Christmas is cold and quiet. He knows hymns he won't sing. There are no presents, there is no tree. There is a fire in the hearth, and he's stretched out before it, wrapped in a blanket and drinking cocoa and reading. Outside the wind piles snow against his windows, beats and howls at the door. The path down the mountain will be blocked in the morning.

The villagers don't know who he is and make a show of not caring. His German sounds of Berlin and his bearing is pure SS.

As it happens he's English, six months out of school and renting the little house in Bavaria on whim. He has his Muggle father's money, and the marks for the Ministry, but not the inclination.

Blanketed in a foot of snow, with more falling fast, Tom's little house is silent.

He must have dozed off over The Hobbit, because the next thing he knows someone is knocking at his door.

"Shit," Tom mutters and unrolls himself from the wool blanket. The knocking is loud, frantic. Someone really wants to get inside.

He slips his wand through his belt and picks up the .45 pistol beside his empty cocoa cup. One can never be too careful.

When he opens the door, a great gust of wind carries in snow and a thin, bleeding man. Tom curses inventively in German, tries to straighten his guest, and nearly impales himself on the stranger's skis.

When at last he's worked the man into the house and closed the door after him, Tom sits down in his chair and trains the gun on the man.

With the time, now, as he waits for his impromptu visitor to wake up, Tom examines him. He's tall, pale, several days of stubble on his cheeks and a thin wool coat wholly unsuitable for the weather. The blood, Tom can see now, is coming from his upper thigh. There's a neat hole in his sodden trousers.

After a few moments the man stirs, and Tom sits up straighter in his chair, tightening his grip on the gun.

"Sprechen sie Russen?" the stranger manages to rasp.

"Nein," Tom says, shaking his head.

"English?" the other man asks hoarsely.

"Yes," Tom says, relieved. His English is, of course, better than anything else, even if he can pass for a native speaker in German. "You're Russian?"

"Da. I cannot thank you enough for taking me in," he begins, but Tom interrupts.

"Chances are whoever shot you is still following. And you want me for your cover."

At least the stranger has the grace to look ashamed. "I thought that, yes. My name is Dolohov."

"Riddle." Tom squints at him. "Are you armed?"

"A revolver in my coat pocket," Dolohov says, trying to sit up.

"No," Tom says sharply. "Take it out and slide it over to me. Then strip. If you try anything at all, I'll put a bullet through your head."

"Strip?" Dolohov says sharply, but Tom ignores him, and after a moment the Russian does as he was instructed. He sees the benefit in obeying the man with the gun. Anyway, he doesn't have any bullets left.

Tom checks the revolver with easy efficiency, then tosses it behind him. "Keep going," he instructs, gesturing with the muzzle of his gun. Dolohov gets the point.

The bullet wound in his thigh is ugly, and his pale sides are peppered with bruises. There is sparse dark hair on his chest. He covers himself with his hands.

When Tom has pawed through Dolohov's clothes, keeping the gun trained on him, and found nothing else, he nods. "Take the blanket. These are wet, I'll hang them by the fire. Do you have a Christian name, Herr Dolohov?"

"Antonin." He blushes as he pulls the blanket over his lap, then winces as it drags across his wound. "And you, Herr Riddle?"

"I'm the one with the gun. I'll ask the questions." One-handed, Tom spreads the clothes before the fire. "Now. Antonin. Does the name Grindelwald have any significance to you?"

"Oh," Dolohov breathes. "Oh, thank God. You're a wizard too."

"I am." Tom pauses. "The men you're running from. Wizards or Muggles?"

"Wizards." Dolohov lies back. He looks pale and worn. "They took my wand."

"Who are they?" Tom wants to know.

"Russian, German, Polish. Who knows? It's like the Ptolemies and Seleucids carving up Alexander's empire as soon as he was dead."

"Grindelwald," Tom says primly, "was hardly Alexander the Great."

"You knew him?" Dolohov's response is sharp and immediate, despite his obvious pain.

"Enough questions," snaps Tom, who doesn't know the answer himself.

"Enough," Dolohov agrees. "Can you heal me?"

"Why would I do that?" Tom asks lazily. "You're so interesting right here. And I would lay good odds that the men chasing you will be very happy to pay."

"Please." There's a tinge of desperation to Dolohov's voice now. "They'll kill me. I killed some of them, getting away. They won't hesitate. I have to get out of here."

"Did you go to Durmstrang?" Tom asks.

Dolohov is taken aback by the apparent non-sequitur. "Yes," he manages. "Why?"

"Ah ah," Tom cautions, shaking the gun instead of a chiding finger. "No questions. All right. I'll heal your leg, you'll tell me where Durmstrang is, and I'll let you go. When the Russians or Germans or Poles come here, I've seen nothing."

"I can't tell you that!" Dolohov protests. "It's a secret."

"Sure," said Tom. "So you'll just sit here and wait for the men with the guns."

"No," Dolohov says quickly. "I'll tell you."

And he does. Tom asks questions, and gets unsatisfactory answers. Dolohov doesn't know the names of mountains or rivers, just their positions as seen from the sky. Tom hates flying, but there it is; he wants Durmstrang, after all.

Dolohov held up his end of the bargain. Tom can do no less. Though the Russian blushes terribly when Tom pulls away the blanket, his flesh knits easily back together under the practiced wand.

"Happy Christmas," Tom says lightly. "There's your clothes, your gun. For a kiss I'll even give you ammunition."

"You're joking, I hope." Dolohov has regained some of his sangfroid with his healed leg, and he manages to look almost dignified putting his trousers. "But," he sighs, "if I must, I must."

"It was a joke," Tom mutters. He's already loading the revolver. "There's one in the chamber. Be careful or you'll blow your balls off."

"Thank you," says Dolohov, who knows he'll need the extra shot. "I am in your debt, Herr Riddle. If there is ever anything I can do for you…"

Tom offers him the butt of the revolver. "It's Tom."

End.