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Yuletide Yearning - A Curious Carol	By : Andreas Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 1565 -:- 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.

Chapter List
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Based on A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens; available here: http://www.literature.org/authors/dickens-charles/christmas-carol/
Canon inaccuracies may occur. Please suspend your disbelief and put your seats in their upright position.
Written for One Chocolate Frog a Day, a HP slash advent calendar, here: http://www.livejournal.com/users/onechocfrogaday/
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I've endeavoured in this spirited wee tale to wake the ghost of an Ideal, to make merry a mirthless waif, and not put my readers out of humour with themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me.

May it haunt their hearts merrily, and may no one wish to vanquish it.

Their faithful Ficcer and Slasher,

A.K.

December 2004

Yuletide Yearning

A Curious Carol

Stave One

A RAT'S TALE

Harry Potter wasn't dead, to begin with. He was, on the contrary, as many would have it, the Boy who Lived. Though it can be revealed, without spoiling the tale, that this epithet will be brought into doubt, and its capitalisation doubly so.

It may also be revealed that Harry Potter had not acquired this title on account of excessive living, but rather from his continued existence as another boy succumbed to the final stages of mortality. Yet no one called Tom Riddle the Boy who Died. One would likely argue that the boy Tom had long ago transformed into the man Voldemort, without realising that death is but a transformation, and that the boy behind the Man had indeed died, a most dark and lonely death, long before the Boy Lived.

Lord Voldemort was dead as a doornail. But not, unfortunately, as dead as a coffin nail, the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. He had risen anew to haunt the Wizarding world in general and Harry Potter in particular. As long as the Boy Lived, there would be the implication that the Man was Dead. And while being of the deceased persuasion may inspire fear in one's enemies, it does not naturally qualify one for being ruler of the living, nor even a minor politician. Even lawyer would be a stretch, if rather a short one.

So, to recap: Lord Voldemort was dead as a doornail. But he was rapidly nearing the status of sprightly screw, drilling himself into the nightmares of witches and wizards across the British Isles, while Harry Potter, his allegedly Living nemesis, seemed ever more like an avenging spirit, dark and cold, easily pierced by doubt yet dead to all emotions but anger and hate, passing straight through the living on his quest to vanquish the dead.

~~~*~~~

The table was long, but the distance between Harry and Hermione seemed even greater as they sat at opposite ends, magical books scattered across a surface that, through some psycho-optical illusion, seemed to tilt, to precipitate into the dark abyss of the Boy. Book-browsing passers-by had to fight the impulse to rush forward and grab the books before they plunged into Harry Potter's personal hell.

As dark as the table was at its lower end, it was dry at the top where Hermione Granger perched on a mountain of learning, looking at the war-torn world below with the practiced detachment of the dedicated academic. Perhaps this, as much as her desire to win the war with words, was the reason she could tolerate the company of the Boy Hero, feeling neither sympathy nor fear, too intent on her own tightly reined emotions.

'Merry Christmas, Harry!' cried a cheerful voice. Harry looked up with a face almost as pinched and annoyed as that of Madam Pince. Ginny Weasley, the perpetrator of this well-wishing, seemed unperturbed.

'What's merry about it?' muttered Harry, turning back to his book.

Ginny shook her head, snow dislodging from hair that, seasonably, matched the frosted redness of her cheeks. 'It's Christmas! Would you ask what's merry about fun?'

Harry glanced up, frowning. 'Yes. I would.' He sneered. 'It depends on who's having fun, doesn't it? Fun for Voldemort won't make me merry.'

'Now you're just being obstinate,' laughed Ginny.

'Realistic,' Harry told his dusty tome.

'Screw realism,' said Ginny, earning herself another pointed look from Madam Pince. 'Christmas is a time for fairytales, Harry.'

'I'm too old for fairytales. And so are you.' Harry glared at her. 'There's nothing merry about this Christmas. Everyone lives in fear of it being their last. If I could, I would boil the Death Eaters in their own blood and run a stake of holly through Voldemort's heart! That'd make me merry.'

Ginny narrowed her eyes. 'No, it wouldn't.'

Harry turned away, muttering, 'I'll be merry however I want.'

'But you're not merry, Harry! You're - morose.'

'Well, then,' cried Harry, 'wish me a Morose Christmas, and leave me alone!'

'But that's exactly what I don't wish you! You'll never defeat You-Know-Who if you - if you turn into a Dark wizard yourself. And if you insist on being bitter and angry even on Christmas, that's what'll happen!'

'She has a point, Harry,' said Hermione, surfacing from her oceanic reading.

'Don't you start too,' growled Harry. Hermione dived into safety.

'Oh, don't be like that, Harry,' Ginny pleaded. 'Please come to Hogsmeade with us. The Yule party won't be the same without you, you know.'

'No, it'll be merrier,' said Harry. 'Goodbye.'

'We've been friends for a long time, Harry. Won't you come - for me?'

'Goodbye, Ginny,' said Harry to his book.

'I'm not looking for a date or anything. I just�'

'Goodbye, Ginny.'

'Well, I won't let your Christmas fear infect me. So, Merry Christmas�'

'Goodbye, Ginny.'

'And a Happy New Year!' cried Ginny, exiting with unshaken bounce in her step. Hermione ventured a brief nod and a smile.

Harry scowled. 'With no stake through Voldemort's heart, it won't be.'

~~~*~~~

As he escaped the hustle and bustle of the Gryffindor common room (where it seemed everyone and their missing shoe were headed for Hogsmeade) and entered his dormitory, Harry thought he smelled a rat.

Being of a dismal humour of late, Harry would, had he felt metaphorical, have smelt something rotten, not a rat. A rat simply wasn't vile enough. Except for one rat in particular. But Harry knew where that rat was, and it wasn't there. And still, there was the unmistakable stench of large wet rodent.

Harry thought he heard something rustling, something scuttling in the darkness of the dorm. Meaning to inquire whether anyone had got the sudden urge to acquire a new pet, Harry turned and grabbed the doorknob.

It bit him. The doorknob bit him, and as far as Harry knew, this wasn't usual practice for doorknobs, even ones currently residing in a magical castle.

'Stupid prank,' he muttered. He made another, tentative, grab for the knob. It squeaked. He pulled his hand back, unnerved. 'Stupid,' he repeated. Behind him, the squeak echoed softly. Harry spun around. One of the bedcovers seemed to be moving. And unless one of the other boys had charmed it for massage purposes, it shouldn't be doing anything of the sort.

Harry blinked, and the bedcover lay still, if slightly rumpled. 'Stupid,' he muttered into the silence. And only then did he notice that the bustle behind him had stopped. All was quiet, deathly quiet. Except, that is, for the sound of tiny claws on a wooden floor.

Harry felt his way to his bed and sat down, straight-backed and attentive. He could hear the rodent come closer. For it was most definitely a rodent. But perhaps not a rat. Harry wasn't too good at biology, but he felt certain there were other candidates for the title 'large rodent'. Though not very many for 'large rodent who suddenly turns into small, cowering man'.

It was Peter Pettigrew, and Harry no longer felt inclined to view the thing as a stupid prank. He'd simply have to settle for stupid.

'Ehm,' said Pettigrew. 'Hello.'

'What,' said Harry, breathing heavily, 'are you doing here?'

'I'm here,' said the man, nose twitching, 'to tell you that,' he seemed to be trying to remember some rehearsed speech, 'you're to expect three visitations, from spirits.' He glanced left, glanced right, and said, in a near whisper, 'I didn't want to come, you know. They forced me.'

'Who? The Death Eaters?'

'What? Oh, no. Not them. Oh, oh, OH,' he moaned, shaking his head, 'my Lord will be furious at me for vanishing like that. They'll torture me!' The moaning grew louder and louder till it was punctured by a small squeak and a sudden leap.

'Three spirits?' asked Harry, completely insensitive to Pettigrew's pain. 'Like - a Christmas Carol? Is this a joke?'

'I don't think so,' muttered Pettigrew, massaging his back. 'I don't find it particularly funny, anyway.'

Something occurred to Harry. 'Wait a minute! That means you're a ghost!'

'WHAT?' cried Pettigrew, quite forgetting his sore back. He spun around. 'Am I DEAD?'

'No, you stupid man,' said a shrill little voice. 'And don't talk to me! I'm not here!'

Harry leaned sideways, peering past Pettigrew. There was a small, plump - for lack of a better word - fairy hovering about a feet off the floor, pointed weaponry of the glowing pink persuasion in hand.

'Who are you?' said Harry. The fairy cast a reproachful look his way. 'And what's this all about?'

The fairy sighed. 'You're not out playing with all your little friends, Harry Potter.'

'I don't feel like playing.'

'The kid's right, you know,' said Pettigrew, leaning against the bedpost. 'Dreadful things, those Christmas parties. I stopped going to them long ago - sixth year at Hogwarts, I think.'

Harry pointedly ignored the oily little man. 'They don't understand what's at stake! They think they're going to win the war by - by being merry!'

The fairy shook her head. 'They're trying to win it with hope.'

'Hope won't kill Voldemort.'

'He's right, you know,' offered Pettigrew.

There was a chorused, 'BE QUIET!'

'You're headed into darkness, my boy,' said the fairy.

'He'll need power to defeat the darkness,' said Pettigrew with an air of great wisdom, 'and power comes from darkness. In these times, you can only survive inside the darkness, feeding off its power - not opposing it. It's good that the boy's realised this, and one year sooner than I did!'

This last, almost proud, remark was directed at the fairy who was now bobbing with agitation. 'You have to turn your life around, Mr Potter�'

Harry stuck out his chin. 'I intend to. By killing Voldemort.'

'�or you'll turn into HIM!' the fairy cried, stabbing Pettigrew with her wand.

'Gah!' said Pettigrew.

'I'll never turn into him,' growled Harry.

'�or worse,' said the fairy.

Harry scowled.

The fairy sniffed. 'You can expect the first spirit to arrive at midnight, or,' she hesitated, 'a few minutes after. He's always late,' she added, in the severe voice of punctual matrons everywhere.

'Who?' Harry asked a room full of uncommunicative beds, assorted furniture, and little else. Not a fairy, nor rodent, in sight.

Harry lay back and, after much tossing and turning, fell asleep.
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Yuletide Yearning - A Curious Carol