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Every year on Hogmanay, she reddings her cottage the Muggle way. No magic, no spells. She scrubs the already tidy floor, and cleans every surface until it shines like a new penny. The hearth is brushed, and if she throws a smattering of fragrant herbs onto the logs, who is there to say her nay?

She sets out the whiskey and the coal and the black bun, She dons her favourite robe. A glance at the clock shows that midnight approaches and it would not do to not be ready for him.

She smiles in anticipation; it is almost time.

She remembers so well explaining to him the desirability of being her first-footer. He was still a callow youth, and brittle; his skin rode uncomfortably on his insecurities. "Why would you want me to come?" he said, in the half-growl, half-grumble she grew to treasure so dearly.

"It's tradition, Severus. If a tall, dark, handsome man is the first to set foot through your door on Hogmanay, you'll have good luck."

He scoffed, of course. He thought all such traditions foolish. He could not fathom anyone thinking him handsome, much less wanting his company. Wanting him first, above anyone else?

He did not come the first or second year of her invitation. The third year he arrived unexpectedly in the middle of a terrible snowstorm, fighting the biting wind. He was a stark black creature, silhouetted in her doorway against a backdrop of blinding white. She marveled that he was able to find her cottage at all in the storm.

He stepped through the door slowly, reluctantly, almost ceremoniously. At her obvious surprise, he snarled, "What? Aren't I supposed to herald good fortune, being the first through your door?  What happens in honour of my arrival, now that I'm here?"

Typical of him, she thinks now, years later. Typical Slytherin. What's in it for me? She recovered and invited him in, noting the cheap bottle of firewhiskey he brought with him. Albus was still paying him a pittance; it was all he could afford, and she was careful not to make mention of it. He hated to be patronised.

Years later, they could share a rueful laugh at that first toast, the first sip of the caustic gutrot that left them both spluttering and teary-eyed. He pounded her on the back, and she fetched them both a glass of water.

The clock chimes midnight; and the door opens, and he steps through. He is the same as always; windswept and cold-chapped, his lips red and cheeks rosy, and his unreadable eyes sweep over the cottage.

"Well?" He asks, his voice treacle-dark from age and cracked from lack of use. "Will it be a lucky year for you, Min?"

Minerva McGonagall nods at the closed door, the vacant welcome mat, but she can still see him. She lifts her tot of whiskey toward the door, and tears slide from her eyes.

"Guid New Year to you, Severus," she says, and smiles.


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