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"Fucking 'Secret Santa' game!" raged Severus Snape, kicking the rusted-out cauldron that he'd forgot to remove from his office. "Ow. Christmas spirit, my arse. A load of shite."
He kicked the cauldron again for emphasis. "Ow. I have to give Albus a secret gift? Fine."
A wave of his wand over the owl-mail order form on his desk, and the words "one ton of fermented dragon's dung" filled themselves in.
Snape sneered.
At Boxing Day dinner, a beaming Pomona Sprout bustled up to him. "Severus! Dumbledore says I have you to thank for the exquisite fertilizer! What a perfect gift!"