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Krampusnacht

Summary:

Harry Potter, top investigator at the DMLE and husband to one Draco Malfoy, has negotiated his way out of impossible situations before. Even so, there is no avoiding the traditional Boxing Day Brunch his mother-in-law hosts at Malfoy Manor. Things take a sinister turn when an ancient Christmas demon appears, and once again, it's up to Harry to save the day...

Notes:

Dear darkravenwrote, what a lovely prompt! I cheered when I spotted 'magical lore', 'history' and 'languages' among your favorites (shout out to the mods for their superb matching job!), and I hope you like what I came up with. I had a lot of fun having Harry save the day like the hero he is!

Please enjoy the gift, and have a lovely (and Krampus-free) Christmas!

Huge thanks go out to my lovely beta flightinflame for her support, and to the Owlpost Masters for all their hard work! Happy Christmas to all who celebrate it!

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He’ll take our children

Off to his lair

Stuffed in a rucksack

Drenched in despair

To punish the homes

He found in err

So, lock all the doors

And say a prayer

Close all the windows-

We must prepare

For Krampus is coming,

That Christmas Nightmare.      (Erynn Crittenden)

 

*

“You realize we’ve arrested Endicott, don’t you?”

Sam “Cruptail” Bloominshine crossed his arms at this. His face didn’t change much, but the pale skin under his reddish stubble gained an unsightly blush, creeping up from under the collar of his tailored robes and blotching his cheeks. He straightened his posture, no longer sprawling in his chair as he had been doing for the last two hours.

Harry registered all of this with a certain satisfaction. He’d known Cruptail would be a hard nut to crack. The wizard had been giving them the run-around for ages, insisting on his ignorance of any and all illegal potions, to the point of absurdity where he claimed not to recognize the Pixie Tears sold in the backroom of his own shop.

Endicott, it seemed, might just be the one name that was not met with blank-faced obstinacy. As Harry had suspected.

“So?” Cruptail’s voice slipped into a slightly higher pitch. “I met the bloke once, at an auction in Knockturn. Bought a jinxed goblet I had my eye on. Haven’t seen him since.”

His eyes flicked up and to the left. One of his hands came up to scratch at one stubbly cheek, almost covering his mouth in the process. Harry filed all of this away, careful to keep his own voice level.

“He’s agreed to a plea bargain,” he said, leafing through the notes on the table in front him. Pretending indifference. “Not much else he could do, really. And it turns out he had names for us. Lots of them.”

“You tryin’ to scare me, Auror?” Cruptail’s face morphed into a twitchy grimace, an attempt at a sardonic grin. It looked more like sudden indigestion.

“Why?” Harry leaned back in his chair, raising his eyebrows just the tiniest bit. “You’ve something to be scared of, Sam?”

“No! Course not!”

Harry watched him flounder for a moment, then got up from his chair. He began gathering up his notes, filing them carefully into the folder on the table. Letting Cruptail see him do it.

“Well, Sam, I guess that’s it for today.”

“What?” Cruptail gasped before he could catch himself.

Harry glanced at him once. “We’re going to continue this tomorrow morning,” he said. “Please be here at nine.”

“But it’s Christmas tomorrow,” Cruptail burst out.

“It’s only the twenty-fourth,” Harry replied. “I’m sure you can spare an hour or two of your Christmas shopping. Oh, and no leaving London,” he added, seemingly casual. “You’ve still got the Trace on you.”

Cruptail stared at him, muscles working in his jaw. He knew only too well that leaving London would be a confession of guilt, and he knew that Harry knew. He had no choice but to spend the next fourteen hours stewing in his own potion, brooding on all that Endicott had shared with the Aurors. Or not.

“Well then,” Harry said. “See you tomorrow.”

The wizard said nothing, which Harry took as a good sign for once. He was quite certain that tomorrow, Cruptail would have some rather interesting details to share.

*

Harry left the office around six. Dusk had fallen, and the only Auror still at his desk was old Wesley, who never left before the boss did.

“Put Cruptail through the wringer, did you?” Wesley grinned. “He looked none too happy when he walked out of here.”

Harry sighed. “Let’s hope we’re finally getting somewhere. If we don’t get a warrant on him soon, he’ll have moved the lab to Merlin-knows-where.”

“You’ll crack him,” Wesley said, sounding utterly confident. “You always do. Don’t worry, lad.”

Harry nodded at the old Auror, who looked back on an impressive ninety years of service and seemed to have no intention of retiring any time soon. Praise from Wesley was high praise, indeed.

“Thanks, Wes. Not today, though. I’ve some errands to run, so I’d better be off.”

“Going to see the old ball and chain?” Wesley asked, winking at him. Harry briefly entertained himself by imagining Draco’s face at the old wizard’s choice of words.

“Er, yes.”

“Have fun, then.” Wesley turned back to his files. “See you tomorrow, lad.”

“See you, Wesley.”

Harry would be back tomorrow, if only to do one, hopefully final, interview with Cruptail. After that, he was off duty until New Year’s Eve. Robards had insisted.

“You work too hard, Harry. You did brilliant on the Carlington case, but you need to take a break. Can’t have my best investigator signing off with burnout,” he’d added, only half-jokingly. “Go home, celebrate with that husband of yours. Don’t show your face in the office until it’s 2008 on the calendar.”

Harry was not at all opposed to the idea of celebrating Christmas with Draco. Just the two of them snuggled under a blanket, drinking hot chocolate, their tree filling the den with the heady smell of pine needles. Exchanging presents and long kisses by the fire. Moving celebrations upstairs and lounging in bed on Christmas morning, with nothing to do but enjoy each other’s company.

Yes, Harry was more than fine with the prospect. It was the day after he was dreading.

But, he thought as he left the Ministry and stepped into the pre-Christmas hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley, not all hope was lost. He had a plan, and to implement it, he had to get to Maison Mocha before it closed for the night.

Harry was in luck for once. The queue at Draco’s favorite coffee shop held only a few people, weary-looking witches and wizards laden with bags of shopping and (in one case) a cart filled with dragon-shaped candles.

He waited until the wizard in front of him had received his pumpkin spiced latte, hobbling off with his cart of candles bouncing behind him.

“A salted caramel mocha latte, extra whipped cream and chocolate syrup, please. And a small coffee with skim milk.”

“Live a little, Harry,” said Lucy the barista. She waved her wand in an elegant twirl to add extra cream and syrup, perfecting the sugary monstrosity that was Draco’s favorite drink. “At least have a cappuccino. It’s Christmas!”

Harry reached for his coffee, blessedly free of sugar and stickiness. Draco’s mountain of syrupy goo hovered behind him, ready to follow as he left. “Thanks, Lucy. Have a good one.”

She sighed and shook her head, acknowledging him as a lost case. “You too, Harry.”

Walking down Diagon Alley, Harry sipped his coffee and reflected on the many times Draco had labeled his taste “utterly plebeian.” Food, clothes, accessories – Draco usually preferred the elegant, toned-down version, as he’d been brought up to do. On the rare occasion he did go for tacky, however, he went all out. Hence the Elvis egg timer in their kitchen (not that Draco knew who Elvis Presley was, but he’d been enchanted by the thing nevertheless), or the swan-shaped bonbonniere he’d brought back from Italy.

Or, in fact, his taste in coffee. Which Harry was happy to indulge, taking secret pleasure in Draco’s enjoyment of things that were so utterly non-Malfoy.

Tonight, he might have another, less selfless agenda in bringing Draco his favorite artery clogger. That was alright. Desperate times, and all that.

Harry turned a corner, leaving Diagon Alley for one of the narrower side streets. A familiar blend of scents and spices greeted him, wafting from the many small shops that lined Provision Alley, the culinary center of wizarding London. Every shop window was a piece of art, displaying elaborate arrangements of fruit, cheese, wine, or whatever other delicacies the owner happened to sell.

Harry walked past a stall offering mixed pickles and goat cheese, past a wizard roasting chestnuts over rainbow flames, until he spotted the familiar, hand-painted sign: Let Them Eat Cake. Potter & Parkinson, Fine Patisserie, Est. 2005.

Pansy was inside, arranging an assortment of Viennese whirls in one of the many glass cases. A piece of mistletoe was pinned to her red headband, perfectly matching her green tie and fashionable ankle boots.

“Potter,” she said. “Tell Draco to put in another tray of matcha macarons, would you? We’re almost out.”

“Will do.”

“Oh, and take those to the back.” She nodded at a stack of boxes. “Spices for the Christmas stollen. Brookwood delivered them earlier.”

Harry flicked his wand and levitated the boxes into line behind Draco’s coffee. “I’ll let him know.”

“What’s the occasion?” Pansy raised an eyebrow as the steaming cup bobbed past her, looking interested for the first time since Harry had entered the shop. “Ooh, did you fight this morning? Draco didn’t say.”

“We didn’t fight,” Harry said. “Can’t I bring my husband a cup of coffee at work?”

“A bribe, then.” Pansy shook her head. “You’re so obvious, Potter.”

Harry didn’t deign this with a response (and perhaps he was, but so what? His methods were tried and true).

As he walked through the door leading to the back, he was nearly barreled over by a tray of star-shaped petit fours.

“Harry Potter!” the elf behind the tray squeaked, their round eyes widening. “Belby is so sorry, sir! Belby is not looking where they is going! Belby is in such a rush that they nearly injured the great, good Harry Potter-”

“-who should know better than to waltz into a busy kitchen like a rampaging Hippogriff,” Draco called over, half-hidden behind a three-foot-tall Christmas cake. “It’s fine, Belby. Potter will live.”

Harry brushed powdered sugar off his robes and smiled at Belby. “Really, it’s fine.”

“Potter.” Draco emerged from behind the Christmas cake, his wand still pointed at the top layer. Fine threads of sugar spun from its tip, coalescing into tiny towers and pointed rooftops. Harry recognized the shape of one particular tower, and blinked. Draco’s Christmas cake decoration was a perfect resemblance of Hogwarts covered in snow, surrounded by the Forbidden Forest and reflected in the black surface of the frozen Great Lake. He’d even added Hagrid’s cabin and the greenhouses, both topped with caps of white.

“This looks amazing, Draco.”

Draco’s cheeks pinked at the praise. “This year’s pièce de resistance, I suppose. It’s for Mother’s Boxing Day brunch, so it’d better be up to scratch.”

Right, Harry thought, refusing to give in to the sinking feeling at Draco’s words. He could do this. He’d talked Draco out of things before – not an easy task to accomplish, but then, Harry liked a challenge. And of course, he’d come prepared.

With a casual flick of his wand, he set the spices and the caramel latte on the counter. “For the, er, stollen, Pansy said? Whatever that is. And this is for you.”

Draco’s eyes lit up. “You’re a lifesaver, Potter. I haven’t had anything since breakfast. And you know what a stollen is, you heathen. You had it at Boxing Day brunch last year.”

Harry supposed he had. He’d done his best to forget everything to do with his annual humiliation at the Manor – the itchy dress robes that felt like a costume, the posh silverware he didn’t know (why on Earth would anyone have a special knife just for fish?), the people who wanted to exchange season’s greetings with the savior, but secretly looked down their noses at his “common taste.”

And, of course, his mother-in-law. Narcissa was perfectly polite, a gracious hostess at all times, and yet Harry could never shake the feeling that she wanted to see someone else at Draco’s side. That she looked at him and wished for an elegant pureblood witch instead, someone who would fit seamlessly into their social circle; who could provide the grandchildren Narcissa so carefully avoided in their conversations.

Harry did want children. But they would not be pureblood, nor would they be Malfoys. Draco had decided to take Harry’s last name when they married, and Harry suspected that this, of all things, could never be forgiven.

Well. If he played his cards right, he might be able to escape the dreaded occasion this year.

“How about I take you out to dinner tonight?” he asked, pitching his voice to sound entirely casual, as if he’d just come up with the idea. “The Wand and Windmill, in an hour? Pansy can close up shop.”

Draco frowned. “You hate The Wand and Windmill. You said, and I quote, ‘I’m not paying twenty Galleons for a bloody bowl of soup just because it has a fancy name.’”

“It’s not so bad,” Harry lied. “What do you say? I’ll get us a private table.”

Draco loved private tables. And while Harry despised places like The Wand and Windmill, he did appreciate their offers of ‘discretion and anonymity.’ The Leaky Cauldron was a fine wizarding pub, but being mobbed for autographs while he was trying to eat his fish and chips wasn’t fun.

Draco took a long sip of his coffee, eyeing Harry over the rim of the cup. “Is there something I should know about, Potter? You’re behaving very suspiciously.”

Harry held up his hands. “I just thought, you work so hard and you deserve a break. But if you’d rather not go…”

“You didn’t get a Crup puppy, did you? I’m not going to be pounced by a slobbery ball of fluff the second I walk through our front door?”

“Of course not!”

“A Kneazle kitten, then? Or… oh no. Is Weasley staying over for Christmas because his wife very sensibly kicked him out?”

Nothing’s going on,” Harry said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Can’t I do something nice for my husband once in a while?”

Which wasn’t a lie. He did want to do something nice for Draco, who deserved all the spoiling Harry could give him. If dinner at The Wand and Windmill put him in a good mood… good enough to see reason about the bloody Boxing Day brunch… well, that was just an added benefit.

“Well,” Draco said. “Alright then. Let me just pop home to change into my dinner robes.”

Harry cheered inwardly. “Sure, no problem. I’ll let Pansy know.”

Draco turned towards him, and there was a knowing glint in his eyes that Harry didn’t like at all. “As long you know that this isn’t getting you out of brunch at the Manor. I promised Mother that we would be there.”

As a professional investigator, Harry was used to changing tack at a moment’s notice, and to recognize when a strategy of subterfuge had failed. As it was, he was not above resorting to begging.

“Draco… come on. Please? You know I don’t like these high society do’s.”

Draco crossed his arms in front of his chest. “This is my family, Potter. Might I remind you that I spend every blasted New Year’s Eve at the Burrow, surrounded by hordes of Weasleys, and that I do my very best to be my most charming self and not hex any of them, even if they offer to brew me a chickpea potion to cure my inbred anemia?”

Harry winced. “She means well. And she didn’t say ‘inbred’.”

“The point,” Draco said sharply, “is that I am willing to spend time with your family, because it is important to you that I do. Apparently I am asking for too much when I would like you to do the same.”

Harry knew when he’d lost. And Draco was right, of course. It was selfish of him to try and manipulate his way out of going. Even if he knew he would hate every second of it. It was important to Draco, and that alone should be enough for him to suck it up and go.

“Besides, Urgroßmutter is attending this year. She wants to meet you.”

Harry swallowed. That did not sound promising at all.

*

Harry lifted an arm. His reflection in the mirror did the same, and looked just as glum as Harry felt at the cascade of silky fabric that unfolded at the movement.

His sleeves were ridiculous. His entire outfit was ridiculous, as if someone had wrapped him in moss-green drapes and applied a sticking charm here and there. Traditional festive robes, Draco called them, and insisted that Harry needed a new set every year.

You can’t possibly wear last year’s robes, Merlin. You might as well turn up naked.

The thing was, Draco looked good in his. Sophisticated and otherworldly, somehow. Like an elven prince invited to the Seelie Court. Harry just looked like a very fluffy version of Robin Hood, no matter what Draco said.

“Do I have to wear the hat? It has feathers.”

Draco’s head poked out of the bathroom. “We’ve been over this, Potter. Twice. Hats are part of the tradition and not to be taken off until Mother invites the guests into the conservatory. And feathers are en vogue.”

“Your hat doesn’t have feathers,” Harry protested.

“That’s because it’s a Belle de Vere,” Draco sighed. “Of course it doesn’t.”

“Then I want one, too,” Harry said, feeling he should fight for every little shred of dignity he might be able to retain. “I want a Belle de Vere. Without feathers.”

“You can’t wear a Belle de Vere with Armani dress robes. Not this year’s, anyway. Don’t worry, Potter, you look fine. Very well turned out, for once.”

Harry didn’t agree, but knew that it was no use. He should probably just go with it, feathers and all. At least his outfit had no ruffle collar this time, like the thing he’d been forced to wear two years ago. It had reminded him strongly of Ron’s legendary Yule Ball robes, and he’d drawn only little comfort from the fact that almost every wizard at Narcissa’s brunch had turned up with a similar ruff around his neck.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, and Harry looked up, meeting Draco’s gaze in the mirror.

“Hey,” Draco said, his gray eyes soft. “Thank you. For doing this. It means a lot, you know.”

A pointy chin came to rest on his shoulder. Silky blond hair brushed against his cheek, and Harry felt warm lips nuzzle that spot behind his ear.

“Draco…”

“Later,” Draco murmured. “We have to get going.”

“There’s still time…”

A wand tapped his hat, along with a few muttered words.

“There,” Draco said. “No more feathers. Better?”

“A bit,” Harry muttered. “Do we really have to leave already?”

“Of course we do, it wouldn’t do to be late. Come on, Potter. Chop chop.”

*

A traditional wizarding Boxing Day Feast, Harry had learned over the years, was steeped in ritual, and to many purebloods, the most important of Yule celebrations.

In times gone by, wixen had mostly avoided large gatherings of their own kind, for fear of being surprised by Muggle witch hunters. But Boxing Day, when servants traditionally visited their families while the lords and ladies slept off their Christmas hangover, had been deemed safe enough. It became the day when olden-time wixen would secretly meet at a friend’s house, to burn the Yule log and celebrate the birth of a new sun.

Festivities began with the Display of Gifts; a traditional offering of thanks to the host, and at the same time proof that the guest was, indeed, a witch or wizard rather than a Muggle in disguise. Giving a non-magical gift would be in very poor taste, as Draco had pointed out when Harry had suggested a nice bottle of wine.

Narcissa had set up a gift table in a corner of the conservatory, for her guests to admire as they milled about the room. The gifts were impressive, indeed – a set of flying carpets, singing orchids that were crooning Christmas carols in several voices, a man-sized, rather sinister-looking nutcracker with no obvious magical properties, and, of course, Draco’s Christmas cake.

Draco had really outdone himself this year. Harry knew that Narcissa did not entirely approve of her son’s chosen profession – after all, a Malfoy did not work, and certainly not with his hands. She did give pride of place to his annual masterpieces, however, displaying them for all to see.

“Yes, my son designed it – isn’t it marvelous?” Harry heard her say to an elderly couple. “Such intricate artwork and charms, he does have a talent.”

Draco gave no indication that he’d overheard her comment, save for a tell-tale flush on his cheekbones. Harry, who knew how much his husband valued his mother’s opinion, was happy to see it.

“Darling,” Narcissa said quietly, materializing at their side as if Harry’s thoughts had summoned her. She shot a quick glance at him, then settled a hand on Draco’s arm. “Darling, please do make sure to introduce Mr. Potter to Urgroßmutter soon. Sie ist ohnehin schon ungehalten,” she added, lowering her voice and looking at Harry from the corners of her eyes.

And that was another thing. The whispered bits of German, combined with those looks that made Harry feel as if he had dribbled jam down his front and everyone was too polite to tell him.

Was für eine Überraschung,” Draco replied in a tone that suggested sarcasm. “Yes, Mother, don’t worry. I expect she’s in the sitting room?”

Narcissa nodded. “You know she doesn’t like crowds.”

“She doesn’t like most things,” Draco muttered.

Narcissa clicked her tongue. “Also wirklich, Draco, benimm dich! Do excuse my son’s manners, Mr. Potter,” she added to Harry – as if he was an acquaintance, not her son’s husband who had been living with him for five years. Again.

“Call me Harry, please,” Harry said, without much hope.

“Harry.” Narcissa’s smile briefly touched her lips, never quite making it to her eyes. “If you would do us the honor of meeting my grandmother. She’s heard ever so much about you.”

Harry nodded, trying not to think of what exactly Narcissa’s grandmother had heard about him. “Of course, I’d love to.”

“Careful what you wish for,” Draco murmured as he led the way towards a door in the back.

“She can’t be that bad.”

“She’s a Black, Potter. What do you think?”

Harry swallowed.

After the airy brightness of the conservatory, the sitting room felt almost cozy – not a word Harry had ever expected to associate with the Manor, but there it was. Leafy garlands adorned the walls, filling the room with the scent of pine and holly. Heavy velvet curtains had been drawn half-shut, and a fire crackled in the fireplace, bright and cheery.

Ah, da bist du ja endlich.“

Großmama,” Draco said. “How lovely to see you.”

She was sitting in an armchair by the fire; a slender and imposing figure, dressed in dark robes that reminded Harry of the ancestral portraits in Grimmauld Place. A cane rested loosely against her leg, as did a large black handbag. Pale eyes fixed on them as they approached, and Harry wondered if he’d ever met a person who had such a strong resemblance to a Thestral. Even her voice seemed akin to their dark, scratchy cries.

Und das ist Harry Potter, nehme ich an. Ich hätte ihn mir ja größer vorgestellt.

Urgroßmutter says she’s pleased to meet you,” Draco said, in a bracing tone that suggested he wasn’t translating quite literally. “Großmama, may I introduce Harry James Potter, my husband. Harry, this is my great grandmother, Annegret Hildegard Black.”

Schwarz, nicht Black. Ich halte nichts von dieser lächerlichen Namensänderung, nur weil ein paar von uns nach England ausgewandert sind.”

“Annegret Hildegard Schwarz,” Draco corrected with a weak smile. “They changed the name after coming to England.”

Which, Harry surmised, did not meet with Urgroßmutter’s approval, judging by her thin-lipped frown.

He held out a hand and attempted a polite smile. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Schwarz.”

Her grip was surprisingly firm. “Sehr erfreut. I must say, Mr. Potter, it is good to see Draco finally settle down. I do hope you can keep him in line. Merlin weiß, poor Narcissa was worried out of her mind about the boy.”

Großmama!” Draco hissed, but she paid him no mind at all.

“I assume a national hero such as yourself has no need to work? Living off your fortune and the public’s gratitude, as it were?”

“Er,” Harry said. “I’m an Auror. I work for the Ministry.”

“That’s understating it a little,” Draco added with a slight smile. “He’s second in command at the DMLE, one of their top investigators.”

Harry’s chest filled with warmth at his husband’s tone of pride, and he reached down to briefly squeeze Draco’s hand. Draco would do this – he’d shamelessly brag about Harry, not for being ‘the Savior’ or ‘the Chosen One’ or any such nonsense, but for being good at his job, his chosen profession.

Sehr interessant,” Urgroßmutter said, in a tone that suggested anything but. “And does an Auror make enough to support my great grandson in the style he is accustomed to? Not to mention his lavish spending habits.”

Großmama…” Draco began, only to be fixed by her ice-chip eyes.

Unterbrich mich nicht, Draco. You were a spoiled child, and I seriously doubt that has changed much. I did notice that you made that cake yourself, like a common housewitch. You work for a living, I hear? What does my granddaughter have to say about that?”

Harry noticed the dark red flush spreading on Draco’s cheeks, and cleared his throat. “So, Mrs. Schwarz… Draco tells me that lovely nutcracker is from you? Very, er. Interesting craftsmanship.”

He’d made smarter remarks in his time, he had to admit. Strangely enough, it seemed to be the right thing to say. Urgroßmutter’s stern frown softened somewhat, and she nodded.

“My home in the Schwarzwald is renowned for its carvings and wood spellwork. You like the Nussknacker, then?”

Harry could not honestly say that he did. If anything, the thing was unsettling, with its goat-like horns, lolling red tongue and deep-set eyes that followed you through the room.

“Lovely,” he repeated. “Very unique.”

“It’s a Krampus,” Urgroßmutter cackled. “The shadow servant of Saint Nicholas, come to punish the naughty children and carry them off in his sack. I thought it was a fitting gift to bring to my dear granddaughter’s Christmas celebration. Well, then. That’s the gong. One of you escort me to the table, or has that, too, fallen out of fashion?”

She heaved herself out of her chair, one black-gloved hand clutching Draco’s arm. “Und um Himmels Willen, Draco, kauf ihm eine neue Brille. Das alte Ding sieht fürchterlich aus.

Draco shot him a weak smile, mouthing ‘sorry,’ which only confirmed Harry’s suspicion that she had been talking about him, and not in a flattering way, either.

Well, he was used to that. Sighing, he followed his husband and Urgroßmutter into the dining room.

*

Harry enjoyed the food, posh as it was (he remembered the fish knife, this time). After two glasses of champagne, his dress robes no longer bothered him, and he sought Draco’s leg under the table, running one foot along the inside of his calf.

Draco, who had been exchanging pleasantries with an elderly Wizengamot member, shot him a glare, but did not pull his leg away. Harry grinned and popped another salmon canapé into his mouth. He couldn’t wait for evening to arrive. The celebrations traditionally ended with the burning of the Yule log after the sun had set, and then they could finally get out of here. Harry thought of his plans for tonight, which involved no dress robes… or any clothes, in fact. Something about Draco dressed in traditional wizarding garb did things to him – he wanted to peel off all those fine layers of linen and silk, expose the creamy skin beneath and… well. Better not follow that train of thought any further; not while he was seated at a table with Draco’s mother and great grandmother.

Urgroßmutter was holding court at the head of the table, finding fault with the cheese, for some reason, and annoying the house elves. Narcissa looked a bit frazzled as she sent Holly to the kitchen for a platter of Limburger, but otherwise seemed to take her grandmother’s presence in stride. She smiled her gracious smile, engaged in small talk, and invited her cousin’s children to search the Christmas tree for chocolate frogs. (Harry indulged a brief mental image of a tiny Draco, apple-cheeked with excitement as he stretched to grab sweets off a majestic Christmas tree.)

She didn’t speak to Harry, but then, he hadn’t expected her to.

After the last course had been served, it was time for the traditional Strengthening of the Wards. This was easily Harry’s favorite part of wizarding Yule, if only because it allowed him to stretch his legs and get some fresh air.

In times gone by, the wizards had followed their host outside, walking around the fields and estate and casting charms to protect it from Muggle detection. The witches did the same thing inside the house, reinforcing the wards that kept out intruders and Muggles alike. Harry could just imagine what Hermione would have to say about outdated gender roles, not to mention the mugglephobic sentiments behind it all. (Which, he supposed, had made sense at the time, but he knew better than to get into that debate with his best friend).

These days, wizards and witches still made their traditional rounds around the house and estate, casting a few charms for good measure and doing their best to be well and truly sozzled by the time they returned to bless the Yule log.

“Merry Yule to you, Potter!” an elderly wizard slurred as they made their way back from ‘warding’ the boxwood maze. Harry thought he’d met him at some Ministry gala or other, but couldn’t be sure.

He clinked his goblet of honey ale to the wizard’s. “Cheers!”

“Another day, another scoundrel put away, eh?” The man took a gulp of ale, dribbling some of it down his beard. He didn’t seem to notice. “Old Wesley tells me you finally got the Cruptail gang.”

“My team did most of the work,” Harry said, because they had. “But yes, we raided his lab and arrested six of them.”

After Cruptail had caved, just as Harry had predicted, it had been a matter of hours. Cruptail’s men fought hard and dirty, but in the end found themselves immobilized on the floor while the squad secured their potion stocks. Harry had made it home just in time for Christmas dinner.

No one, Cruptail least of all, had realized that the illustrious Endicott had never been arrested at all.

“Master Draco!”

Harry glanced up. A house elf came running down the gravel path, her neat little dress flapping behind her. It was Holly, Harry realized as she came closer; one of Manor’s oldest elves, and Draco’s former nanny.

She nearly ran into Draco, who gently caught her as she stumbled to a halt.

“What is it, Holly? What’s wrong?”

“Master Draco, oh, it is horrible! Holly did not protect the mistress! Holly did not realize a bad, bad thing was in the house until it was being too late! Oh, Holly is a bad elf, Holly deserves to shut her ears in the oven door and roast her toes in the fireplace –”

“Holly!” Draco caught the little elf in a hug – not an easy feat, given that she barely reached up to his knee, but he managed. “No, Miss Holly, no. You’re not a bad elf, and no one deserves any of that, remember?”

Holly shook, but slowly seemed to gather her wits about her. “Oh, Master Draco, my poor mistress –”

“What happened, Holly?”

Holly’s bulbous eyes filled with tears. “The bad thing took her, Master Draco! Her and mistress’ grandmother! Dragged them off, it is being horrible –”

“What bad thing, Holly?” Harry asked, ignoring for now the sinister suspicion at the back of his mind. “Did you see it?”

But Holly proved all of his instincts correct. “The… the Krampus, Master Harry. He came to life and took them. Poor Mistress Narcissa, poor old Mistress Annegret! They is being dragged off in his sack, and bad, useless Holly could not stop him! Oh, they is gone, they is gone!”

“Holly,” Harry said, in a tone he often used with nervous trainees on their first field mission. “Listen to me. They aren’t gone, and I’m sure we can get them back. Can you show us where the Krampus went?”

Like his trainees, Holly seemed to calm down at the sound of his voice. She pulled a large checkered handkerchief from the pocket of her dress and proceeded to blow her nose and wipe her eyes, sounding steadier when she spoke again.

“Yes, Master Harry, Master Draco. Holly can show you. The bad Krampus left something behind, on the floor of the sitting room. Holly can take you there.”

Harry nodded. “Yes, Holly, please do. As quickly as possible.”

She sniffed. “Holly will do so.”

There was a crack, followed by the sudden yank of Apparition. Harry blinked as the wide lawns and trimmed hedges of the park disappeared, to be replaced by ornate rugs and the smell of pine. Holly had taken them to the same sitting room he remembered from before, dimly lit and filled with baroque furniture.

The fire in the fireplace had been extinguished. A smoky scent lingered in the air, mingled with another, fainter smell Harry couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“Sulfur,” Draco muttered. “That’s definitely sulfur. Look…”

Harry followed Draco’s finger. Someone – something – had tracked ash all over the polished hardwood floor in front of the fireplace. Leading away from the mess were footprints – black, hoof-shaped, larger than any Harry had ever seen.

“H-he left this, too,” Holly said in a trembling voice.

Harry turned, and saw her staring at something on the floor. It was a bundle of brushwood sticks, tied together with a rough cord; like a broom with its handle missing.

“What on Merlin’s green Earth…” Draco moved forward.

“NO!” Harry dove towards him, but it was too late. Before he could grab Draco’s arm, his husband had reached for the bundle and picked it up, holding it loosely in one hand.

Harry knew what was going to happen even before he saw Draco’s eyes widen in shock. And could think of only one thing to do.

He grabbed the sticks, and felt the familiar tug behind his navel as they were swirled away into the unknown.

*

The world around him was white.

It was the first thing Harry noticed when he came to. He was sitting in a snow drift, or at least, something that appeared to be a snowdrift, for it was neither cold nor wet. Sticky, more like. Sticky, and…

Harry lifted a finger to his mouth, pausing for a moment to consider the syrupy white stuff before he carefully licked it off. A saccharine taste burst onto his tongue, so sweet it nearly made his eyes water. It was pure sugar. Just like the entirety of his surroundings. He had been dropped into a world made of sugar – crystallized, dyed, and crafted into myriads of shapes.

The wintery field, the forest capped in snow, everything as far as he could see was covered in white frosting. The tree next to him seemed real enough, until Harry took a closer look and saw that its bark consisted of gingerbread. The brown leaves had been cast from dark chocolate. A robin perched on one of its branches, a tiny red dot of dyed candy.

The only living, flesh-and-blood being nearby was Draco, who was staring at his surroundings in wide-eyed shock.

“Harry… it’s my Christmas cake. That’s Hogwarts over there.”

And so it was. In the distance, looming on top of the snow-covered hill, was Hogwarts castle. Or so it seemed at first glance. Looking more closely, Harry could see where the icing had dripped down, leaving sugary tufts on the ground below. He saw the chocolate sprinkles Draco had used for the beds behind the greenhouses; the sticks of cinnamon stacked behind Hagrid’s hut.

“I’m sorry I touched the brushwood,” Draco said miserably. “I should’ve known it was a trap.”

“It must have acted as a portkey of sorts,” Harry said, pushing memories of a graveyard and Cedric’s lifeless body firmly out of his mind. They had no time; not now. “I’m not sure the Krampus even meant to leave it behind. Maybe he dropped it when he took your mum and Urgroßmutter.”

“Look!” Draco had walked a few steps into the snowy field, pointing at something on the ground.

The tracks were the same they’d found in the sitting room. Large, hoof-shaped and set unnaturally far apart, leading up and beyond the sloping snowdrift. Next to them, Harry spotted something dark on the white ground.

Urgroßmutter’s shawl!” Draco picked it up. “So he did bring them here.”

“They must be somewhere close then. Let’s try and get to the top of that, so we can take a look.”

Climbing the snowdrift was easier said than done. The frosting stuck to their boots and hands, got into their eyes and mouths, and Harry spat out more than once to rid himself of the sugary taste. He tried to peer at the “sky,” to see beyond the frozen sugar world that surrounded them. If they really were caught on Draco’s Christmas cake, they should be able to see the conservatory, magnified by a hundred-fold or more. They should be able to glimpse the Christmas tree, gigantic and towering over them like a menacing giant.

There was nothing, however. Their white and still world was set before a gray firmament, just like a real winter scene would be. Demon magic was strong, Harry knew; he’d come across it in the course of his work more than once, and knew not to underestimate the denizens of the underworld. This particular demon had snatched a couple of humans to drag them off, undeterred by mortal barriers such as space or dimension. Constant vigilance was probably a good approach.

“Wands out,” he muttered to Draco, who instantly complied. “Stay back.”

Harry instinctively moved to shield Draco as they reached the top of the snowdrift. He felt his muscles tense, expecting curses and hexes to be flung, the sudden and violent burst into action that followed an ambush.

Nothing happened, of course. Surrounding them, all he saw was an expanse of white, and behind them, the looming presence of the castle.

Until he spotted the figures down by the lake. There were dozens, students in black winter robes, hats and scarves skating on the ice. None of them moved, frozen in time like a Muggle photo. Harry thought he recognized a particular trio somewhat to the side; a boy with red hair and a girl whose bushy ponytail bounced behind her, pulling a slightly smaller boy with glasses. The sight touched him. He remembered this; his first time on skates, and how Ron and Hermione had patiently taught him to keep his balance. Clearly, Draco had remembered as well, and had decided to immortalize the scene in sugar.

He only lingered on the trio for a moment. Another detail caught his attention, and he instantly knew that Draco had not created this particular bit of wintery scenery.

“Mother!” Draco made to break into a run. “No!”

Harry grabbed his arm. “Wait! Wait, it’s not real! They’re not moving!”

They were not, but the sight was gruesome enough. Two jagged holes in the ice of the lake, and two figures struggling in the black, icy water, their faces drawn in terror as they tried to climb back to the safety of the frozen surface: Narcissa and Annegret Schwarz, added to the wintery merrymaking like a touch of dark humor.

“Harry,” Draco said softly. “Look. By the pier.”

And there it was, the only other living being in this sugary hellscape. Well, “living” might not be quite accurate; much like Dementors, demons were manifestations of Dark magic, and had no life force of their own. They did have power, however, and their shape could resemble anything from perfectly normal humans to biblical angels.

The Krampus did not look like an angel, biblical or otherwise; rather the opposite. His goat horns and red, lolling tongue reminded Harry of the Muggle devil. He wore some kind of rough fur coat, its hood drawn up and hiding most of his face. He vaguely resembled Urgroßmutter’s nutcracker – which made sense, as it had been the vessel he’d used to hide in. But there was the taloned claw clutching a huge leather sack; the shaggy hooves, and, most unsettling of all, the pupilless eyes glowing under his hood.

“What’s he doing?” Draco whispered (he need not have; Harry was pretty sure the demon was aware of their presence, and had been since they arrived).

“Waiting,” Harry said. “He thinks he’s got us trapped.”

Draco raised his wand. “Let’s get that –”

“No,” Harry hissed. “Demons have protective magic of their own. Wands won’t work, at least not the way we expect them to. It’s too risky with your mum and Urgroßmutter under his spell.”

“Then what do we do?” A note of panic crept into Draco’s voice. “Mum’s drowning down there!”

“I don’t think that’s her,” Harry said, eyeing the way the Krampus guarded the leather bag. “It’s a distraction, to scare us. I… I think they’re in his bag.”

“That’s it,” Draco said, pushing past Harry. “I’m not letting some godforsaken German peasant demon stuff my mother into a bag!”

“Draco, wait!”

Harry tried to grab him, but it was too late. Draco had slid down the snowdrift and was stumbling towards the figure on the pier, his wand raised.

Imperio!”

The Krampus turned his head. One clawed hand shot up and caught the oncoming spell like a child might catch a ball. There was a low giggle, unlike any giggle Harry had ever heard coming from a human mouth. Then, the demon threw the spell into the air, where it formed a noose of light. Draco saw it coming and dropped to the ground, but the light rope pounced on him like a striking snake. Wrapping around his middle and wrists, it lifted him up and dragged him towards the bag the Krampus was holding open.

“No!” Harry sprinted forward, but he was too late. Draco’s dragonhide boots were the last thing he saw before the demon closed the bag, cackling as he wrapped a rusty chain around its opening.

“Hoho! Böse Kinder, naughty children! Shalt not have sweets, shalt not greet Saint Nikolaus! The sack for thee, all of ye! Tis what ye deserve! So wahr ich der Krampus bin!

Harry stopped in his tracks. The Krampus’s mutterings seemed nonsensical, but were nevertheless an important bit of intelligence. Not all demons could speak; those that did, however, could sometimes be… reasoned with. If one knew how.

Fortunately, Harry did. Mostly, anyway. And of course, he’d always been rather good at improvising.

“Tell me your name,” he called to the demon, whose head whipped around at the sound of his voice. “Your true name! I demand it!”

“My name, thou askst? Ha! Thou canst have it, human! I am Krampus, leader of the Perchta, the dark elves of Christmas! The servant of Saint Nikolaus, come to punish the bad children, ungezogene Bälger und freche Bengel! Off to hell with them! Hahahaha!”

Harry took a deep breath. The Krampus was a talker, it seemed; happy to brag and share information about himself. Good.

“There must be other dark elves helping Saint Nikolaus,” he said, doing his best to sound casual. “There are quite a lot of naughty children around, aren’t there?”

Oh ja!” screeched the Krampus. “Many, too many to count! Bad children, naughty children, their names all listed in the Black Book! And it be Krampus who catches them, not t’other elvenfolk! Krampus is a good servant, a faithful servant! The saint blesseth him for his loyalty, he doth!”

“Black Book?” Harry asked (details, he thought; the devil was in the details, often literally so). “What’s that?”

The Krampus reached into the air, and suddenly held a fat, ancient-looking tome in his claw. It was bound in black leather and looked singed in some places.

“The Black Book,” he wheezed. “All sins, all evil deeds, wrote down by the saint’s quill! And hark ye, mortal! Be wary thy list remain short, or t’will be Krampus at thy door, his sack ready!”

He began to leaf through the book, wetting his talon on his tongue as he turned the pages. “Let us see… let us see… thy name be Harald?”

“Harry,” Harry said. “Just Harry.”

“Harald Potter,” the Krampus read, ignoring him. “Last sin: Wishing to do naughty deeds to his husband instead of going to his mother-in-law’s Christmas reception!”

“I did go, didn’t I? So that’s not exactly a sin.”

“Doubting the saint’s judgment, another sin!” the Krampus howled, conjuring a scarlet quill and beginning to scribble triumphantly.

“What’s Draco done, then?” Harry asked. “He was happy to go to Narcissa’s brunch!”

“What has that scoundrel done, he asketh! What has he not done? Let us see… insulting almost everyone he has ever come across… playing evil tricks… being greedy… being selfish… cowardly… vain… the list goeth on for six pages, and that in small writing!”

“Well,” Harry said, sighing inwardly. “He’s… changed? You must know he has. You seem to know everything else.”

“I know the law set by the saint!” the Krampus snapped. “’Tis off to the underworld with these three, where they shall work in the coal mines to pay for their sins! Hahaha!”

With that, he shouldered his bag and began to clamber to his feet (or rather, hooves). “Fare thee well, Harald. If thy list groweth much longer, I shall return to punish thee, too.”

Harry paused. The Krampus seemed confident, not like he was bluffing at all; and yet, something about his bluster struck Harry as fake. There was a crack in the façade; an Achilles’ heel that the demon had inadvertently revealed in all his bragging.

And Harry knew how to recognize a weakness in a suspect. He’d done it often enough.

He cleared his throat. “You realize we’re here on order of Saint Nikolaus?”

The Krampus froze in his tracks. “What?”

“Yes,” Harry continued. “You didn’t know? Seems you made a mistake in listing all the sins, and he wants everyone brought back from the underworld to be reassessed.”

“B-back? From the underworld? Niemals! Krampus has never heard such outlandish tales!”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You know, he’s not exactly happy with the job you’ve been doing. Thinking about replacing you, actually.”

Lügen!” the demon howled, clutching his bag. “Lies, filthy lies! Der heilige Nikolaus, he trusteth me! He would not – “

“To tell you the truth,” Harry said, inspecting his fingernails, “he’s in a bit of a pickle himself. Looks like they don’t approve of children working in coal mines anymore, you know, higher up…” He pointed his thumb at the sky. “If I were you, I’d tread carefully. Just a word to the wise.”

The Krampus looked thunderstruck, his mouth hanging half-open and displaying even more tongue than before. “W-why should Krampus believe you? You… a mere mortal…”

Harry shrugged. “Well, who do you think is watching us from the castle up on that hill? He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake…”

Glancing up at the looming castle, the demon gasped and cowered. Harry had not expected such a strong reaction, hoping to instill fear and doubt by mere insinuation. He turned around.

And took in a sharp breath. One of the windows was lit, a bright glow against the dark walls of the castle. Behind it, a silhouette could be seen – tall, imposing, clad in flowing robes and wearing a pointed hat.

Der heilige Nikolaus,” the Krampus whimpered. “Krampus is so sorry, sir, so sorry! He is unworthy of being a saint’s servant, and can only beg for forgiveness. I shall be good for goodness’ sake! Please, sir, please, do not punish me… habt Gnade…”

“I’ll put in a good word for you,” Harry said. “If you let them go.”

“Of course, good sir, of course… Krampus shall see to’t right away…”

Without further ado, he unwrapped the chain from his bag, his claws shaking. He then turned it around and gave it a good shake.

Draco was the first to fall out, landing on his bum in the snow. Narcissa came next, dropping on top of him just as he was trying to get to his feet. Finally, Urgroßmutter came tumbling out and yelped in outrage as she fell on top of her struggling relatives.

“Thank you,” Harry said. “Really.”

“And sir shall speak to Saint Nikolaus? Truly? Sir shall tell him Krampus has been a good and faithful servant?”

“Yes,” Harry said, then raised a hand. “If you leave this place at once and never return.”

Der Herr ist zu gütig… Of course, sir.“ The Krampus bowed low. “You shall never set eyes on me again.”

“Good,” Harry said with feeling, already on his way to help the Malfoys. “Off with you, then.”

A loud crack followed, accompanied by the smell of sulfur. Harry leaned down and, with Draco’s help, heaved Urgroßmutter back to her feet. Narcissa, meanwhile, had straightened up on her own. Her elegant dress robes were crumpled and stained with ash, and her elaborate hairdo looked rather worse for the wear.

“Mr. Potter,” she said in a shaky voice. “Harry. You – you saved us.”

“Not really, I just –”

“We heard every word inside that awful bag,” Urgroßmutter cut across him. “You did save us, young man. Take credit where credit is due. It seems you do deserve to be called a hero, even if you do not look like one. Draco,” she poked her great grandson with one bony finger. “Schäm dich! If you’d let Mr. Potter check the house instead of distracting him with your useless chatter and nonsense, I’m sure none of this would have happened!”

Draco gaped at her, but for once he seemed to be lost for words. Harry quickly spoke up before Urgroßmutter could continue her tirade.

“Thank goodness you put Dumbledore behind that window. Not sure the Krampus would have believed me otherwise.”

“What?” Draco shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re… oh.”

Following Harry’s pointing finger, he too spotted the silhouette in the window. As they watched, the man in the window, who Harry had believed to be just dye on a pane of sugar, lifted a hand and gave a slow, amused wave. He then turned away, popped something in his mouth (a lemon sherbet, Harry’s mind supplied, unbidden), and waved his wand. The lights went out.

“I never put him there,” Draco said unnecessarily. “I have no idea…”

“I don’t think it really matters, darling,” Narcissa said faintly, then took a deep breath. She stepped forward, looking almost close to tears as she took both of Harry’s hands in hers. “Harry, thank you. And I’m so sorry for… I should have… ”

“It’s fine, Narcissa,” Harry said, doing his best not to squirm. “Really. Let’s just… let’s all just go back, yeah?”

“I shall be side-alonging with Mr. Potter,” Urgroßmutter announced. “Not you, Draco. With my luck, I might end up baked into one of your Christmas stollen next.”

Draco sighed and held out his arm. “Let’s get out of here, then.”

Narcissa nodded. Before she took her son’s arm, however, she hugged Harry – briefly and a bit awkwardly, nothing like the warm and squishy hugs from Molly Weasley. But it was a proper hug, like one gave to family. She had never done this before; never even touched him. That she would do so now – not caring who saw it, not caring that they were both rather disheveled and sticky with sugar – made him feel rather warm inside.

“Thank you, Harry.”

“Don’t be maudlin, Cissa,” Urgroßmutter said. “Your gown is ruined, by the way. And I don’t suppose anyone will want a piece of that Christmas cake now…”

For a split second, Harry thought he’d heard the rattling of rusty chains, the thumping of heavy hooves on the ground.

“Let’s go,” he said quickly.

For once, even Urgroßmutter seemed to agree.

*

The conservatory was dark. Even the fairy lights of the Christmas tree had been extinguished for the occasion.

Harry stood in front of the huge fireplace, very aware of the dozens of eyes on him. He reached into the wooden bowl Narcissa was holding out to him. The herbs inside smelled strong and earthy. He took a handful, sprinkling it over the large log that rested on the grate.

Vervain for a blessed year, he remembered Narcissa’s chant as she’d cut the herbs. For our wisdom, yarrow. Mugwort, keep all evil out. Mistletoe, for sorrow.

“May the Four bless this house and grant Magic’s protection to all of us,” he said, feeling rather than seeing Draco’s and Narcissa’s smiles. “Incendio!”

Bright sparks from his wand hit the dry wood and set it aflame. The herbs hissed and crackled. Behind him, the other guests cheered and applauded, clinking their goblets together as they toasted the burning Yule log.

Harry felt a hand on his arm. Narcissa was back to her usual impeccable self, in a new gown and not a hair in the wrong place.

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s an honor to have you in the family, Harry.”

And yes, the words sounded posh and formal – not at all what Molly Weasley would say. But that was alright. Narcissa’s voice was warm and in the flickering light of the fire, her eyes looked soft.

Moderne Unsitten,” Urgroßmutter muttered from her armchair, which Draco had levitated in from the sitting room so she could watch the ceremony. “In my time, the head of the family lit the Yule log, and that was that. He isn’t even a Malfoy.”

“Neither am I,” Draco said cheerfully. “Mistletoe, Potter. There’s a bit of it stuck in your hair.”

“Oh, is it?” Harry grinned and pulled him close. “You’d better come here, then. It’s tradition, after all.”