When more children misspell Santa and Harry opens a toy factory full of sinister and funny goods, advised by George Weasley.
It actually went more like:
"You want me to what?" George asked, trying to wrap his head around it.
Harry didn't fidget. He pouted like a professional.
"Consultation fees are paid with demonic wishes sans the soul grabbing," Harry explained. "Every three months or so anyway, I can't spare my demons for more than that."
"Busy tempting people?" he had to ask. Morbid curiosity. What the hell did the Lord of the Dead do anyway?
Harry scowled darkly and the shadows in the room squirmed. George ignored it with practice. (Hey, his little brother's best friend was the Lord of the Dead. You get used to shadows being a little hyperactive every time he cracks a smile.)
"No," Harry said. "They're the laziest bastards. They have labor unions. Maternity Leave, Paternity Leave, Paid Vacation Leaves, Sick Leaves and Holy Water Leaves."
Knowing that he was digging himself in deeper, but unable to stop it, George asked, "Holy Water Leaves?"
Harry rolled his eyes. "Apparently, being exorcised is very have to rest for a week." With another sigh, Harry turned those unholy eyes at him again. George steeled himself from the pouting.
"Please, George?" he asked.
Where Santa notices how much less letters he gets, asks around, goes to the Underworld, sees how much more efficient they are working, and asks Harry if he could borrow the demons/skeletons.
What he actually borrowed was:
"You are stealing my children, Harry," the loud Russian man said. His face was jolly and smiling, but for the moment, he was stern. "This is not good business partnership! They are asking for darker gifts. It encourages chaos. Not good for the Naughty List. Already added three hundred more pages."
The Lord of the Dead, who actually liked going as Harry, smiled sheepishly at Santa Claus. "Sorry," he said. "But they keep writing me letters! How am I not supposed to reply if they write me?"
Nicholas frown softened a tad. "Is good control, yeah? Try saying no. Children should not always get what they want, especially when they have been naughty."
Syrena, eavesdropping a couple of feet behind her master, snorted.
"The Naughty ones get all the presents anyway," Harry continued reasonably. "My creations and my people don't like going near the really nice ones. I have no idea why. So I do say no, see?"
The large man rubbed at his temples. "You give me headache. Gah!"
As though to punctuate the statement, a skeleton building a steam train that ran on tears fell over with a sound very much like bowling pins. The Russian had accidentally kicked a rock golem into the skeleton.
"Why do they keep coming here?" an irate George Weasley asked, picking up the pieces of the skeleton and sticking them together. "It's not good for my temper. They keep stalling production rates and it's almost Christmas!" He waved a fibula bone to emphasize the point. "Doesn't he have work to do?"
Harry gestured with a hand and the skeleton reformed instantly. It yanked at it's misplaced fibula's viciously. George let it go with a laugh.
"He's Santa Claus. He's got Yeti's. They're infinitely more reliable than Skeleton Workers."
Syrena laughed at Harry. Which was why she was his assistant. She didn't hesitate to call him out on being ridiculous.
"Our workers are the bones of scientists and geniuses," she pointed out. "I bet he doesn't have half their imagination."
"And we have George Weasley," Harry mused, ignoring George's embarrassed blush.
Syrena's statement was proven true when Santa Claus came back again, three days before Christmas.
"May I borrow your George?" Nicholas asked. "We have teensy tiny problem. Nothing serious." That he was smoking and covered in soot had nothing to do with his request. At all.
He did his best to look so innocent that Harry allowed George to be dragged from his Workshop just for the amusement.
George took one look at the man's sad, large brown eyes and caved with a curse.
George is a fluffy, gooey marshmallow of denial.