Harry's Christmas Carol
Disclaimer: I do not own any character. They all belong to JK Rowling. The plot belongs to Charles Dickens. The interpretation is just mine.
This story is dedicated to the writer of the best parody I have ever read – Madeline Fabray, author of Arthur M. If this story is half as good as that story, I will be a very happy man
Chapter 1: Bah! Humbug
The office was not exactly what someone would call welcoming. The large room was dimly lit, the only source of light being a reading lamp on the wooden desk. The room's colours, which should have been bright and happy to mark the welcoming of Christmas, were in fact dull and matched the hue of the grey, depressing sky outside. The man seated behind the desk, however, didn't care about his surroundings. He was looking over share portfolios and bank statements, reviewing his profits and losses from the previous fiscal year" might work.
The size and features of the room matched the man's personality. He was an extremely large individual with large hands. His eyes were very small and looked completely disproportionate in comparison to his fat nose. He had a thick moustache and almost no neck. He looked to be in his fifties, because of old age or loneliness one could not tell. He was sitting on his chair, looking through a large stack of papers. Nothing in his room looked like he ever celebrated Christmas. It was lonely. He, although he would deny it, was lost.
As he sat signing some more papers, Vernon Dursley began incoherently muttering something about the noise pollution outside. The pen he was using had ink leaking from it onto his fat palms, which had gone onto some of the documents, making his workspace very untidy.
Someone knocked twice at the door, distracting Vernon. "Come in," he growled. The door opened and in came Robert Prewett, Vernon's personal assistant. Prewett was a tall, thin man. He had straw-coloured hair and a bald patch on his head. He had small hands were clasped tightly around some files. He was dressed well, but his clothes looked like they had been darned on several occasions. He had a nervous expression on his face. Vernon looked up and stared at him smugly, knowing that Prewett was scared of him.
Previously, Prewett had been an accountant in some bank, but unfortunately he had lost his job because the bank had closed down due to mysterious reasons a few years ago. After trying several different jobs, he found what he felt was the toughest job so far. Vernon did not pay him well and took his pound-of-flesh out of him because he knew that jobs were difficult to find and that Prewett wouldn't leave him because he would starve in the chilly winter outside.
"Well, Prewett! I haven't got all day, you know," growled Vernon.
"Sorry, sir," mumbled Prewett meekly. "These are the files you wanted."
"Well, put them on the damn desk, man, and get back to work!" bellowed Vernon. "Do you think I pay you to stare at me all day?"
"N…no sir," stuttered Prewett. His legs were trembling and he quickly went up to the desk and handed Vernon the files.
"Now, get out!" said Vernon.
"Yes, sir," said a very frightened Prewett as he scampered to the door. As he opened it, he turned around and asked tentatively, "Sir?"
"WHAT?" yelled Vernon, causing the papers on his desk to fly onto the floor. He glared at Prewett as though he was responsible for the mess.
"Well, sir," began Prewett feebly as he came into the room to pick up the papers, knowing that Vernon Dursley would not do so himself, "tomorrow is Christmas..."
"So?" snarled Vernon, knowing where this was going. Prewett had been working with him for a year and he had asked for a Christmas holiday the previous year, which Vernon very happily had turned down, saying nastily Prewitt would find himself out of a job if he didn't show up.
"I was wondering whether I could have a day off tomorrow," mumbled Prewett.
"I remember us having this conversation last year, Prewett," said Vernon, an ugly grin now spreading across his face. "I warned you of the consequences. Aren't you happy with having one Sunday off in a month? If you aren't, then I can always look for another assistant. Considering that there are many desperate men on the street, looking out for a job, it shouldn't be too difficult. But mind you, hardly anybody wants a PA these days. I am kind enough to give you a job to support your family."
Prewett's heart sank. He knew that something like this would happen. It was the same old story. His feeble salary of 300 pounds a month wasn't enough to support his wife and three children – the youngest of whom was suffering from a primary stage of bone marrow cancer.
"Sir, I am willing to make a compromise," he said.
"A compromise?" asked Vernon, frowning, "This had better be good, Prewett. I have no time for stupid, worthless people like you."
"If I take Christmas day off," began Prewett, "I'll come to work every Sunday of next year."
Vernon stared at Prewett. This was an offer he certainly couldn't refuse. But giving Prewett a day off on Christmas was something he didn't want to do, because seeing Prewett happy wasn't on Vernon's agenda at all. On the other hand, his work would be done sooner the next year and profits for the company would be better – for money was still the only thing that made Vernon happy. His wife had been killed in "mysterious circumstances," according to the post-mortem, and his son had run away because he couldn't bear to live with his father's lifestyle.
"Very well," he said begrudgingly. "But you must be at work on Boxing Day at 7 am."
"Thank you, sir," said Prewett with a weak smile. "Merry Christmas, sir!"
"Now, get out of my sight!" snarled Vernon, as Prewett put the last piece of paper back on the desk.
"Yes, sir!" said Prewett, donning his hat and scampering through the door.
Vernon went back to checking his accounts . He hated this time of year. He hated the colours, the joy, and the fact that families got together and told one another that they would always be by their side, no matter what. It made him sick to his stomach. He would be coming into work tomorrow. He spent most of his time there, anyway. The house on Privet Drive had not been the same after Petunia had died and Dudley had gone. He didn't want to make any time for a social life because it would mean spending money on the other person. He would never spend money on himself. Money, according to him, was his only source of comfort and kept his sanity in check. It was his lifeline and he shuddered at the thought of not having any.
Someone knocked at the door once again.
"WHAT DO YOU WANT, PREWETT?" he bellowed. "I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU GET OUT!"
But it wasn't Robert Prewett. Instead, a man and a woman walked inside. Both of them had very good-natured faces and they each had a box in their hand.
"Well, what do you want?" asked Vernon rudely.
"Good evening, sir," said the man in a strong Irish accent. "I am Seamus Finnigan and this is Lavender Brown," he said pointing to the lady. We are collecting money for the welfare of children who are starving in the cold."
"So, what does that have to do with me?" asked Vernon, looking at both of them with absoloute dislike. Seamus was sandy-haired and had a very kind face, which was annoying to Vernon, while Lavender, good-looking as she was, reminded him of a tart.
"We were wondering if you would contribute for the children, sir," said Lavender.
"You are joking, right?" said Vernon, looking at the lady like she was mad.
"Not at all, sir," said Seamus. "It would be wonderful if you did something for the kids."
"What, and save a bunch of pesky brats from their ultimate doom? They're better off dead," he said.
Seamus and Lavender stood there, shocked, not believing what they were hearing.
"Also," he continued, "the world is extremely over-populated, making it difficult for us to live. These children are a liability to all of us and their deaths wouldn't harm anyone. In fact, people would be grinning at the fact that there are no poverty-stricken areas across the world. Let these kids die. Why are you bothering about them in the first place?"
"Do you have family, sir?" asked Seamus, his fists clinched tight in absoloute fury.
"That's none of your business, boy," snarled Vernon, rising from his chair.
"I think it is," said Lavender. "You sit around in your comfortable chair, signing papers and cheques and think you're smart making all those comments? Well, if you called mental masturbation intellectual, then you're a genius
"Get out," said Vernon in a deadly whisper. "Get out before I throw you out of this window."
Seamus, who was pretty level-headed, pulled Lavender back muttering something into her ear and calming her down. He then turned to Vernon and said, "I hope you have a Merry Christmas, sir. From your behaviour, it would likely be a lonely one, but that's what you would want, isn't it?" Taking Lavender by the arm, he walked out of the room before Vernon came up with a comeback.
As soon as the door closed, the lights in the office went out. Vernon grunted and took a candle out of his drawer. As he lit the candle, the door of his office opened again and the figure of a tall individual stood silhouetted against the gray light of the outer office.
"Who is there?" called Vernon. "I warn you not to play any games with me. I don't like games."
"I'm not playing games, Uncle Vernon," said the voice at the door.
Vernon froze at the voice. In the excitement of the evening, he had forgotten that his painful, freak of a nephew, Harry Potter, traditionally paid him a visit every Christmas Eve. Why he did it, Vernon never understood. After all, he had treated his nephew like dirt, and he never understood why the kid tried to make amends with him. Despite the rude gestures and insults, Potter would never budge an eyelid or show that he was upset.
The lights suddenly came back on and Harry stood smiling at Vernon, who glared back at him. "What?" he growled.
"You know what, Uncle," said Harry. "Would you join us for Christmas lunch tomorrow? It would be fun and I would hope that you could take some time off."
Vernon stared back at his nephew. He stood a good six feet tall. His hair was messy as ever and his glasses were perched over his face, hiding the actual brightness of his emerald green eyes. His body was well-toned and he was wearing good clothes and was holding two bags full of Christmas presents, which Vernon thought was a waste of money.
"What makes you think I would come?" he asked, going back to his work.
"I hope that you do," said Harry. "You're the only living family that I have left. You're related to my mother; not by blood, but there is a relation. I hope we could get to know each other better."
"Now listen up, you freak," said Vernon, his voice rising. "I am no relation to your mother. Petunia made sure I had nothing to do with her, and I'm glad she did. As far as I'm concerned, you're the reason that Petunia is dead and Dudley has left me. Why you're putting on this façade, I will never understand, but I order you to stay out of my life before I do something drastic."
"I'll take that as a no, then?" said Harry, his voice devoid of all emotion.
"Are you some sort of retard? Why do you come here anyway? It's not like I'm inclined to speak with you in a civilised manner."
"It was your wife's last request to me, Uncle," said Harry as he walked out of the office. "Merry Christmas!"
"Bah! Humbug!" said Vernon in disgust.
As he began getting accustomed to the silence of the office once again, Vernon thought of the Christmases he had spent with his family. Now, it seemed like ages since he had done anything fun. He remembered the holidays he, Petunia and Dudley spent together at Majorca, Paris, Venice and other places throughout Europe. On one occasion, they had even spent Christmas and New Year at Disneyworld.
"Now, none of that is ever going to happen again. It is just me and my money," he said, getting back to work.