Bah Humbug

"It's 10.30pm. Does he not know it's Christmas Eve?" Antonin whispered, resting his head near his plate. His dark hair fell into a dollop of mustard and he let out a small groan.

"If you don't shut up, you won't get to have another Christmas Eve," Lucius said.

Voldemort rolled his eyes, listening to his two Death Eaters bickering. He had thought that after the years under his service, they would at least have learnt how to whisper properly, let alone forget that Christmas existed. To them, it should be no more than another day used to increase his hold over the world—even if he hadn't really needed them to stay this late.

"No, you won't have another day entirely," he said.

He had to work hard to hide the smirk threatening to appear on his face as Antonin and Lucius' heads shot up. Their eyes were wide, the colour draining from their faces.

"P-Pardon me, my–my lord. I—" Lucius said.

Voldemort held up his hand, already bored. "Save it."

Lucius' mouth snapped closed.

Voldemort stood up. He looked at each of his Death Eaters one by one, staring them down until their eyes were averted to the table. Satisfied that they were cowed into submission, he strolled towards the door.

Not one of them breathed as he turned back to them. "Before you leave, I want you all to copy out the plan so I can be sure there are no more… mistakes."

The wizards and witches before him all murmured their assent. Withdrawing his wand from his sleeve, he flicked it at the long table. A few of them flinched before realising that he was simply transfiguring their empty goblets and plates into quills and parchment.

"One thousand times."

Voldemort tossed and turned. Images of a green-eyed laughing baby flashed through his mind. It was the same dream he was forced to have every night of his life, but the worst thing was, he wasn't able to escape it even when awake.

As he opened his eyes, it appeared that he would have more than just that demon to face today.

"You do know it is rude to stare?" he said to the pearly-white figure before him.

Honestly, it seemed Lucius and his wife had no control over what happened in their household. Not only had they once owned a disobedient house-elf who helped Potter, they now deemed it appropriate to allow ghosts to wander around the manor.

"After all these years, that's what you have to say to me?" the ghost said.

Voldemort knew exactly who it was. Still, he was not willing to give his former schoolmate and servant, Cantankerous Nott, any sort of satisfaction. "You're lucky I don't curse you for being so insolent. Who do you think you are?"

The ghost chuckled and glided over to the foot of Voldemort's bed. He sat down, watching him with amused eyes. "You were always so strong minded, weren't you, Tom? You always believed you could conquer death, no matter what was thrown at you. However, I'm afraid the afterlife isn't peaceful or escapable," Cantankerous said, indicating towards his legs, where large, heavy-looking chains were wrapped around his ankles.

"Nice jewellery," Voldemort remarked, the smirk from earlier re-appearing on his lips. He didn't care whether or not Cantankerous saw it—after all, the man was no longer in his service.

Cantankerous rolled his eyes. "I'm not holding my breath—" at this, the ghost cracked a smile, apparently finding his own joke wittier, "—but I've been ordered to at least try to make you change."

"Change?"

"To 'save your soul' as they put it—well, your souls. You may be trying to better things for Purebloods and set society on the right path again, but not everyone sees it that way. I've been forced to come to you tonight to provide you with a last chance."

Voldemort was now frowning. He had entertained Cantankerous' interruption enough, and now it was time to stop wasting his time.

"You and I very well know that I don't plan on dying anytime soon, nor do I need any 'saving' from anything. If you do want to help me, why don't you go find out where Harry Potter is hiding?" he said.

Cantankerous snorted. "Maybe, maybe not. But my job here is already done."

"Done? You came here, interrupted my slee—"

"Tonight you will be visited by three other ghosts, each one known to you. I suggest you listen carefully to each of them," Cantankerous continued, not in the least bit concerned by his glare. "Now, get some sleep if you can; you're looking quite old and worn out, if I may say so."

"How dare you?" Voldemort said, but even as he reached for his wand to teach the ghost some lessons, Cantankerous was already wandering through the bedroom wall.

Voldemort massaged his temple. Had the conversation really just taken place, or were hallucinations some sort of side-effect from dividing his soul all those years ago? The research he had done had never mentioned it, but then again, the books had never told him that an infant had the power to defeat him, either.

Gripping his wand, he settled back into the bed. The more he thought about it, the more he was sure he had imagined the ghostly encounter; still, it never hurt to be prepared.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Green light filled the room, the energy of the curse pulsing through his wrist. The baby stared at him with large wide eyes and then—

"Good evening, sunshine," a cheery voice said.

Voldemort sat bolt upright, sweat covering his forehead. Taking a moment to calm his breathing, he glared up into the face of a pearly white face, this one more youthful than the last. So, he had not been imagining his conversation with Cantankerous, after all. This time, however, he did not need to feign confusion as to who it was.

"Unless you are as stupid as you look, you would know that I am more than capable of sending you further into the afterlife than you already are," Voldemort said, patting the bed in search of his wand. He had fallen asleep clutching it, but now it seemed to be lost in the tangle of sheets around him.

The ghost shrugged and glided over to the side of the bed. "With that stick thing?" he said, pointing to the wand to Voldemort's left. "Do your worst, mate, you don't scare me anymore."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. He instilled fear in everyone, including spirits. He surveyed the ghost, trying to figure out who the person was. His face was round and his cheeks chubby, and a tuft of hair stuck up on top of his head. The ghost could have been no more than twenty when he died, and he was dressed in old-fashioned Muggle clothing. There was something familiar with him, prompting him to wonder if perhaps the boy was one of his first victims.

The ghost had already lost interest in Voldemort's threat, staring around the room. "Mate, if I knew you'd end up bloody rich like this, I would've made more of an effort to get on your good side," he said, whistling as he examined the large mahogany dresser. Then, turning back to Voldemort, he shrugged. "But you were always a weird loner-type, weren't you? I wouldn't have known you or any of us would be much success after being in that place."

It finally dawned on Voldemort who this ghost was. It was one of the children he had grown up with at the orphanage where his mother had dumped him. He didn't think he had killed him, at least not from his memory, but from the way he was floating around the room like a child in a Quidditch supply store, he wished he had.

"It's rather cool being a ghost, anyway. I never really believed in ghosts and all that, but apparently, they're real. Like witches and werewolves and all that jazz. Did you know I can walk through walls? Just like that!" the ghost snapped his fingers.

Voldemort rolled his eyes. "Yes, well, a simple mind like yours would find that fascinating, wouldn't you? Now, if you don't mind, I have things I need to be doing. Like sleep."

The boy waved his hand dismissively as he glided back to him. "You can sleep later—or, according to the big bosses, for eternity soon. Right now, though, you need to come with me."

Without any further warning, the ghost reached for Voldemort's hand and gripped it tightly. Surprisingly, it didn't feel icy like other ghosts, and rather than going right through his hand, it solidified. Then, with a large grin on his face, the ghost winked and Disapparated them both out of the room.

"So you feel absolutely no remorse? None at all?" the ghost asked.

Voldemort raised an eyebrow as he looked at the ghost, not at all sure what he expected him to say. Of course he didn't care what he had done to his two peers; in fact, he was proud of it. What other wizard could ever be able to think to show two Muggle children the Inferi he had found in a cliffside cave? The look of sheer horror on their faces had made him smile then, and as the ghost made him rewatch the scene again now, the smile reappeared.

"They got everything they deserved," he finally replied.

"No remorse," the ghost said, shaking his head as he stared at the image of the two young children cowering away before them. When he turned back to Voldemort, his eyes look sad, almost as though he pitied him. "How could they possibly have deserved that? You were the one who stole their belongings and tormented them."

Voldemort's blood boiled at the ghost's look. "I stand by what I did, and I always will. Unless you have some other genius plan to make me feel bad or something, I suggest you take me home."

The ghost surveyed him for a moment and sighed. "Fine," he said, and taking Voldemort's hand, they Disapparated once more.

"Will you not just look at the scene before you? Do you not feel anything at all?"

Voldemort huffed; next thing he knew, she would be asking him if he felt any remorse. As insufferable as he was, at least the last ghost who had visited him had been a little more… original. This witch—ghost, whatever she was—had been spouting the same nonsense over and over again, hoping in vain that he would feel something.

Oh, he did feel something alright—anger. How dare this Muggle-born loving wench drag him out of his bed at one in the morning, to watch the sappy conversations between one of his Death Eaters and his wife? What did he care that they weren't able to sleep at night? He certainly couldn't.

"You seem to have increased in confidence since I last saw you," Voldemort said.

The ghost stiffened, her eyes focused on the long, mahogany table before them. As he hoped, it appeared that she was remembering the moment just a few months before that he murdered her and fed her body to Nagini.

She did not reply; rather, she placed a finger on her lips and nodded towards the couple.

"I don't care what you have to do Lucius, but I will not have him kill my Draco. You got us into this mess with your damn pride, and now, you better well get us out of this unscathed," Narcissa Malfoy was saying.

Lucius' head was buried in his hands upon the table, long golden hair falling over his shoulders. When he looked up, Voldemort could see that his eyes were red, almost as though the man had been crying.

Voldemort frowned, his hand resting over his wand. He couldn't physically curse either of the couple right now—thanks to the Burbage woman, they were still in the present, but unable to interact with them. It did nothing to quell his annoyance that someone who was supposed to be a top Death Eater was such a weakling.

"I will, Cissa, I will," Lucius said, and much to Voldemort's dismay, tears began flowing down his cheeks.

"Good. Draco is worth more than your precious lord, and it's about time you started showing that."

That was enough. Lucius was not only an emotional wreck, but he was allowing his wife to say such treasonous things about him. Whipping out his wand, Voldemort took a step forward.

Charity Burbage placed a hand on Voldemort's chest. "Woah there, cowboy," she said, not perturbed in the least by his look of confusion, "I can see this lesson was wasted on you. Unfortunately, we are out of time, and there is nothing more I can do than hope that you change your ways."

With a look of sadness, she turned them both around to face the dining room's door. Voldemort's heart leapt as he saw that, just like they had been watching the Malfoys undetected, so was someone else watching them. There, in the doorway shrouded in dark robes, was a third ghost. A hood covered its head, and with the rasping breath it made, Voldemort could only guess it was a Dementor.

Letting out a breath he did not know he had been holding, he relaxed a little. "So, shall we get this over and done with then so I may finally sleep?" he asked the being.

The creature nodded once before raising its cloaked arms. In a second, they were cloaked in a thick, black fog, and the ground beneath his feat disappeared.

"Are they—"

"Dead? Yes. Many by the Order, some by your own hand. What else would you expect when losing the war?" the ghost said.

Voldemort jumped, not having heard the ghost speak until then. He wasn't sure why he was so surprised, either; whilst he had assumed it was a Dementor, the creature seemed oddly familiar, as though it possessed human qualities. Still, he could not seem to tear his eyes away from the scene before him. Hundreds of bodies laid across the grounds of Hogwarts unmoving, all Death Eaters loyal to his cause.

Gone, finished, dead.

"Impossible," he said, scanning the grounds.

His eyes took in the lifeless forms of some of his best men, including Lucius and Severus, fallen under the curses of the triumphant Order members nearby. When he finally turned back to his ghost companion, he saw that it was pointing to a body not one meter from his feet.

Voldemort had not noticed it, but as he took a hesitant step forward, the world began to spin. There, covered by a headless Nagini, was his own body. His red slits of eyes were staring blankly up at the sky.

"No—" he said, his heart pounding.

He was—he had been—no.

Snarling, he turned back to the ghost. "This is a lie. A lie! I will never be defeated, do you hear me?"

Raising a hand, the Dementor pointed at his body. "Watch," he said, in a raspy tone.

Despite the feeling in his gut to not look, Voldemort obeyed the ghost. Immediately, he felt like throwing up as he watched the body transform in front of his very eyes. Now, it was no more than a shrivelled baby wrapped in black cloth, much like Voldemort had been reduced to before his return in 1995.

"NO!" he shouted at the ghost. "This is not what my future will be! I will not be this weak, this defeated!"

The ghost was silent for a moment. With a long, drawn out sigh, it lifted it's hands to the hood of its cloak and pulled it off.

The urge to throw up came again as he found himself staring into a pair of twinkling blue eyes.

"I'm afraid so, Tom. I've tried to warn you, many a time, and now it can only be up to you what path you choose. But know this, the more power you try to gain, the weaker you will become," Albus Dumbledore said.

"No!"

"No!" Voldemort screamed, sitting up in his bed. His entire body had broken out in a sweat, his heart beating frantically.

"My Lord? Are you alright?"

His head snapped to the voice, and for a second, he was sure he was still dreaming. However, his brain soon registered that the man standing hesitantly in the bedroom doorway was not white haired or blue-eyed. Steeling himself, he took a moment to school his face into its usual, cold expression.

"What day is it, Malfoy?" he asked. "Better yet, do you have a good explanation as to why you have invaded my space?"

Lucius paled. "Please, forgive me, I just—er, Narcissa prepared a lunch for Christmas and I thought, well—would you like to join us?"

Voldemort a drew in breath, his nostrils flaring. Christmas? Lucius was here about Christmas? Didn't he tell them all that today was supposed to be treated like another day, for they had work to do?

Lucius' face changed from one of fear to concern. "My Lord, are you quite well? Forgive me, but you are looking rather… nevermind."

He let out his breath and studied his hands. He hadn't realised they were trembling.

The more power you try to gain, the weaker you will become.

He opened his mouth to scream at Lucius for pointing it out, but as Dumbledore's words from the dream came back to him, he closed it. Perhaps one day off to recover his strength would help him.

"I will join you and your family on this one occasion," he said. "Now get out!"

"Yes, my Lord, sorry my Lord," Lucius stammered. He paused at the door, however, and added, "Happy Christmas."

He was gone before Voldemort could say anything more, and were it not for Dumbledore's words still echoing in his head, he would have changed his mind and cursed the lot of them.

A/N: This story was written for The Golden Snitch in honour of the forum's one year anniversary. Celinarose set a challenge for me, involving the prompts: (universe) ChristmasCarol!AU, (character) Scrooge!Voldemort and (word) mustard. It was much trickier than I anticipated, and I did intend it to be a little longer (and maybe have Voldemort act less OOC like). Nevertheless, I hope you all like it!

Gifted to Celina :)

I don't own Harry Potter or Christmas Carol, let alone anything related to them. No profit will be made from this story.