Lunch at Blacks had been a largely liquid affair - as expected - and by the end Enoch was feeling full of something approaching festive cheer. The coming few days spent exclusively with his family were likely to be dull as ditchwater despite his mother’s excellent hosting skills so he felt it was perfectly justified to fortify himself in advance.

Which had unfortunately led to a slight slurring of his words when he had been floo-ing home. He landed heavily but thankfully remained on his feet, stumbling only when he took his first step and immediately kicked something.

“Buggering bollocks, who put that there?!” Enoch demanded through a cough, glancing around only to discover that this was not his room, not his house, and not one of his servants was present.

Confusion reigned for a moment as he pieced together what he must have done but any further clarity was lost the moment he was unceremoniously hit in the face by heavy metal and the smell of wax. Hand pressed against his injured eye Enoch turned on his attacker only to discover a young lady.

I’ll never live this down, he thought, before annoyance took him over.

“Who were you expecting that you react so aggressively? I might have been St. Nick himself.”

---