Death hangs about this place. It will remain here, drawing dementors and sad criminals alike, until even the soul suckers are driven mad by the stench.

A knock at the door signifies guests. A flick of my wand admits into my chamber.

Narcissa and her son creep in. The boy looks terrible- scars from his torture are clearly visible beneath his tattered garments.

"Severus, we've come to thank you for your gifts. They were unnecessary." This from the mother.

"Think nothing of them. I do wish you would refrain from mentioning them to the Dark Lord, however."

Voldemort hates Christmas.