Chapter Text
1 December, 2023 (Friday afternoon)
A midget in an elf costume was sitting cross-legged in the middle of her desk waiting for her when Hermione returned from lunch.
She stopped, blinked twice, and realized this wasn't some sort of freak hallucinatory image conjured by an odd case of indigestion. There really was a very small man – no taller than three feet from the tips of his pointy, green elf shoes to the top of his pointy, green elf hat – waiting for her in her office. He was dressed in an emerald-coloured Santa suit, sporting a pair of red and white candy-striped stockings that sparkled with what looked like glitter, but was actually a really nifty enchantment instead (Rose, she knew, would kill to own a pair of those).
"Hello," the minikin jovially greeted her, stretching out and hopping off the desk. He approached her and gave a military-style salute. "My name is Basil JollyBells. I'm your friendly, seasonal Mistletoe elf. My holiday cheer services have been procured on your behalf, Ms. Hermione Jean Granger."
"Holiday cheer services?" she asked, feeling dread crawl up her spine and the desire to vomit in her mouth.
The elf nodded, the little red pom at the top of his hat bouncing merrily along in agreement. "Yes, Ms. Granger. Apparently, you've lost your Christmas spirit. I'm the elf, assigned to your case."
"Case?"
Merlin's toes, she was starting to sound just like her ex-husband, Ron – speaking in one-word sentences.
"Ms. Granger?" the elf faltered, his smile dropping into a curious frown. "You are Ms. Hermione Jean Granger, are you not?" he asked, scratching the side of his head.
Having clearly heard his purpose, Hermione made an on-the-spot executive decision in that moment.
LIE NUMBER ONE: "INCORRECT ADDRESSEE – RETURN TO SENDER."
"No, sorry, you've got the wrong person, Mr. JellyBelly," she shook her head, opening the door to her office and waving her arm to usher him out. "Ms. Granger quit last month. She no longer works at the Ministry. I'm her replacement, Penelope Clearwater."
Why not? She'd used the name before to get out of a tight pickle...
"I'm sorry to have wasted your time," she stated, trying to look tragically apologetic. "You should go back to your employer and tell them the news that she's moved on. Perhaps they can locate her new place of employment."
The elf put a hand over his surprised, little mouth. "It's JollyBells. Basil JollyBells. And she quit, you say?"
Hermione solemnly nodded. "Afraid so. She and her superiors didn't see eye-to-eye on a new piece of legislation."
The elf took off his hat, wiped his brow with a kerchief from his pocket, and bowed to her. "In that case, I am very sorry to have interrupted you, Ms. Clearwater. My sincerest apologies. I'll just be..." He headed for the door.
She watched the dismayed little elf walk out, returning his wishes for a good afternoon.
Once he had left, she shut the door, locked it, charmed it with every known privacy spell she could think of, and burst into laughter.
She moved to her desk, pulled out a piece of parchment and her quill, and wrote a note to the suspected culprit behind this hoax:
Dear Harry,
A holiday cheer elf? Really? That's the best you and that gumpy excuse for an ex of mine could come up with for this December's holiday prank? How droll.
Just so you're aware, I sent the little fellow packing: addressee unknown – return to sender. He should be knocking on your door in, oh, several seconds, I believe. Enjoy returning his fee. Couldn't have been cheap.
Love,
The Smartest Witch of Her Age
P.S. Are you and Ginny coming to dinner this Sunday? I was thinking of making liver and onions.
Folding the Interdepartmental Note up into a paper airplane shape, she sent it off with a flick of her wand.
Half an hour later, she received a return note.
Dear Girl Who Likes To Boast,
Don't know what you're talking about. Ron and I haven't had time to come up with your yearly Christmas prank because of work. Sorry, wasn't us. Still, sounds like a banger. Might borrow the idea to send to Percy, the world's drippiest wet blanket.
Love,
The Boy Who Kicked Dark Lord Arse
P.S. Dinner sounds great! We'll bring a fava bean salad and a bottle of Chianti.
Disappointed that she'd guessed wrong, she spent the rest of the afternoon finishing up her paperwork, and contemplating who might have been behind the irritating practical joke if it wasn't her best friend and her idiot ex-husband.