Be Good for Goodness' Sake

"Sit," McGonagall commanded. Milo was in the hard leather chair in her office before she'd finished saying the one-syllable word. "Your behaviour today was cowardly, treacherous, sickening, and unbecoming of a Hogwarts student, much less a member of my house. I have half a mind to expel you this very minute. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Well," said Milo, "in my defence, he sort of had it coming. I mean, look at him."

"You will explain to me, right now, clearly and succinctly, how you could possibly think that such a poor, sweet, innocent boy who has already suffered so much had—what was it you said? Oh yes, how he had it coming. If I find your explanation is in any way unsatisfactory, you'll be out of here faster than you can say Mimbulus Mimbletonia."

"He's obviously working for You-Know-Who."

McGonagall sat down heavily in her office chair, stammering and apparently at a complete loss for words.

"Of all the ridiculous—impossible—why, he would be the last person to ever—in any case, You-Know-Who's long gone—I was a friend of his parents, I won't listen to such unfounded accusations!"

"Oh, so you're in his father's pocket as well?" Milo asked, disappointed. "Seems like the whole wizarding world is convinced he's such a great guy when he's really, clearly, obviously evil. It's like you're all blind, I swear!"

"Evil? A tad arrogant, when he was younger, and I suppose he had an unfortunate and blatant disregard for any rules he found inconvenient, but never evil. There are places in this country—and right now, I'm debating if you're sitting in one as we speak—where statements like that would be responded to with challenges to duels."

"I always had you figured as being on our side, Professor. I can see that my trust was misplaced."

"And what, exactly, is your side, then, boy?" McGonagall asked, her face flushed with anger. Milo was starting to wonder if she hadn't multiclassed into Barbarian for some mysterious reason.

"The good guys, Professor," Milo said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"How dare you—"

"If you're of a mind to call Draco Malfoy a poor sweet, innocent boy then," Milo said with a hint of finality, "I think we're through anyways."

McGonagall stared at him as if he had just said the sky was green.

"I—you—Draco..." she stopped talking and simply breathed steadily for several moments, evidently trying to calm down. "Who did you think we were talking about?"

"Who did you think we were talking about?"

"Harry James Potter," McGonagall said. "The boy you nearly killed today."

"Oh," Milo said. What was it Quirrell mentioned about the Polyjuice potion? "That."

"Yes. That."

o—o—o—o

"There must be a change of plans... my family are still loyal... more than I can say for some..."

"Y-yes, my l-lord, of c-c-course, my lord, but I have always b-been your most d-devout—"

"Interesting, isn't it, that, when asked, all my servants profess to be my most devout, my most faithful... paradoxical, it seems..."

"W-we've had setbacks, I-I'll admit t-t-to that, my l-lord, b-but—"

"Indeed we have had... setbacks. Perhaps I should turn to Lucius instead.. one of my other most faithful servants..."

"B-but my l-lord, w-we are weak—f-forgive me, b-but y-y-you know it to b-be true—w-what is to stop him f-from s-simply killing us and c-c-continuing to rule in y-your stead?"

"Killing you, you mean... for I am far beyond the reach of even Lucius Malfoy..."

"Yes, of c-course, my lord, what I m-meant was that you w-would be as I f-f-found you. S-surely, a s-significant s-s-setback even for one such as—"

"Yes, yes, I know what you mean... ought to be more concise... takes ages to say anything with your st-st-stutter..."

"S-so my l-l-lord, w-what shall we d-d-do? C-continue to t-try for the St-Stone or for the b-b-boy?"

"I see no reason we cannot do both... for if one fails, and knowing you, one will fail, we will have the other... simply prudent..."

"B-but he claims he c-c-cannot cast the spell yet."

"But his power grows with violence... provide him with violence, Quirrell, violence at all levels..."

"A-at all levels, m-my lord?"

"Violence he can overcome, but... violence where he fears for his life... for the lives of others...

at all times, Quirrell, all times... he must never know safety again... but keep him alive... yes, always

alive..."

"It w-w-will take t-time m-m-my lord, a-as with the Acr—"

"SILENCE. You are never to mention that to me again!"

"I-I'm sorry, my lord, have m-m-mercy... the p-p-p-pain..."

"Mercy?"

"Y-yes, my lord, please, my lord, I b-b-beg—"

"Very well... Am I not merciful, Quirrell? You are granted reprieve from your sufferings... for the moment..."

"Th-th-thank you, m-my—"

"Cease... no time to waste on your incomprehensible stammering... we must plan carefully..."

"My lord, w-what if—"

"I meant 'we' figuratively... I, of course, shall plan carefully... you shall listen, and you shall act..."

"Of c-course, my lord."

"You are their hero, now, are you not? Saved the mudblood from the monster... we must use this..."

"H-how, my l-l-lord?"

"This is what you must do..."

o—o—o—o

"—so you see, it wasn't me at all who cast the hex or whatever it was," Milo explained reasonably, "but, in fact, Professor Snape, polyjuiced to look exactly like me."

"And you seriously expect me to believe this load of tripe?" McGonagall snapped.

"Snape's—"

"Professor Snape," McGonagall corrected sharply.

"Right, Professor Snape's had it out for Potter since he first set foot in this castle. Everyone knows it."

"Be that as it may," McGonagall said. Milo was somewhat astonished that she didn't contest the point, "the notion that he would use Polyjuice to facilitate assaulting one of our students is completely out of the question. Now, are you quite ready to tell me the truth, or would you rather I have you thrown out the front gates immediately?"

"Truth! Of course. Professor, dose me with Veritaserum and you'll be able to tell that I'm being completely honest!"

"Regrettably, the use of Veritaserum is strictly controlled by the Ministry," McGonagall said, "and is not used in the investigations of school rule infractions."

"Then, doesn't the fact that I was going to volunteer to take it count towards me?"

"Not if you were already aware of these regulations, Mr. Amastacia-Liadon."

Milo stared at her, fear rising. He couldn't believe he was about to be expelled for something that happened offstage.

"You can't just expel me without any proof!" he protested.

"I have twenty-six eyewitness reports that say you brazenly used the Hurling Hex on Mr. Potter in the middle of a Quidditch match in plain sight!"

"But—but I didn't!" Milo was appalled that that was the best argument he could think of.

"You will pack your school trunk in your dormitory, where you will remain until morning when you will be taken to the Ministry to have your wand destroyed—"

"My wand!" Milo said with sudden inspiration. "Here, look—" Milo drew his wand from his pocket.

"I don't have time for this foolishness," McGonagall muttered.

"But—look at it, Professor! I had it on me the whole time, what wand did I allegedly use to hex Harry? Was it chestnut, thirteen inches, with dragon heartstring core? No! It can't have been because all wands are unique."

"It only would have been visible for a few seconds," McGonagall said, "nobody reported what wand you used."

Milo's hopes deflated. That was his last hope. He couldn't believe he was going to be thrown out of Hogwarts because a crowd of NPCs failed their Spot checks to see something he wasn't even there for.

"So..." Milo said hesitantly. "What happens now? Where will I go?"

"After the Ministry?" McGonagall said. For an almost imperceptible moment, her gaze seemed to soften. "After your wand has been destroyed, it's quite up to you."

"Very well, Professor. I'll head to my dormitory now." Milo walked back to the familiar sights of the Gryffindor Common Room in a daze.

o—o—o—o

"And then I hit him with a water balloon and said 'Hey, Malfoy, think fast!'" Ron said exuberantly, causing Hermione to snort in a most unladylike fashion. "How'd everything go with Grabbe and Coyle?"

"Oh, it was no trouble at all. I just walked up to them and said, 'oh no, I'm just a poor defenceless Muggleborn girl who misplaced her wand, whatever shall I do?'" Hermione said with a wicked grin. "Took them about five seconds to try and hex me. Anything I did after that was purely self-defence, you understand."

The pair of them were waiting outside Pomfrey's hospital wing for the strict witch to declare Harry fit for visitors.

Eventually, the heavy doors opened.

"Oh," Pomfrey said wearily. "It's you lot again. Well, come in, come in," she ushered the pair into the ward.

"Visitors!" Neville said happily, his nose just poking out between thick bandages. "I never get visitors!"

"Nah, we're here for Harry," said Ron, ignoring a sharp look from Hermione.

"Hey," said Harry. Injuries notwithstanding, he seemed to be in high spirits. "Did you hear? Or see? I caught it! Looks like I'm not rubbish after all!"

"To tell the truth, I only caught the first bit," Ron admitted, looking apologetic. "But that's only because our plan worked. Can you believe it? Malfoy told me everything!"

As he happily told Harry about Malfoy's crackpot scheme involving the Firebolts and the Nimbuses, Harry burst out laughing, clutching his sides.

"So when they saw me lose control of my broom," he asked when he could finally breathe, "they thought Milo hexed me?"

"Nutty, isn't it?"

"Where is he, by the way?" Harry asked, looking around.

"Dunno," said Ron. "Good question. Haven't seen him since before the match. You don't... you don't think Snape caught him, do you?"

"Can't have," Neville said. Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned to him, somewhat surprised that he'd spoken. "He was at the Quidditch game."

"What, really?" Ron asked. "He could have helped with Malfoy, then."

"Can't have," Neville said, his face (well, the visible parts anyways) uncharacteristically grim. "He was too busy hexing Harry's broomstick."

"You mean Malfoy was right?" Ron asked, alarmed. "Merlin's pants! That turncoat!"

"Looks like," Neville said sullenly.

"No," said Harry firmly. "I don't believe it. He was set up."

"I saw it myself! He just stood up, pulled out his wand, and hexed you! Right in plain sight!"

There was a brief silence.

"Did you say wand?" Harry asked.

o—o—o—o

"Password?" asked the Fat Lady.

"Squeak," Milo replied, and the portrait swung open. Stupid password, he thought to himself. The 'ultra-secure' Common Room can be infiltrated by a Fighter in heavy armour after a rainy day.

As soon as Milo entered the Common Room, he wished he still had Invisibility prepared. The sounds of partying cut off immediately when he came into sight, and everyone simply stared at him silently. Milo walked directly to the dorm, and the crowd parted slightly around him—it seemed that nobody wanted to touch him. Milo was surprised at how much their shocked disapproval hurt him—they were only NPCs, after all.

He collapsed onto his four-poster bed, exhausted. He knew he should be thinking of a plan, some clever scheme, to get out of this, but he just felt too tired. He'd been defeated, that was all there was to it.

He was going to be expelled. Lucius had won.

o—o—o—o

"Professor!" Hermione practically shouted, knocking sharply on the office door. There was no reply. "She must be out somewhere!" she moaned.

"Maybe—maybe she's in the staff room?" Ron suggested, "or the Great Hall?"

"Or she's patrolling the corridors," Hermione said, despair growing. "Or visiting another teacher's office. Or overseeing detention. Or she's out of the castle. She could even be—"

Hermione gasped.

"What?" Ron asked, alarmed.

"You don't think she—could it be? She wouldn't, would she?"

"One day," Ron said, "you're going to give me a straight answer. And on that day, I'm going to buy a lottery ticket and win a thousand Galleons."

"She might be—"

"And then I'll be selected for Head Boy."

"Ron, listen, she—"

"And named Minister for Magic."

"Ron—"

"Then Snape will apologize for being a git and stick his head in a cauldron. Oh, and he'll pull Malfoy in after him. To round it off, the Chudley Cannons will ask me over for tea to give them a few pointers on Quaffle handling. And then I'll go to bed early in my solid gold, king-sized bed stuffed with unicorn's hair in my floating palace." Abruptly, Ron realized Hermione had stopped interrupting him.

"Are you quite done?" Hermione asked testily.

"I was going to mention the butterbeer fountains, marble statues, and how it can travel to Jupiter, but that seems somehow unnecessary now."

"I was going to say, before you so rudely cut me off, that she might already be at the Ministry!"

Ron stared at her blankly.

"Why would she be at the Ministry?" he asked.

"Because," Hermione explained wearily, "when a student is to be expelled, the DMLE and the Improper Use of Magic Office in particular have to be informed."

Ron continued to stare at her without comprehension.

"So that they can destroy the student's wand," Hermione said, fighting down the urge to add 'Duh.'

"Blimey," Ron said. "Who do you think is getting the axe?"

Hermione stared at him with genuine surprise on her face.

"Milo, of course! Honestly, is there anything between those ears of yours?"

Ron paled.

"We have to find McGonagall before that happens!" he said.

"Yes, Ron," Hermione said, her voice commendably, under the circumstances, both level and patient. "That's why we're here. Knocking on her office door." Hermione paused for a moment, willing herself not to say it, but even her doughty willpower could break under sufficient strain. "Duh."

o—o—o—o

Neville, who for one reason or another had been living in the hospital wing for the past two months (when he was lucky, that is—the rest of the time, he was at St. Mungo's) had a few special concessions from Madam Pomfrey that most short-term patients didn't get. They were little things, like a reading lamp (Neville always had trouble with Lumos), a few extra pillows, the blanket that smelled the least of cats, a bedside table with a pair of drawers for keeping his clothes in, and the cot next to the window.

It was due to this last fact that, on Friday evening, he saw a tall, thin figure striding confidently up to the Hogwarts gates.

"Hey, Harry," Neville said.

"What's up, Nev?" Harry asked sleepily.

"Well, Ron and Hermione went out to find McGonagall, right?"

"Sure."

"And that was four hours ago, right?"

"Was it?" Harry asked. He must have drifted off at some point, he realized.

"Yeah, it was. So they must not have found her."

"Guess not."

"Well, she's right outside."

"She is?" Harry asked, all trace of drowsiness gone. He looked around for Madam Pomfrey, but she seemed to be out somewhere. Well, there was nothing else for it. Agonizingly, he stood up and limped towards the door.

o—o—o—o

"Well, we've searched the staff room, the Common Room, every teacher's office, all known corridors of Hogwarts, Hagrid's Hut, the dungeons, the Great Hall, the lake, the Quidditch Pitch, the astronomy tower, and most of the empty classrooms, but there's been no sign of her," Ron moaned in despair. He and Hermione were standing in the entrance hall trying to decide where to look next.

"Sign of whom?" asked a familiar voice. The pair turned to see Professor McGonagall standing at the entrance, taking off her coat and looking curious.

"Professor!" Hermione said with relief. "We finally found you!"

"Me?" McGonagall asked in surprise. "Is Peeves acting up again?"

"No," Hermione said at the same time that Ron said "Probably."

"Well, than what can I help you with?"

"It's about Milo," Hermione said. "He's innocent!"

McGonagall's face hardened.

"I understand he's your friend, but there were dozens of witnesses. I'm sorry, but I have no choice but to expel him."

"No, Professor, you don't understand. You see—" Hermione froze. She was about to say, 'you see, he was seen using a wand and Milo's magic doesn't need wands,' but she realized that that would just get him expelled for a different reason. She began to realize that maybe, this time, she hadn't thought their plan all the way through. "He wouldn't do something like that," she finished lamely.

"Yeah," said Ron. "I mean, he's a bit of a nutter, mind, but he's Harry's mate. He wouldn't hex him like that."

"I'm sorry," McGonagall said. "But without something a bit more than your gut feelings, the case is open and shut. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a great deal of paperwork to do. Unless one of you has something concrete?"

"I asked him to," said a voice. Hermione turned in surprise to see Harry, wrapped in bandages and casts, leaning weakly against a doorway on the upper level.

"Harry, what—" Hermione asked.

"I asked him to pretend to hex me," Harry said. "We found out that Malfoy had concocted a some nutty plan to rig the Quidditch match and make Firebolt look bad, and he thought for some reason that Milo would hex me to protect the reputation of the broomstick company. Can't imagine why. So I asked Milo to pretend to go along with it, and faked the whole thing. Malfoy thought his plan had worked, and his team pretended to lose control of their brooms. It was all faked. Milo never really hexed me."

McGonagall, Ron, and Hermione stared at him, shock evident on their faces.

McGonagall's mouth moved a few times, as if she were about to speak, but couldn't quite find the words. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stared at her in hopeful silence. Eventually, she rallied somewhat.

"Of all the—not even Fred and George would have—okay, maybe Fred and George—but... how did you discover this alleged plan?"

"Oh," said Ron, "that was me. He just bragged to me about it, right to my face, during... er, just before the match. Can't imagine why."

"He told you?" McGonagall said. "But why... I spoke to Milo earlier, he came up with some preposterous tale about Professor Snape and Polyjuice... why didn't he just tell me the truth?"

"Because he's only eleven and was scared?" Hermione suggested hopefully.

McGonagall sighed.

"Well, I'll have to owl the Ministry immediately and tell them to cancel the hearing... of all the crackpot schemes, this one has to take the cake."

"So..." Hermione said, hope rising on her face like the sun, "so he's cleared? He won't be expelled?"

"No," McGonagall said, "but this was, nonetheless, an underhanded move unworthy of our House. And Mister Potter, I thought better of you. Twenty points from Gryffindor from you and Milo each, and detention every Saturday for the rest of November. And December. At least. And you two—" McGonagall turned to Ron and Hermione "—were you involved in this as well?"

"No, not involved in any way whatsoever, Ma'am." Ron said smoothly, his years of living in the same house as the twins paying off.

"Us? Involved? Hah. He. Hahaha. Nope," Hermione said nervously. McGonagall eyed them suspiciously, but instead of giving them detention, just turned and walked up the stairs to her office, muttering to herself about needing a Firewhiskey.

There were a few blessed seconds of relief for the three friends as they savoured their triumph. It was interrupted, however, by a fell shriek that could have raised the dead (in a manner of speaking, it did—the ghost of Nearly Headless Nick, hovering nearby, was so startled that he (nearly) lost his head).

"What are you doing out of bed, young man?" came the terrible voice of a wrathful Madam Pomfrey. Harry turned around in terror, while Hermione and Ron simply fled.

o—o—o—o

When word got around that Milo's surprise attack on the Boy-Who-Lived was not, as had been generally believed, treachery most foul, but rather a component in a circuitous gambit to sabotage the Slytherin Quidditch team and guarantee a Gryffindor win, there was much shuffling of feet and making of sheepish glances in the Gryffindor Common Room.

"So, really, when it comes down to it, we're sorry, mate," said an NPC (Seamus Finnigan, not that Milo knew or particularly cared).

"Why the sudden reversal of opinion?" Milo asked.

"Well, you see, Hermione came into the Common Room about an hour ago," said Fred.

"—And she stood up on the table, right in the centre of the room—"continued George.

"It was horrible," said another NPC (Dean Thomas). "like a banshee of wrath..."

"—And she started speaking, and the walls shook—"

"—Only, see, nobody saw her cast Sonorus, so it was all her—"

"—And she calmly told us about judging people before fully understanding the situation—"

"—Oh, yes, definitely calm. Level-headed, she was. The windows shattered of their own accord—"

"—And, if she asks, we didn't even hint otherwise—"

"—And thus, we were enlightened to the errors of our ways," finished George.

"Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't hear it, mate," said Dean. Milo noticed that they were calling him 'mate' a lot.

"Hermione must have put up some kinda Charm to keep teachers in the halls from storming in to see what all the screaming was about," Milo shrugged. "She's careful like that." In truth, he'd heard every word, but wanted to hear them explain it anyways. It was more fun that way.

"I thought you were innocent the whole time," said Hannah.

"Isn't this the boys' dorm?" asked Dean. Hannah coloured slightly.

"So," Seamus said, somewhat nervously. "Want to come down and have some butterbeer? There's not much left, but it's really good. How Fred and George get this stuff, I'll never know."

"And we'll never tell," Fred winked.

"Yeah," said Milo. "I think I'd like that."

The whole room gave a collective sigh of relief.

"So," he said on the way down the stairs into the Common Room, "what's your excuse going to be next week?"

"Sorry, mate?" asked George.

"For a party. Seems like a weekly tradition 'round here."

"It isn't," said Fred slowly.

"But it should be," said George, whose forehead wrinkled in thought for a moment. "We'll think of something," he said finally. "Trust us."

"And drink this," Fred said, pushing a heavy tankard of butterbeer into Milo's hands. Milo sipped it cautiously, and suddenly grinned. The stuff wasn't ale (the preferred method of hydration for adventurers everywhere), but it was pretty fantastic. And before you cry, "But he's only eleven! He's far too young for ale!" you should be advised that there are, in fact, no rules for intoxication from alcohol anywhere to be found. It can therefore be concluded, via strict interpretation of the holy Rules-As-Written, that one can drink gallons of tequila like water.

"Shouldn't we have waited for Harry to get out of the hospital?" Milo asked suddenly.

"That's what we thought," said Fred (maybe), "but he gave us permission to celebrate without him in future events such as this, so long as we save him some of the provender."

"Speaking of which, hands off the last of the Every Flavoured Beans, you greedy git!" George said, glaring at Ron.

The Quidditch victory party concluded a little after midnight when a sleepy McGonagall made them all go to bed.

o—o—o—o

Despite Fred and George's promise, the next few weeks were surprisingly uneventful (not that that prevented them from finding excuses for celebration, as their "Happy November the 22nd Day!" festivities attested to). Milo's time was taken up by almost constant detentions (both for McGonagall and Snape, now) and lessons with McGonagall, but he found enough time in to research Benign Transposition, Disguise Self, Nerveskitter, and Resist Energy. If Snape had any reaction to his latest plot to expel Milo, it went unnoticed among his usual horribleness. Quirrell started a unit on vampires, which sent Hermione into a panic because it wasn't on the original reading list.

It was on a cold December afternoon when Milo returned to the Common Room to find a small crowd gathered around the bulletin board.

"What's going on?" Milo asked.

"It's Quirrell," said Lee. Fear gripped Milo's heart. Had Snape finally gotten the better of the enigmatic Defence Professor?

"What happened to him?"

"Nothin'," said Lee. "Only he's started a Duelling Club."

The bulletin had a large parchment poster pinned to it, reading SUNDAY DUELLING CLUB SIGN-UP on it, with a number of lines for people to write their names in. The lines were already all taken, and several people had scrawled their names haphazardly in the margins.

Milo grinned. Sundays were his remaining free day, so there was nothing to stop him from attending Quirrell's club and stomping some of the local 'wizards' for fun and XP. What were they going to do, shoot sparks at him?

The poster said the club meetings would start after the holiday break.

"Hey, Ron," Milo asked, picking his partymember out from the crowd. "What's a holiday break?"

"You don't even know what a holiday break is?" Ron asked, flabbergasted. "Everyone—"

Hermione coughed pointedly.

"—here would like nothing more than to illuminate you on this subject," Ron finished smoothly.

"Everyone gets to go home for Christmas," Hermione explained.

"Do we have to?" Milo and Harry asked simultaneously.

"Jinx," muttered Harry.

"What? Where?" Milo asked, looking around warily.

"Nevermind," said Harry. "It's a Muggle thing."

"No," Hermione said. "You can stay for the holidays, but almost nobody does."

"Cool," said Milo.

"Also, what's Christmas?" Milo asked. Hermione, who had the bad timing to be drinking from a glass of water right then, snorted her drink from her nose.

"What's Christmas?" she asked. "Everyone knows... ah. Ahem. It's a holiday that happens once a year on December 25th where people give each other presents."

"Do I need a costume again?"

"No. Costumes on Christmas are strictly optional."

"Will there be Trolls?"

"No, there's just Father Christmas and his elves," Hermione said, regretting it instantly.

"Elves again, eh?" Milo asked, rubbing his hands together. "Harry, put them on the list. These elves have come up enough now that I'm sure they must be relevant to something... what sort of elf are they, these ones that work for this 'Father Christmas?'"

"Christmas elves," Hermione said in a quiet voice.

"Must be an obscure, non-core subrace. I'll keep an eye out for them. What's Father Christmas?"

"He... children believe he travels to everyone's house at night on a flying sleigh and delivers presents on Christmas," Hermione explained. "But nobody really thinks he's real. People also call him Santa Claus."

"Santa Claws? This just keeps getting worse and worse!" Milo said. "He must be an exceptionally powerful caster to be able to cast enough Time Stops to get all the way around the world in a single night... unless he has a use-activated Magic Item... wow, that would be worth a fortune."

"But—he's not really real," Hermione insisted.

"I can't tell you how many times I've heard that before," Milo snorted. "'there are tales—unfounded, of course—of a fell monster in the woods...' or 'they speak, in whispered voices, of a wolf that walks among men... I'm sure it's just rumour, though.' Hermione," Milo said, in the tone of someone talking to a small, ignorant child, "if there's one thing I'm surprised you haven't learned by now, it's that all rumours are true."

"But Father Christmas isn't real," she insisted.

"Oh, really?" Milo asked. "Harry once told me that Muggles don't believe in dragons, magic, elves, or goblins," Milo scoffed. "And all of those things are real."

"That's no reason to think—"

"Hermione, how many of the things you believed as a small child, only to find out as a medium child were make-believe, turned out to be real when, as a large child, you discovered you were a witch?"

There was a brief silence as Hermione did some mental arithmetic.

"Most of them," Hermione admitted with a frown. "But come on. Father Christmas? Not even wizards believe in him—right, Ron?" Ron didn't respond. "Ron?"

"F-Father Christmas isn't real?" he asked, stunned. "Fred and George said they saw him, once..."

"Oh, he's real alright," Milo said grimly. "And worse: he's in league with the elves."

With that, Milo strode off to his favourite armchair (one in the corner which presented him with a clear view of the room, while also being close enough to the window that he could dive out and Feather Fall in an emergency), pulling materials out of his Belt of Hidden Pouches.

"Where are you going?" Harry asked.

"I have to put the finishing touches on my Robe of Arcane Might," Milo said. "I might be needing it, soon." He had to find a way to get out of his detentions, they were cutting into his crafting time. Maybe if he could slay Santa Claws and take his magic Item of Time Stop...

Milo wasn't sure exactly what this Father Christmas's connection was to the drow in the kitchen that tried to poison him, but one thing was for sure:

If Santa—or any of his little elves—tried anything on or about Christmas, they weren't going to just walk away from it.