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Mm, the winter holidays. How Rufus loved it. Every good memory that he could recollect involved this season. The sounds and scents were far better than any other. The music, the food, the warmth of another body and even laughter were truly more comforting this time of year. His mother's voice was particularly beautiful as she sang sacred and secular tunes. The times with Ro, Anya, and Viola.... Rufus could almost taste the mulled cider on his tongue.

"...OY. PAGANELL. EY-O!? HEY!"

Rufus snapped back to his staff, Paddy snickering off beside him. "As ye were sayin', boss man?" Paddy inquired, smirking after bringing Rufus back to reality. "I...yeah. Sorry. As I was saying, this is the Christmas season - Pigs and Rovers needs to do its part. Make the place look old school - the holly, ivy, even mistletoe. Because remember our most crummy bum likes to recall his childhood memories too." Rufus clapped hands together, grinning.

"So be even thinking about dishes and taps we can serve. Rest assured, we've got winter ciders and ales. Now, let's get it together, aye? Jay, open shop, an' we'll meet up again early next Sunday for discussions. Dismissed." Everyone dispersed to prepare for the workday, including the owner.

"...'ve seen ye happy b'fore, Pags, but ye really are lit up like a candle. Ye sure everythin's going well?" Paddy asked, prepared to head back to Muggle London soon enough with his bunch. "Yes, it's just this time of year, Pad. Some of us like it better than others, right? Make sure your boys start thinking up dishes; they had some really good fall ones." Paddy nodded and was now ushering himself out as the wintry air filled inside the pub.

Ah, Christmas.

Not a snowflake in the bloated grey skies of dreary, dull, destitute December.

Hands in pockets and nose buried in a scarf, Rascal strode stiffly down Diagon Alley on a depressingly ordinary winter's day. If it weren't for the green and red and white of christmas spirit, it might have been downgraded from depressing to positively dismal.

On that cue, perhaps a drink.

The author broke off his ruler-straight walk at a sharp angle, surprising passers-by, and made a beeline for the closest pair of doors that carried the miasma of mince pie and spiced ale.

Not a crowded place, not yet. Just your local drunks and those whose narrow feet could no longer take the burden of their shopping blues. Socks for Danny, gloves for Susan, a never-empty vase for Great-Aunt Gertrude and other uninteresting gifts. Rascal himself was rather predisposed to unusual presents.

Yodelling tea sets and square-dancing chairs. Murder to wrap.

"Good day," he slipped on to a barstool and pulled off his cap, flashing the barman a quirky grin. "A tankard of your strongest beer, please. But drain it first and then fill it to the brim with mulled wine."