The fire murmured crackling lullabies, wafting the sharp, yet refreshing scent of warmed holly and the sweet smell of burning pinecones across the terracotta tiled kitchen floor to a small cot.

It was a strange bed; an ancient barrel, sliced horizontally in half, was suspended between the two ornate metal supports that flourished three foot from the floor. Perhaps these were once used to hold an ancient mangle- they stood adjacent to both the sink and the fire- but now betwixt them, under a thick, quilted blanket, liberally dotted with roses of every hue, slept an elderly elf.

Her name was Hester, the hereditary head of Hogwarts kitchens, and she was the only elf who slept there. It was not a right so much as a duty; if you curse the hearth you curse the home and Slytherin, the most practical of the founders of Hogwarts, had lost no time in placing the most powerful of the house-elves in charge of the home fires. So, Hester, scion of her family, rested always with one huge ear, one watchful eye open, whilst the other house-elves, undisturbed by students, slept soundly in their scullery, a large room which had been added in the late thirteen hundreds, after the student body increased. Hester, however, did not begrudge the other elves the warmth and privacy of their snug airing cupboards; she was proud of her position and there were some unexpected benefits.

Since last year the magic of Yule-eve had unexpectedly deepened. Hester had always loved Yule; as a young elf the excitement and pleasure of stealing into students rooms and gently piling up presents at the feet of their beds had been tempered into a deeper joy by the calm, profound benevolence which seemed to permeate the castle. And even when her position as Head of the Kitchens prevented her from those midnight expeditions, Hester had felt that benevolence- the Spirit of Yule- as she packed the presents into named sacks, occasionally incrementing the piles of poorer or orphaned students with boxes of biscuits or sweetmeats, fresh from the Hogwarts ovens.

Tonight, however, Hester was expecting her own, late-night visitors. They had slipped in last year, two invisible forms, whose presence was revealed by the soft padding slipper-shod feet, accompanied by the scents of attar of roses and sandalwood. The anonymous feet had tiptoed over to the huge, scrubbed tables and, out of the ether, two, festively wrapped hat-boxes had appeared.

When the footsteps retreated and the door drifted shut, Hester had tentatively sat up, summoned a box and pulled aside the wrapping paper to find a note:

“To the elves of Hogwarts;

Happy Yule and Thank You!!!

XOX Sekhmet and Anubis”

So tonight, Hester lay, breathing in the spirit of Yule; not the sharp, academic spell-craft of wizards or even the deep, instinctive magic of the elves but a power much, much older; the magic which filled the haloes of saints, glowed upon the skin of martyrs and suffused the hearts of those who did good for goodness’ sake.

As the candles guttered in the lamps, the door creaked open.

“Shh! Ani” a light, sweet voice breathed.

“Shh yourself!” a deeper, silken whisper replied.

Forcing her breathing to remain low and even, Hester listened as the pair tiptoed across the terracotta tiled floor. A gentle, papery thump of cardboard against wood, then another, and another.

The invisible forms turned, their robes scrunching softly in the near silent room. As their footsteps padded past the fire, Hester relaxed her wrinkled face into a semblance of sleep, looking out from under her long, white eyelashes. She thought they would slip past her cot but, at the last moment, the steps paused and a small, pink parcel appeared, hanging in the air for a second before being placed, gently and carefully, at the foot of her bed.

When the door shushed shut, Hester sat up and reached a wrinkled hand towards the little oval box. Trembling fingers tugged at the black, ribbed ribbon and raised the smooth, shiny lid. A waft of cinnamon and nutmeg enveloped her as she revealed the small, soft, star-shaped biscuits.

The crisp, beige icing crackled beneath her teeth, yielding to chewy, spicy biscuit.

“Thank you, children.”

OoOoO

The next year, only he returned, his slow, listless tread carrying the scent of sadness and potions.

The ancient elf mourned for the poor boy, bereft of his mate. While house-elves do not speak their Masters’ secrets to humans, amongst their own kind they gossip like starlings. Hester knew enough to guess what his solitude meant; the couple had been forced asunder by divided loyalties. Sekhmet had held all Anubis’ hopes and his fears centred upon losing her; Hester was mortally afraid for him.

When the darkness claimed the poor, foolish boy upon his graduation, Hester’s fears were realised. There were no biscuits that year; he had shunned the light, preferring to walk amid darkness and death.

Hester had almost lost hope for the Anubis when, three yules later, he returned, bearing dozens of boxes of biscuits. While some were gifts to the elves, half of the biscuits were now intended for his students. Hester smiled as she read the note and observed the pretty stars, pierced with ribbons to hang from the castle’s many trees.

Then beautiful, fiery Sekhmet died protecting her cub and something died within Anubis’ dark eyes. Cold fear, once again, tightened the old Elf’s breaking heart; could the young man survive this?

The biscuits were iced scarlet and emerald that year; green for her eyes, red for her hair. Hester could not tell whether her tears stemmed from grief or relief.