones - all over the country. We call 'em the 'Rags', by 'ere. First Full Moon after the solstice is when they celebrate Ragnarok. It's their main festival of the year. Bound to be excitable… But the Professor knows that."

"He didn't say." Harry was indignant. "All he said was that they were thugs who used to go around in the olden days, smashing things up."

"Didn't want to worry you, I'll be bound. He plays it close, that one. And the Rags aren't so big on the 'smashing' these days - the Ministry keeps a watch on 'em. Most of their gatherings nowadays are 'peaceable'. Besides, can't be doin' much damage up on the Tor."

"No, just shooting people," Harry sniped, understanding better now, but not forgiving. The incident had shocked him more deeply than he realised.

For a while now Hermione had been nurturing an impression, an intuition, which was rapidly crystallising into a certainty.

"Hestia, why - " she hesitated, not sure quite what she was trying to ask, "why is it important for us to stay here, in the barn? It is, isn't it? You really don't want us back at the farmhouse, do you?"

She was rewarded with a shrewd glance which confirmed her belief that Hestia, under the sheepskin, was far from fluffy.

"Yes, I'd heard you were a sharp one," the witch commented. "Couldn't slip that one by you… Well now, you're right - you're a deal safer in the barn. One of the safest places tonight in the whole country, I shouldn't wonder…"

"Why?"

To answer that, the witch walked over to the door and dragged it wide open. Dense clouds had obliterated the moon; the blackness was impenetrable.

"Look you!" She shone a rapid 'Lumosissime!' and, for a split-second, the surrounding field was fully illuminated. Fat, ruminating sheep blinked back at them, momentarily dazzled by the light. In the centre of the field were a line of three massive, leaning columns of stone: a fifteen foot, Neolithic, Puddingstone giant and two others, slightly smaller. Close by, a tiny stream issued from a bubbling Spring.

"The 'Three Men of Trellech'" Hestia told them, in a voice bowed with reverential awe. "There is powerful magic here - Old Magic. This valley has been inhabited for over four thousand years - the wisdom of the ages is here. It lives on in the very rock. Feel it! Go on, feel it," she whispered. "The Sacred Spring is a fountain of life itself. Dark Magic has no sway within sight of the Three. No one can harm you 'ere, Harry bach."

"Well, it's nice to know we've got running water, anyway," said Hermione.

A sharp, imperative bleating summoned Hestia away to the lambing fold, partitioned off from the body of the barn. Harry and Hermione could hear scuffling noises and, in between hummed snatches of 'While Shepherds Watched' and 'Once in Royal David's City' (two of Hestia's favourites), lilting words of encouragement.

"So, where does that get us?" Hermione wanted to build on the new information. Harry was less constructive.

"We're stuffed."

"No, Harry, that's not true. Think about it - we're warm and dry; we've had something to eat, and we're somewhere incredibly, auspiciously safe on the edge of the Brecon Beacons. That's a start!"

"Big deal. Hallelujah!"

Harry hugged his sack round him more tightly and closed his eyes, not sleeping but thinking…

…think… think what to do… there must be a solution to all this. He just felt so damn helpless. What could he do? What would they let him do? He felt as though he were blindfolded, spun on the spot by unseen hands, dizzy, directionless, arms out-stretched, patting at emptiness… and the circle kept shifting, dodging… The circle were his friends, his enemies, his memories his hopes, his fears… they were closing in on him… they were stoning him! Flints, rocks, pebbles were coming at him out of the darkness, each stone finding its mark, leaving its own bruise. They were throwing his life back at him: the lies, the deceit, revenge, rage… And, when he was finally cowering and battered, then came the heaviest, most hurtful blows of all: the burdens of friendship, loyalty, trust; and that deceptively rounded boulder - love - which pinned him to the ground and left him gasping for breath beneath its crushing weight.

What could he build from this useless rubble?

…he thought about the times when he had confronted Voldemort - evil, red eyes slitting the night - and the loathing he had felt then, fuelled by hatred. He should have been there to fight again tonight! But no - he had been protected, cosseted, rescued… the frustration of it all, the powerlessness engulfed him in a silent fury of impotence. So, he had been saved. Saved for what? From what? From his fate, his destiny? Why not save time instead and get it over with? Why wait? Why not let him have his chance now?

Swept along on a brooding storm of resentment, Harry clenched his fists, battening down the anger within. Since when had it been up to Snape to decide what he could or could not do with his life? Since… Oh hell! He thought he'd got beyond this over the past few weeks, but no! Sometimes he really wanted to hate that man. But too much had happened. He knew too much now; the link existed; he could not deny it. He tried to recall the bloodlust that had led him to the showdown in the cellar, to that sadistic 'Crucio', to the single-minded spite that had kicked a sick man in the shin… His path had seemed so much straighter then, clearer, uncluttered by the obstacles of his affection. It would be so much easier if he hated that man…

And now Snape was out there, fighting for his home, maybe even his life. Harry thought about his father and the resentment was replaced by a sickening dread.

Hermione could see the Snape blood surfacing in Harry, in his tension, his fierce isolation, the lone, bitter conflict. She had shared so much with Harry over the last five years, but she had never seen him quite like this - silently taking on the world, railing at life. She didn't associate him with self-pity; but now there was more than himself at stake.

Finally he spoke, in a voice heavy with resignation, spiked with anxiety.

"This is how it's going to be, isn't it? My life? It's never going to change; never going to get any better. I'm stuck with it. There'll always be people out there trying to get me - unless I get them first. I thought things would change, I really did, you know, once I found out… once I'd got my head round it… but it's no better. It's worse! I've got him on my back the whole time. You've seen what he's like - I can't do anything right. Nothing's ever good enough. Do you know how hard I've tried to get through to him? If I'm nice to him he knocks me back; if I ignore him he hassles me. I could work my socks off, and it still wouldn't come up to scratch. He despises me for being so feeble at Potions. In his eyes I'm no better than Neville - except I've been dumped on him and he can't get rid of me. I'm nothing but this huge, famous disappointment. He probably hates all that too - my 'powers', you know, speaking Parsel and stuff. I didn't ask for it. What more am I supposed to do? I should have made a better job of it that day in the cellar! And now… now he's out there, and we don't know what's happening, or even if… if…"

"He'll be alright, Harry. He's resourceful!" Words, just words.

"He's not indestructible though. You've seen him - barely sleeps, hardly eats… And that thing with the broomstick tonight… For a moment I thought - oh, you know. Hermione, I was scared. And now he's flown all that way back again. He's mad. You know how frozen we were… What can he do alone against all of them…? What if…?"

"He'll be fine." And for Harry's sake as much as Snape's, she willed it to be true. She tried to think of something positive to say.

"You know, today - just seeing you together, the way you talk to him - things have changed, Harry. You may not see it yourself, but you're different. And he's different. You say things to him that you'd never have dared to in a million years…And you're still alive to tell the tale. And he has made an effort - he was nice to me today – God! Was it only today? It seems like weeks ago! And he did that because you asked him to… You've just got to give it time."

"We may not have time," Harry said gloomily.

x x x

"It's a boy, boy-o! A ram lamb! A baby rammy-lammy!" came the delighted, sing-song voice of Hestia Jones. Hermione jumped up - some things were simply too cute to miss!

x x x

End of Chapter. Next Chapter: LEAP OF FAITH. What has happened to Snape? And, while we're on the subject, what's happening to Hermione? (No mush…)