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Yuletide Yearning - A Curious Carol	By : Andreas Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 1568 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Stave Three

A SPIRITED RIDE

Harry had
awoken wrapped in a Slytherin flag and had, disturbed
by the questionable symbolism and troubled by his journey into the past, spent
the following hour with his back against the wall, peering into the darkness of
the shed, awaiting the second spirit.

There had been
no time mentioned, but Harry felt the spirit was surely late. And yet it
couldn�t be Sirius again. But who? Or
what? Harry was getting quite impatient. Harry had a predilection for impatience. When trouble didn�t come to Harry,
he went for the pre-emptive strike, charging into the unknown to be the hero he
always claimed not to be, nor want to be.

He had spent
the last hour imagining all sorts of spirits � dead, living, somewhere in
between, or even distilled � and felt he was ready for anything, except nothing
and carolling.

There was
carolling in the distance, coming closer, well after midnight. Light flickered
beneath the door, back and forth like a giant snake�s probing tongue.

As little as
he cared for Christmas carollers, Harry felt sure this echoing chorus of voices
had something to do with his haunted plight. He was, after all, the unwilling subject
of a Christmas Carol. He flung the rickety old door open, and looked straight
at, and partly through, the merry ghosts of Hogwarts, sailing above the glistening
snow.

In rather an
uneven manner, these three ghosts stopped singing and turned to watch the
dishevelled young man who had just burst out of a broom-shed, leapt forward, and promptly fallen face first into a snowdrift.

�Harry? Is
that you?� cried Nearly Headless Nick. �What on earth are you doing out at this
hour?�

�I think he�s
had one too many refreshments at the Three B�s,� chuckled the Fat Friar.

Harry, doing
nothing to disprove this theory, half crawled towards the ghosts, spitting
snow. �Have � have you seen,� he staggered to his feet in front of Nick, �a
Ghost of Christmas Present around?�

Nick laughed.
�We�re all ghosts of Christmas presents. Mostly in the form
of carols. So, any requests, Harry?�

�Do you know A Christmas Carol?� asked Harry, brushing snow from his
hair.

Nick turned to
the Friar. �I thought I�d already established that. You don�t, ehm,� he spoke in a theatrical whisper, �think he might
have hit his head on that snowdrift?�

�I�m looking,�
said Harry, �for the Ghost of Christmas Present.
Have you seen it?�

Nick bent
down, grinning. �Maybe you should go back up to your dorm and take a refreshing
little nap, eh?�

�Never mind,� muttered
Harry, plodding away. �I�ll just find it myself,� he said, aimlessly heading for
the Forbidden Forest. He could hear the ghosts confer
in unsubtle whispers behind him.

�Eh, Harry?�
cried Nearly Headless Nick. �Do you have any sort of general idea where you�ll find these Christmas presents of yours?�

Harry stopped.
The ghosts moved up around him. �Because, you know,� said Nick, �if you don�t,
you might as well go with us.�

�Well, where
are you going?� asked Harry.

�There,� said
the Friar, pointing towards the Forest. There
was a faint glow deep inside, almost undetectable. �A
Christmas party of sorts.� He grinned. �When those
centaurs tap-dance, the ground trembles, Mr Potter! Trembles!�
He swept up to Harry. �So, if sleep does not attract, come with us! Come!�
Harry felt the chill of a plump hand patting his spine.

�Centaurs?� he
asked. �Do they celebrate Christmas?�

�Well, no,�
said Nick. �Not exactly. They celebrate the happiness
it spreads. They say the holidays are a time of great change, interacting with
the very constellations. You know how they are.�

Yes, Harry
knew. �Change?� he muttered to himself. It was
as good a guess as any. �I�ll come,� he told the Friar.

�Splendid, Mr
Potter! Come along then!�

And once more,
Harry found himself at a disadvantage in deep, unpleasant snow. The ghosts,
apparently late for the party, soared along, dropping boisterous words of
encouragement for Harry to follow through the bluish gloom, like a rat lured into
a trap by tasty morsels of cheese.

Once trees
began to burst from the blackness of the forest to block his path, Harry lagged
still further behind, and soon he had only the brightening glow, music and
vague voices to navigate by. But not once did he slow down. Not once did a
dodged tree suggest to him that he should turn back to the safety of the
castle. He was on the right track, even if there was no such thing beneath his
staggering feet. Ghosts and centaurs, it reeked of a Christmas Carol, or at the
very least a curious one, in keeping with established craziness.

A sudden
abundance of holly told Harry he was nearing his goal, but it didn�t prepare
him for the overwhelming opulence of the clearing he stumbled into seconds
later. It was rather like the essence of every winter holiday condensed into
one very small space. Christmas was, unsurprisingly, overrepresented. There was
the essence both of its religious facet and, more overwhelmingly, its pagan,
commercialised symbiote. And overshadowing Rudolf and
his fellow reindeers were the proud centaurs, Firenze foremost among them, a large hunting
horn in his hand.

�Harry
Potter,� said Firenze,
advancing, �welcome to our feast.� Firenze
smiled, but behind him, Harry could see scowls on many of his equine fellows.
�Tonight, we celebrate change. Tonight, the heavens realign to reflect our
earthly realm. Tonight, the world strives towards good where otherwise it is
uncaring and cold. Tonight, our predictions are in flux. Tonight, an ill-fated
future may be avoided. Tonight, the warmth of the winter season may seep into
the coldest heart.� And tonight, Firenze
looked at Harry Potter with an uncommonly peculiar glint in his pale sapphire
eyes.

Harry blinked.
�Are you the Ghost?�

�If you wish.� Firenze inclined his head. �But
I feel singularly filled with life for such a bleak description.�

�But, but you are the spirit of Christmas Present?�

The Friar
sidled up to Firenze,
speaking in a loud whisper. �You know kids, always obsessed with presents.� He chortled,
bobbing backwards as Firenze
turned his piercing gaze towards him.

�We asked you
spirits here for a reason other than mere merriment, Priest.�

�Oh,� said the
Friar, face falling, �but there will be
merriment, won�t there?�

�Indeed. It is
but a small favour I need.� He turned back to Harry but spoke still to the
ghost. �I wish Harry Potter to join me on my journey this night.�

�Ah,�
exclaimed Nick, �well, that�s easily fixed. Allow me!� He sailed up to Harry
and inclined his head. Now, Nick being, as has been already established, Nearly
Headless, this simple action had his head tipping straight into Harry�s.

A chill swept
through Harry and for a moment, he saw double, witnessing two copies of the
Friar flying through as many copies of Firenze.
As Nick put his head back on straight, Harry saw one changed Firenze before him. And through him, he saw
the sneer on another centaur�s � Bane�s � face. Firenze had turned into a ghost, as
insubstantial as the Friar beside him. And then Harry looked down upon himself,
and found that he could see the ground through his feet.

�Am I dead?�
he asked, feeling that turning people into ghosts without asking was not a
particularly nice thing to do.

�Dear me, no,�
said Nick. �It takes more than a nod to turn into a proper ghost,� he laughed.

�You are but
the shadow of a ghost,� said Firenze,
�and may pass unseen through the world this night.�

Harry felt it
pointless to suggest that he had already passed through a great many things
unseen that night, and with much less ghostly nodding
required. It was really no use expecting common sense from this particular
Carol. Harry walked up to Firenze.

�I�m not running behind you,� he said. He felt this was worth pointing out, in light of recent events.

�I would not
expect you to,� said the centaur, lowering himself onto his front legs. Harry
climbed on, pleased with this calm and considerate kind of Christmas spirit. However,
when Firenze set off
at a gallop through trees, foliage, and various prowling creatures, Harry felt pressed
to reassess the situation. And if he hadn�t known better, he�d have said Firenze went straight through
Bane on purpose.

Firenze flew across the Hogwarts lawns and through the castle�s entrance.
He careered up the moving staircases, past hovering torches, bows of holly,
garlands of every House colour intertwined, snowing paintings, and a rocketing
Christmas tree. When he jumped through the Fat Lady, she burst into a hearty if
flawed rendition of Jingle Bells.

Harry didn�t
find singing joyously about �dashing through the snow� was at all sensible,
considering the inhospitable disposition of the substance involved. But his
thoughts on this subject were brought to a sudden halt when Firenze stopped and Harry�s eyes came to rest
on Hermione, looking tired and worn amidst a crowd of students too young to go
to Hogsmeade.

�Is Harry out
chasing You-Know-Who?� asked a first-year girl, rubbing
her eyes and yawning out �Who� in what Harry considered a delightfully
disrespectful manner.

Hermione
smiled weakly. �In his nightmares, I�m sure he is.�

Another
first-year, this one with eyes wide awake in unconcealed fear, asked, �Are we �
really safe here? From � You-Know-Who?�

Hermione
reached out, pulling the young boy to her. �Yes, Robin, you�re safe. There are
wards.�

�But what if
the wards fail?� asked another; Harry knew neither his name nor his age.

�Well, I�m
here,� said Hermione, smiling and rubbing Robin�s shoulder as the boy cuddled
up to her side.

�But Harry�s
the hero,� said someone in the compact little crowd. And yet another saw fit to
inform his fellow that this was a very impolite
remark to make.

�Yes,� said
Hermione, frowning. �But, he�s just in there, you know.� She pointed to Harry�s
dorm and bent forward to ruffle a wide-eyed boy�s hair. �I�m sure he�d hear
your cries of terror and come charging to the rescue like a one-Boy-Who-Lived
army.� There was an accusation in that. Harry heard it. The children did not.
But they did laugh. Firenze
blew his horn and a snowfall of golden cheer seemed to settle on the little
gathering. Harry held out his hand to catch some, but it turned to ash in his spectral
hand. Firenze turned
about and charged through a yodelling Fat Lady.

A slice of Britain swished by with astonishing speed and
when Firenze came to
a second, sudden stop, Harry toppled straight into Molly Weasley�s
hibernating flower bed. Being of a ghostly persuasion, he paid a brief visit to
the world of roots before rising, an earthy taste in his mouth, to find himself
face to face with Molly. She stood by the sink, gazing through Harry into the
black night, a solitary tear trickling down her cheek. Harry�s mouth went from
earthy to parched as all fluid surged to his eyes. He
knew what had made Molly so sad. This was the night. The house was emptier now.

Harry could
hear the muffled voice of Arthur from somewhere inside the house. Molly pulled
down the curtain. Harry put his hand against the glass; or would have, if it
hadn�t gone straight through. Not one to hang about with half his arm through a
pane of glass, Harry followed it into the kitchen, trailing Molly into the
living room.

Arthur was
decorating a Muggle Christmas tree. It was a particularly Muggle tree on
account of its being haphazardly clothed in electric lights, all of which lit
up as Arthur finished connecting them to a modified car battery. Arthur himself
lit up like a child at Christmas.

�It works!� he
laughed.

Molly wiped
away her tear and blinked. �What are all those strings for? Not very
attractive, if you ask me.�

�That�s so the
eleckricity can run between the candles and light
them, dear.�

�Oh. Seems an awfully silly way to go about lighting candles.�

�But,� said Arthur, gesticulating, �it�s � it�s like magic!�

Molly gave him
a look and laughed. �You�re a strange man, Arthur Weasley.� Then, regarding her
husband�s face, her eyes moistened anew. Arthur stepped close to her.

�He wouldn�t
have wanted to dampen the Yuletide spirit, dear. You know that.� There was a
slight hitch in his voice. �You know that.�

�Yes,� sniffed
Molly, �I do. And I�ll get by. But,� she added, looking up at Arthur, �I can�t
stop worrying about Harry. He�s grown so � peculiar lately. Ginny said he won�t
even go to Hogsmeade with his friends.�

�He�s probably
just worried.�

�I�m worried!� cried Molly. �I�m worried about him, and I�m afraid he isn�t.�

Harry frowned.
Firenze stepped up
beside him, crouching beneath the low roof.

�Voldemort is
trying to take over the world,� muttered Harry, �and she worries about me not
worrying about me.� He snorted. �That�s not what
I would worry about under the
circumstances.�

�If so, Harry,�
said Firenze, �I
believe you have just made Mrs Weasley�s point for
her.�

Harry scowled,
but made no reply. Firenze
blew his horn. Arthur pointed upwards and Molly found herself looking into mistletoe.
She informed her husband of how utterly incurable and generally nutty he was,
and then they kissed, wreathed in a cloud of golden snow. Harry drew back, not
caring for further coal-stains yet with a wistful smile on his face. Firenze kneeled. Harry
clambered up, and they soared north once more.

Hogsmeade was
alight with candles and torches, fires and magical lights. Though shrouded in
snow, the little town exuded a warmth of emotion
strong enough to melt the icecaps on a world of hate. There was carolling, carousing,
kissing and mistletoe. And in the Three Broomsticks sat Ginny
and Dean and Neville and Lavender. There too was Fred and George, up
from London,
taking a detour on their way to the Burrow. And there was Christmas cheer.

Harry frowned.
He had no interest in watching his friends ignore reality. He needed sleep. He
needed to be rested for when he drove a merry stake of holly through Voldemort�s heart. But he didn�t suppose it�d be any use
telling Firenze
that. So he stood behind his friends, a mere shadow of a ghost, and listened.

�A morose Christmas? He wanted you to wish him a morose Christmas?�
laughed George, nose as red as Rudolf�s.

�Why wish for
things that already are?� philosophised Fred. �He�s morose enough for all of
us.� He chuckled.

�Oh, for
shame, Fred,� huffed Ginny. �Making light of poor Harry�s
Morose Christmas.� She tried valiantly to look stern, but the smile
making merry with her clamped lips rather spoiled the image.

�He scares me,
sometimes,� muttered Lavender. All eyes turned to her.

�Well, well,�
slurred George, �from the mouths of babes and bimbos.�

Lavender
glared at him. �Shut up, George. You haven�t seen how dark he�s become this
last year. And powerful.� She shivered. �Sometimes, I
wonder how far he�ll go to get revenge.�

�His heart is
still good,� insisted Ginny. Neville nodded, if somewhat hesitantly.

�How can you
tell?� asked Dean. �All I see are walls.�

�And moats
with man-eating alligators,� muttered Lavender, earning herself another round
of questioning looks.

�I know him,�
said Ginny, simply. �He�ll realise what he�s missing eventually. You can�t stay
morose around me for too long,� she winked and wiggled her bosom at Dean and
Neville who both blushed. They all laughed.

�I don�t think
Harry�d be very interested in your bosom, Ginny,�
said Lavender, rolling her eyes.

Ginny giggled.
�Well, there is that.�

�That what?�
asked George.

�Let�s just
say Harry might be more prone to be merry if Draco Malfoy suddenly turned into
a reasonable human being.�

�Wouldn�t you
all?� asked Fred.

�I sure
would,� muttered Neville.

�What I meant
was,� said Ginny, �that it might make Harry feel less guilty about all that
unresolved sexual tension.� She grinned.

�The what?�
said George, goggling.

�Oh, God, they
all know,� muttered Harry, hiding his face in his hands (with little success, what
with his hands being translucent).

�You hadn�t
noticed?� asked Lavender, feigning surprise. �So it�s true then? Boys really
are dense?�

This innocent
observation led to an impromptu game of tag, boys catching girls and girls
keeping boys. Then, there was dancing. Firenze
blew his horn and they waltzed through a veritable blizzard of golden cheer. Harry,
quite forgetting himself, tapped his foot to the beat, smiled and watched
specks of cheer settle like tiny stars on his spectral form.

The party
continued long into the night but, eventually, even Ginny got too tired for
dancing, and George had been carried by Fred into the Floo
long ago. They put on their cloaks, huddled together and braved the black
winter night outside. Harry would have joined them if not for the crash that
followed the closing of the door. He turned to find Firenze already deep inside the darkest part
of the tavern. Next to him, at a small round table, sat Draco
Malfoy and his two ever-present henchmen. Harry, caught by curiosity,
advanced on the group, the last of the student stragglers. There were ragged
remnants of a glass jug clasped in Malfoy�s hand and his face seemed as pale as
his knuckles. As Madam Rosmerta stormed up to the
table, his shoulders shook in badly concealed rage.

�Now, Mr
Malfoy, I won�t have you breaking my jugs like that!� cried Rosmerta.
�Whatever is the��

Malfoy leapt
up, snarling and slashing with the razor-sharp glass, missing Rosmerta�s bosom by mere inches. �Go away!�

��matter?� Rosmerta paled.

�I�ll pay for the
bloody jug,� muttered Malfoy, sinking back into his seat.

Redness
followed the pale. �Out! OUT! All of you! I�ll tell
Dumbledore about this, you mark my word!�

As Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle staggered
towards the exit, Harry reflected, with some surprise at himself,
that had it been he who had made a stab at Madam Rosmerta,
she would have been concerned
rather than enraged. He had behaved ever so badly this last year, and yet
everyone worried about him. As he clambered back
onto Firenze, Harry
felt truly rotten, and it wasn�t just the lingering taste of dirt in his mouth.

They passed
Malfoy and cronies, catching up to Ginny and the rest just as they entered the
Hogwarts grounds. They all stopped as a small shape plodded out of the
darkness, large ears shivering in the cold.

�Dobby?�
exclaimed Ginny as the house elf came close enough to be readily identified.

Dobby startled
out of some melancholy reverie, almost dropping the tattered bag slung over his
shoulder. �Ginny Weasley, and friends, how nice it is to see
you so � cheerful.� He bowed before them.

�Cheerful?
That�s a euphemismism for
drunk, innit?� slurred Dean to Neville who smiled
weakly, not one to get overly cheerful, in any sense.

�Where are you
going, Dobby?� asked Ginny, ignoring the boys.

�Ginny Weasley
would laugh,� said Dobby, shaking his head, ears flapping.

�I won�t,� said Ginny, �but Dean will laugh at anything right now.
Don�t mind him.�

�Dobby is
going to find He Who Must Not Be Named,� said Dobby, straightening up and
looking mightily determined. Harry nearly fell off Firenze. �Dobby is going to kill him.�

Lavender
goggled. �YOU? You�re going to defeat You-Know-Who?�

Dean laughed.
But he was the only one.

�Dobby has
ways,� said Dobby, casting an offended glance at Lavender before turning back
to Ginny. �Better Dobby than Harry Potter. Dobby has kept his eyes on Harry
Potter. Harry Potter is not himself anymore. Harry Potter is in great danger of
turning to darkness!� This time, Dobby did drop his bag. �Harry Potter has
forbidden Dobby to try to save his life again, but he has not forbidden Dobby
to save Harry Potter from Harry Potter.�

�But,� said Ginny, �how do you expect to find You-Know-Who?�

�Dobby has ways. Dobby knows many house elves.�

�You know where You-Know-Who is?� said Neville, almost dropping
Dean into the snow.

�We know many
things. But we mustn�t tell. House elf code.� His
large eyes narrowed. �Besides, Dobby wouldn�t tell anyway. Harry Potter must
not murder and fall into darkness!�

�Murder,�
muttered Harry. �It�d be bloody self-defence.�

�Why,� said
Ginny, apparently changing the direction of her question when she saw the
determination on Dobby�s face, �why tonight?�

�It�s the
season of change, miss,� said Dobby, picking up his bag. �The
holiday of hope. The only time a poor house elf may hope to defeat a
dark wizard.� He sniffed. �Harry Potter�s light has gone out � the beacon of
hope is gone. Dobby thinks maybe holiday of hope will help defeat the dark.�

�Please don�t
go,� said Ginny, the only one still capable of coherent speech. �You�ll only
get yourself killed.�

�Dobby � must
� try!� said Dobby, drawing in a deep breath. �Dobby wishes you all a happy
holiday.� He set off at a sudden run for the pillar marking the outer edge of
the Hogwarts wards. Before anyone had time to react, he was outside the grounds,
turning around, and waving a sad little goodbye.

�May hope be
with us all, every one,� said Dobby, and Disapparated.

�NO!� cried
Harry and Ginny in unison. The others merely gaped in shock. The little elf was
gone, gone to see the wizard, the most dangerous wizard there was.

Shaken, the
little group shuffled towards the castle, leaving Harry and Firenze behind by the pillar. Harry couldn�t
stop staring at the spot where Dobby had disappeared.

�Stupid,� he
said. �Stupid, stupid elf!� Then he recalled whom he
was sitting on. �Will � will he make it? What � what do the stars say?� Not
that Harry believed in all that nonsense, of course. But, still.

�Was it not
you,� said Firenze,
�who said, just recently, that hope will not kill Voldemort?�

There was a
great big knot in Harry�s stomach.

�It would
seem, Harry, that your elf friend will, most unhappily, prove you right,�
concluded the centaur, setting of at a light canter down the path to Hogsmeade. Harry lolloped
listlessly on the star-seers back, specks of coal on his borrowed fur, a galaxy
of soul-sucking black holes. Further down the road, he saw the bumbling shapes
of Crabbe and Goyle. Yet
Malfoy was nowhere to be seen.

But Harry had
no time to reflect on this peculiarity. A black shape on the grey path sprung
up, hissing � an Indian cobra in attack position. Firenze reared up, evading the serpent�s
venomous bite. Harry crashed to the ground. When he staggered to his feet, Firenze was gone, as were Crabbe and Goyle. Yet the snake
remained, slithering towards him across untouched snow.

Halfway to
Harry, the snake morphed into a black-robed, hooded figure. Nothing but
darkness was visible beneath its hood. All the world
seemed desolate and dead. Harry shivered.

The Ghost of
Christmas Future hissed.
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Yuletide Yearning - A Curious Carol