When Horace entered the Headmaster's office on the afternoon of the twenty-third of December, he knew something was wrong; however, he couldn't put his finger on it.

Minerva McGonagall had come to fetch him from his rooms, saying that Albus needed him rather urgently. Upon arriving in his old friend's office, however, Horace noted that something seemed a bit off.

Perhaps it was the fact that Albus had only occupied the office for a few months, following the sudden death of the previous Headmaster, Armando Dippet. Perhaps it was the red-and-green-striped stocking cap perched atop Albus's head (which was looking a little grayer than it had looked just last month), or perhaps it was the unfortunate-looking Christmas tree shoved in the corner. Horace noted with some curiosity that there were several gaily-wrapped parcels beneath it. Or, perhaps, it was the fact that almost the entire ceiling of the room was covered with… Horace looked more carefully… mistletoe.

Albus was bent over his desk, thoroughly engrossed in his work. Horace cleared his throat. Albus jumped.

"Oh, Horace, I didn't expect you up here," he exclaimed. If Horace didn't know any better, he might almost term Albus's look "flustered."

"Minerva told me you wanted me," said Horace, shrugging.

"I… what? I didn't…" Albus blinked several times in rapid succession. Then, he seemed to regain his composure. "Well, now that you're here…" He stood up and rummaged in the drinks cabinet behind him. "Might we have a little spot of Christmas cheer?"

"Oh, of course," said Horace, feeling very bewildered. "I… I like your decorations," he added, continuing to take in his surroundings. Albus stood and crossed the room. Horace took a few steps back, out of habit, as he had recently been aware of the large bald spot he was developing and was reluctant to let Albus see it.

Albus smirked and pointed upward. Horace looked up. He had just stepped out from under a large clump of mistletoe.

Horace grimaced. That was a close call. The rest of the school was bad enough, but the room was practically loaded with mistletoe traps, and Horace wanted to try everything in his power to avoid them. Not that he would have minded if Albus kissed him. In fact, Horace thought he'd rather like it if Albus kissed him. Which meant that he would go to any lengths to avoid allowing that to happen.

As a precaution, Horace took a few more steps to the side, pretending to admire the new-fallen snow out on the Quidditch Pitch. Albus made an amused noise in his throat. Horace looked up. Blast. There was another.

Albus chuckled merrily as he returned to preparing their glasses of cognac.

"Brilliant, aren't they?" he asked.

"They are?" asked Horace, raising an eyebrow. "Why ever did you hang them?"

Albus laughed. "I rather enjoy the way it seems to make everyone so skittish. Are you that afraid of being kissed?"

Horace blushed what he could only assume was a rather unbecoming shade of fuchsia. He hadn't kissed anyone in years. He reached up unconsciously, to push some of his hair around on his head, covering the bald spot. Perhaps he'd let those bits grow long enough to cover it, yes, that would probably work.

"It's not that," he admitted, darting forward to accept Albus's proffered glass, but not lingering long, lest they find themselves under the same clump of mistletoe at any one moment.

Albus smiled, eyes twinkling. "I think I know what you're afraid of," he declared. "You don't want anyone to feel obligated to kiss you. You don't want anyone to do anything they don't want to do."

Horace nodded, but didn't say anything. He turned to the window and watched the snow fall, gentle in the twilight. In the distance, the mountains looked a deep purple. It was a very calming scene. He set his glass down, and pressed a hand to the window.

"I think my favorite thing about this office is the view," said Albus, suddenly close. Horace jumped and Albus reached out to steady him. The touch to his cheek was far from simply platonic, however, Horace knew that much. He felt his breath catch in his throat.

"You're not looking out the window," said Horace, which was a very stupid thing to say, but the only thing he could come up with.

"I still like the view," said Albus, and then, he kissed him.

Alarm bells were going off in Horace's head. On some level, it seemed far too ridiculous to be believed. It had to be some sort of joke. On another level, it made sense. It was what Horace had wanted, after all. Why couldn't he get what he wanted every so often?

He relaxed as Albus pulled him into a firm embrace, and deepened the kiss. When they broke apart, after what seemed like eons, Albus kept Horace in his arms, which was fine by Horace.

Horace couldn't think of what to say, so he didn't say anything.

"I'm sorry," said Albus wearily. "That was underhanded of me."

"I don't mind," Horace heard himself say. "I liked it."

Albus chuckled. "I should have warned you about Minerva—she and I have gotten along swimmingly ever since she was a student. I believe I mentioned to her, in an offhand sort of way, that I rather fancied you. I never thought she'd actually get you up here, though. I believe this is what the kids call a 'setup'."

Horace smiled and tentatively wrapped his arms around Albus's waist. "Remind me to thank her," he murmured, resting his head on Albus's chest. "As I've gotten just what I wanted."

Albus planted a kiss right in the middle of Horace's bald spot, and he found he didn't mind. "So have I," said Albus softly. "So have I."